A Graveyard for Lunatics

For the first time in thirty-five years, there was only one guard at the gate. There were no lights in any of the buildings. There were only a few lonely lights at the alley intersections leading toward Notre Dame, if it was still there, past Calvary, which was gone forever, and leading toward the graveyard wall.

Dear Jesus, I thought, my two cities. But now, both dark, both cold, no difference between. Side by side, twin cities, one ruled by grass and cold marble, the other, here, run by a man as dark, as ruthless, as scornful as Death himself. Holding dominion over mayors and sheriffs, police and their night dogs, and telephone networks to the banking East.

I would be the only warm and moving thing on my way, afraid, from one city of the dead to the other.

I touched the gate.

?For God?s sake,? said Crumley, behind me, ?don?t!?

?I?ve got to,? I said. ?Now the Beast knows where everyone is. He could come smash your place, or Constance?s, or Henry?s. Now, I don?t think he will. Someone?s made the final trackdown for him. And there?s no way to stop him, is there? No proof. No law to arrest. No court to listen. And no jail to accept. But I don?t want to be trashed in the street, or hammered in my bed. God, Crumley, I?d hate the waiting and waiting. And anyway, you should have heard his voice. I don?t think he?s going anywhere except dead. Something awful has caught up with him and he needs to talk.?

?Talk!? Crumley shouted. ?Like: hold still while I bash you!??

?Talk,? I said.

I stood inside the gate, staring at the long street ahead.

The Stations of the Cross:

The wall I had run from on All Hallows Eve.

Green Town, where Roy and I had truly lived.

Stage 13, where the Beast was modeled and destroyed.

The carpenters? shop, where the coffin was hid to be burned.

Maggie Botwin?s, where Arbuthnot?s shadows touched the wall.

The commissary, where the cinema apostles broke stale bread and drank J. C.?s wine.

Calvary Hill, vanished, and the stars wheeling over, and Christ long since gone to a second tomb, and no possible miracle of fish.

?To hell with that.? Crumley moved behind me. ?I?m coming with.?

I shook my head. ?No. You want to wait around for weeks or months, trying to find the Beast? He?d hide from you. He?s open to me now, maybe to tell all about the people who have disappeared. You going to get permits to open a hundred graves across the wall? You think the city will hand you a spade to dig for J. C., Clarence, Groc, Doc Phillips?! We?ll never see them again unless the Beast shows us. So go wait by the front gate of the graveyard. Circle the block eight or ten times. One exit or another, I?ll probably come screaming out, or just walking.?

Crumley?s voice was bleak. ?Okay. Get yourself killed!? he sighed. ?Naw. Damn. Here.?

?A gun?? I cried. ?I?m afraid of guns!?

?Take it. Put the pistol in one pocket, bullets in the other.?

?No!?

?Take it!? Crumley shoved.

I took.

?Come back in one piece!?

?Yes, sir,? I said.

I stepped inside. The studio took my weight. I felt it sink in the night. At any moment, all the last buildings, gunshot like elephants, would fall to their knees, carrion for dogs, and bones for night birds.

I went down the street, hoping Crumley would call me back. Silence.

At the third alley, I stopped. I wanted to glance aside toward Green Town, Illinois. I did not. If the steam shovels had demolished and the termites eaten its cupolas, bay windows, toy attics, and wine cellars, I refused to see.

At the administration building a single small outside light glowed.

The door was unlocked.

I took a deep breath and entered.

Fool. Idiot. Stupid. Jerk.

I muttered the litany as I climbed up.

I tried the doorknob. The door was locked.

?Thank God!? I was about to run when?

The tumblers clicked.

The office door drifted open.

The pistol, I thought. And felt for the weapon in one pocket, the bullets in the other.