neck.
He wanted to spring to his feet, scoop Toby into his arms, run down the
hill to the house, and remove him from the influence of the entity that
held him in its thrall. Ghost, demon, ancient Indian spirit?
No, ridiculous. But something, damn it. Something.
He hesitated, partly because he was transfixed by what he thought he
saw in the boy's eyes, partly because he feared that forcing a break of
the connection between Toby and whatever was linked with him would
somehow harm the boy, perhaps damage him mentally. Which didn't make
any sense, no sense at all. But then none of it made sense.
A dreamlike quality characterized the moment and the place. It was
Toby's voice, yes, but not his usual speech patterns or inflections:
'In what bodies did they go on from here?'
Jack decided to answer.
Holding Toby's empty glove in his hand, he had the terrible feeling
that he must play along or be left with a son as limp and hollow as the
glove, a drained shell of a boy, form without content, those beloved
eyes vacant forever.
And how insane was that? His mind spun. He seemed poised on the brink
of an abyss, teetering out of balance. Maybe he was the one having the
breakdown.
He said, 'They didn't need bodies, Skipper. You know that. Nobody
needs bodies in heaven.'
'They are bodies,' the Toby-thing said cryptically. 'Their bodies
are.'
'Not any more. They're spirits now.'
'Don't understand.'
'Sure you do. Souls. Their souls went to heaven.'
'Bodies are.'
'Went to heaven to be with God.'
'Bodies are.'
Toby stared through him. Deep in Toby's eyes, however, like a coiling
thread of smoke, something moved. Jack sensed that something was
regarding him intensely.
'Bodies are. Puppets are. What else?' Jack didn't know how to
respond.
The breeze coming across the flank of the sloped yard was as cold as if
it had skimmed over a glacier on its way to them. The Toby-thing
returned to the first question that it had asked: 'What are they doing
down there?'
Jack glanced at the graves, then into the boy's eyes, deciding to be
straightforward. He wasn't actually talking to a little boy, so he
didn't need to use euphemisms. He was crazy, imagining the whole
conversation as well as the inhuman presence. Either way, what he said
didn't matter.
'They're dead.'
'What is dead?'
'They are. These three people buried here.'
'What is dead?'
'Lifeless.'
