“I’m in the gut, even though I haven’t looked at it. I didn’t dare. Because otherwise he might not be dead at all.
They went upstairs, Ben in the lead. At the top was a short hall running in both directions. At one end, the door to Matt’s bedroom stood open and a faint light from the lamp spilled over the orange beam.
“And maybe I dreamed it all, but thank God you’re here.” He had picked up the revolver and was turning it restlessly in his hands.
“Don’t you think I know that?” I speak nonsense and think madness. But I had no one to call but you. In all of Salem’s Lot, you are the only person who can . . . could, might . . .’ He shook his head and started again. “We were talking about Danny Glick.”
“I’m in the gut, even though I haven’t looked at it. I didn’t dare. Because otherwise he might not be dead at all.
“Down the other end,” Matt said
“No, I guess not.” I would tuck it into the top of my pants and blow my balls.
The memory rose into almost full sensory reference and for the moment of its entirety he was paralyzed. He could even smell the plaster and the wild smell of nesting animals. It seemed to him that the plain lacquered wooden door of Matt Burke’s guest room stood between him and all the secrets of Hell.
“Down the other end,” Matt said
“And how could he have died of pernicious anemia.” . . what our grandfathers would call “just waste.”
“And how could he have died of pernicious anemia.” . . what our grandfathers would call “just waste.”
“Mike buried him.” And Mike found Winn Purinton’s dog impaled at the gates of Harmony Hill Cemetery. I met Mike Ryerson at Dell last night and…
“Down the other end,” Matt said
“I think we’d better go up to your guest room and have a look.” That’s all, I think, for now.
“Matt, you’re not talking sense.”
‘Tell me. And stop playing with that thing. Is it loaded?’ Matt put the gun down and ran a hand through his hair. “Yes, it’s loaded. Although I don’t think that would help.” . . unless I’ve used it on myself. He laughed, a jagged, unhealthy sound like grinding glass.
They went upstairs, Ben in the lead. At the top was a short hall running in both directions. At one end, the door to Matt’s bedroom stood open and a faint light from the lamp spilled over the orange beam.
“No, I guess not.” I would tuck it into the top of my pants and blow my balls.
‘Tell me. And stop playing with that thing. Is it loaded?’ Matt put the gun down and ran a hand through his hair. “Yes, it’s loaded. Although I don’t think that would help.” . . unless I’ve used it on myself. He laughed, a jagged, unhealthy sound like grinding glass.
The roughness in his voice broke the strange, fixed expression in his eyes. He shook his head, not in the manner of a man speaking negatively, but in the way some animals squirm out of cold water.
“Matt, you’re not talking sense.”
“Actually, it makes me feel better.” He laughed sheepishly. “Do you think they’ll let me wear it when they cart me to Augusta?”
The memory rose into almost full sensory reference and for the moment of its entirety he was paralyzed. He could even smell the plaster and the wild smell of nesting animals. It seemed to him that the plain lacquered wooden door of Matt Burke’s guest room stood between him and all the secrets of Hell.
“Mike buried him.” And Mike found Winn Purinton’s dog impaled at the gates of Harmony Hill Cemetery. I met Mike Ryerson at Dell last night and…
“I think we’d better go up to your guest room and have a look.” That’s all, I think, for now.
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