flat against the floor. A frigid mouth pushed up against his ear.
“
Chapter 9: Gone But Not Forgotten
Arriving for work in the morning, Mr. Van Nuys’s assistants, Frank and Rodger Debuque, had to let themselves in with their own keys, but they saw nothing sinister in their boss’s absence; occasionally the old man had been known to take an unannounced furlough, usually involving a lot of liquor, a blowsy whore, and a motel out on Rt. 87.
As they made their rounds about the building, they discovered nothing out of the ordinary. Mr. Bullerton’s condition might have tipped them off, but the tools had been removed from his chest, the sheet pulled up over his mutilated face. All seemed in order with the DeWitts as well.
As for the unfortunate Mr. Van Nuys, he was tucked away in an unused ventilation shaft, curled in a fetal position.
Over at the high school, Jeff Purzycki’s blood had been mopped up, and the men sent to replace him found no trace of his body. He’d been shoved into a storm sewer nearby.
But covering up all signs of the night’s events had proved impossible. There were the broken gym doors, and the shattered glass door which Jeff had tried to escape through; also all those ripped-open body bags. Still, without evidence that Jeff had been killed, everything pointed to him having done all the damage himself. He had certainly fired those shots through the gym doors. The fact that the doors had been smashed down from inside
Jack Bingham’s theory, that those ‘dead wops’ had done it all, was summarily dismissed. So was Jack. Later that day the merits of his theory would be all too obvious, a vindication he’d take no comfort in.
Outside Bayside Point, across America and the world, similar mysteries were unfolding. In some places, explanations like Bingham’s had already gained astonished acceptance.
But the news was slow in spreading. The attention of the media was elsewhere, fixed on several transportation disasters, the most horrific of which was a nerve gas spill in Colorado which had already claimed five thousand lives. Several other stories had priority over the hysteria about the walking dead: fish and wildlife kills, problems with complicated technology, and a group of astronomers getting hot and bothered over a small but significant drop in the sun’s radiant energy.
Preparing for the funeral, Gary and Max and Linda were unaware of all this. They were so busy rushing about the house, getting dressed and making meals, they hadn’t turned on the TV. Even if they had, reception would’ve been alternately bad and nonexistent.
The morning drew on toward ten, and they went out to Gary’s Pinto. The first thing Gary noticed was the chill in the air. Even by the standards of the cold snap, the day was brisk; there was a definite reddening of the leaves on the neighborhood trees. Gary cocked an eye at the sun. The sky was very clear, almost bitterly blue, but the sun had an odd watery look.
They got into the car. The engine started-just barely. Gary tried to let it warm up a bit, but it wheezed and died.
He pumped the gas a few times, held the pedal halfway down, and twisted the key again. The engine stuttered back to life. Gary nursed it carefully, looking vacantly back at the house. Suddenly his attention sharpened: was the paint blistering? Peeling off the boards in places? There’d been no sign of that a day ago…
“We’d better get moving,” Max said.
“Right,” Gary answered, and eased the car away from the curb.
They arrived at the funeral parlor to find Buddy and Dennis’s crew already there. Oscar and Rodger Debuque made light of Mr. Van Nuys’s absence, as indeed they had every reason to; they assured the mourners everything would go smoothly, and it did. The families paid last respects to Max Sr., then were ushered from the chapel; fifteen minutes later, the funeral procession was making its way down Beichmann Avenue toward St. Paul’s. When it reached the church, a modest edifice sheathed all in dark shingles, Max and Gary and their uncles bore the coffin inside.
As they moved up the aisle toward the catafalque, Gary noticed a familiar figure among the other mourners: Steve Jennings, his best friend from high school, a tall blond fellow with curly hair. With Steve was a pretty redhead Gary didn’t know: a replacement, perhaps, for the last Mrs. Jennings, who’d disappeared after a boating accident on Barragansett Bay. Gary was somewhat surprised to see Steve in a church; Steve had always shown a tremendous contempt for religion, and had been primarily responsible for setting Gary on the road toward agnosticism. Steve had been almost as much of an intellectual headhunter as Max, in high school terms at least, and he was certainly a whole lot more charming. Gary caught Steve’s eye; Steve nodded toward him. They’d have to have a long talk after the burial. Gary hadn’t seen him in two years.
The bearers laid the casket down, and once they settled in the pews, the service began, Father Ted celebrating the mass, assisted by Father Chuck. The sermon was similar to Father Ted’s oration last night, only longer. Glancing from time to time at Max, Gary was amused at just how livid his brother’s face got. But Max had no choice except to sit there and bear it now. Storming out of a viewing was one thing, but this was the funeral itself.
When the mass was over, the pallbearers took the coffin back out to the long metallic-grey hearse and slid it in. Frank Debuque gently closed the hatch while his brother, wearing a pair of silvery shades, looked on. Gary turned and made for his Pinto with Linda and Max; before they reached the car, Steve Jennings and the redhead intercepted them.
“Sad day, buddy,” Steve said. He and Gary shook hands.
“Yeah,” Gary said.
“Don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t worry about it. Max, you know Steve here?”
Max nodded. “Met him at that New Year’s party, remember?” He didn’t extend his hand.
Steve flashed him a grin. “Topic was God, as I recall.” He nodded toward the redhead. “This is my new wife, Sally. I don’t think any of you have met her. Sally, that’s my old pal Gary Holland, his brother Max, and Gary’s wife Linda.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Linda said.
Sally returned her smile. “Same here.”
At that moment, Frank DeBuque came up.
“We’re ready to proceed to the cemetery, Mr. Holland,” he said.
“Okay,” Max said. “Come on, Gary.”
“See you at the reception,” Gary told Steve. “Our house.”
The mourners got into their cars; with the addition of the people who’d gathered at the church, the procession was longer now by a half-dozen vehicles. Lights burning beneath the mid-day sky, it wound its way north to the Squankum Bridge, crossed over into Squankum Township, and entered the huge River Rest Cemetery.
Well inside, beside a gentle slope, the hearse came to a halt. Once again the pallbearers took up the coffin, carrying it up the incline toward the tree-dotted crown. There a dark green canopy had been erected; two gravediggers sat on a backhoe drawn up on the right. Going beneath the canopy, the bearers set the coffin down on the bier surmounting the grave, then took their seats. Father Ted cracked open a Bible, read passages from the Old and New Testaments, then droned off into his own theological never-never land.
Gary listened to some of it, but was distracted midway along by a muffled thumping. His immediate thought was of his dream, his father hammering his way out of the coffin-all of a sudden he felt a fine mist of sweat on his forehead.
Yet the drumming wasn’t coming from his father’s casket. There seemed to be several sources, all some distance off. It was the damnedest thing, but if Gary hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn the sounds were coming out of the earth.
