'Dad?' henomena whatsoever.
'You don't remember, do you?'
'Huh?'
'Good.'
'Your heart's really wild,' Toby said. 'That's all right, I'm okay,
everything's okay.'
'I'm the one scared poopless. Boy, I sure owe you one!' Jack let go
of his son and struggled to his feet. The sweat on his face felt like
a mask of ice. He combed his hair back with his fingers, wiped his
face with both hands, and blotted his palms on his jeans. 'Let's go
back to the house and get some hot chocolate.'
Picking up the Frisbee, Toby said, 'Can't we play
'Can we, Dad?' Toby
asked, brandishing the Frisbee. 'all right, for a little while. But
not here. Not in this . . .' It would sound so stupid to say not in
this graveyard. Might as well segue into one of those grotesque Stepin
Fetchit routines from old movies, do a double take and roll his eyes
and shag his arms at his sides and howl, Feets don't fail me now.
Instead, he said, '... not so near the woods. Maybe ... down there
closer to the stables.' Carrying the flying-saucer Frisbee, Toby
sprinted between the gateless posts, out of the cemetery. 'Last one
there's a monkey!'
Jack didn't chase after the boy. Hunching his shoulders against the
chill wind, thrusting his hands in his pockets, he stared at the four
graves, again troubled that only Quartermass's plot was flat and
grass-covered. Freakish thoughts flickered in his mind. Scenes from
old Boris Karloff movies. Graverobbers and ghouls. Desecration.
Satanic rituals in cemeteries by moonlight. Even considering the
experience he'd just had with Toby, his darkest thoughts seemed too
fanciful to explain why only one grave of four appeared long
undisturbed, however, he told himself that the explanation, when he
learned it, would be perfectly logical and not in the least creepy.
Fragments of the conversation he'd had with Toby echoed in his memory,
out of order: What are they doing down there? What is dead? What is
life? Nothing lasts forever. Everything lasts. Nothing. Everything
becomes. Becomes what? Me.
Everything becomes me. Jack sensed that he had enough pieces to put
together at least part of the puzzle. He just couldn't see how they
interlocked. Or wouldn't see. Perhaps he refused to put them together
because even the few pieces he possessed would reveal a nightmare face,
something better not encountered. He wanted to know, or thought he
did, but his subconscious overruled him.
As he raised his eyes from the mauled earth to the three stones, his
attention was caught by a fluttering object on Tommy's marker. It was
stuck in a narrow crack between the horizontal base and the vertical
slab of granite: a black feather, three inches long, stirred by the
breeze. Jack tilted his head back and squinted uneasily into the
wintry vault directly overhead.
The heavens hung gray and dead. Like ashes. A crematorium sky.
However, nothing moved above except great masses of clouds. Big storm
