Tookey said, 'No ghosts in the Lot, mister. Did you tell them to stay in the car?'
'Sure I did,' he said, sounding injured. 'I'm not crazy.'
Well, you couldn't have proved it by me.
'What's your name?' I asked him. 'For the sheriff.'
'Lumley,' he says. 'Gerard Lumley.'
He started in with Tookey again, and I went across to the telephone. I picked it up and heard nothing but dead silence. I hit the cutoff buttons a couple of times. Still nothing.
I came back. Tookey had poured Gerard Lumley another tot of brandy, and this one was going down him a lot smoother.
'Was he out?' Tookey asked.
'Phone's dead.'
'Hot damn,' Tookey says, and we look at each other. Outside the wind gusted up, throwing snow against the windows.
Lumley looked from Tookey to me and back again.
'Well, haven't either of you got a car?' he asked. The anxiety was back in his voice. 'They've got to run the engine to run the heater. I only had about a quarter of a tank of gas, and it took me an hour and a half to… Look, will you
answer me?' He stood up and grabbed Tookey's shirt.
'Mister,' Tookey says, 'I think your hand just ran away from your brains, there.'
Lumley looked at his hand, at Tookey, then dropped it. 'Maine,' he hissed. He made it sound like a dirty word about somebody's mother. 'All right,' he said. 'Where's the nearest gas station? They must have a tow truck-'
'Nearest gas station is in Falmouth Center,' I said. 'That's three miles down the road from here.'
'Thanks,' he said, a bit sarcastic, and headed for the door, buttoning his coat.
'Won't be open, though,' I added.
He turned back slowly and looked at us.
'What are you talking about, old man?'
'He's trying to tell you that the station in the Center belongs to Billy Larribee and Billy's out driving the plow, you damn fool,' Tookey says patiently. 'Now why don't you come back here and sit down, before you bust a gut?'
He came back, looking dazed and frightened. 'Are you telling me you can't… that there isn't…?'
'I ain't telling you nothing,' Tookey says. 'You're doing all the telling, and if you stopped for a minute, we could think this over.'
'What's this town, Jerusalem's Lot?' he asked. 'Why was the road drifted in? And no lights on anywhere?'
I said, 'Jerusalem's Lot burned out two years back.'
'And they never rebuilt?' He looked like he didn't believe it.
'It appears that way,' I said, and looked at Tookey. 'What are we going to do about this?'
'Can't leave them out there,' he said.
I got closer to him. Lumley had wandered away to look out the window into the snowy night.
'What if they've been got at?' I asked.
'That may be,' he said. 'But we don't know it for sure. I've got my Bible on the shelf. You still wear your Pope's medal?'
I pulled the crucifix out of my shirt and showed him. I was born and raised Congregational, but most folks who live around the Lot wear something-crucifix, St. Christopher's medal, rosary, something. Because two years ago, in the span of one dark October month, the Lot went bad. Sometimes, late at night, when there were just a few regulars drawn up around Tookey's fire, people would talk it over. Talk around it is more like the truth. You see, people in the Lot started to disappear. First a few, then a few more, than a whole slew. The schools closed. The town stood empty for most of a year. Oh, a few people moved in-mostly damn fools from out of state like this fine specimen here-drawn by the low property values, I suppose. But they didn't last. A lot of them moved out a month or two after they'd moved in. The others… well, they disappeared. Then the town burned flat. It was at the end of a long dry fall. They figure it started up by the Marsten House on the hill that overlooked Jointner Avenue, but no one knows how it started, not to this day. It burned out of control for three days. After that, for a time, things were better. And then they started again.
I only heard the word 'vampires' mentioned once. A crazy pulp truck driver named Richie Messina from over Freeport way was in Tookey's that night, pretty well liquored up. 'Jesus Christ,' this stampeder roars, standing up about nine feet tall in his wool pants and his plaid shirt and his leather-topped boots. 'Are you all so damn afraid to say it out? Vampires! That's what you're all thinking, ain't it? Jesus-jumped-up-Christ in a chariot-driven sidecar! Just like a bunch of kids scared of the movies! You know what there is down there in 'Salem's Lot? Want me to tell you? Want me to tell you?'
'Do tell, Richie,' Tookey says. It had got real quiet in the bar. You could hear the fire popping, and outside the soft drift of November rain coming down in the dark. 'You got the floor.'
'What you got over there is your basic wild dog pack,' Richie Messina tells us. 'That's what you got. That and a lot of old women who love a good spook story. Why, for eighty bucks I'd go up there and spend the night in what's left of that haunted house you're all so worried about. Well, what about it? Anyone want to put it up?'
But nobody would. Richie was a loudmouth and a mean drunk and no one was going to shed any tears at his wake, but none of us were willing to see him go into 'Salem's Lot after dark.
'Be screwed to the bunch of you,' Richie says. 'I got my four-ten in the trunk of my Chevy, and that'll stop anything in Falmouth, Cumberland,
or Jerusalem's Lot. And that's where I'm goin'.'
He slammed out of the bar and no one said a word for a while. Then Lamont Henry says, real quiet, 'That's the last time anyone's gonna see Richie Messina. Holy God.' And Lamont, raised to be a Methodist from his mother's knee, crossed himself.
'He'll sober off and change his mind,' Tookey said, but he sounded uneasy. 'He'll be back by closin' time, makin' out it was all a joke.'
But Lamont had the right of that one, because no one ever saw Richie again. His wife told the state cops she thought he'd gone to Florida to beat a collection agency, but you could see the truth of the thing in her eyes-sick, scared eyes. Not long after, she moved away to Rhode Island. Maybe she thought Richie was going to come after her some dark night. And I'm not the man to say he might not have done.
Now Tookey was looking at me and I was looking at Tookey as I stuffed my crucifix back into my shirt. I never felt so old or so scared in my life.
Tookey said again, 'We can't just leave them out there, Booth.'
'Yeah. I know.'
We looked at each other for a moment longer, and then he reached out and gripped my shoulder. 'You're a good man, Booth.' That was enough to buck me up some. It seems like when you pass seventy, people start forgetting that you are a man, or that you ever were.
Tookey walked over to Lumley and said, 'I've got a four-wheel-drive Scout. I'll get it out.'
'For God's sake, man, why didn't you say so before?' He had whirled around from the window and was staring angrily at Tookey. 'Why'd you have to spend ten minutes beating around the bush?'
Tookey said, very softly, 'Mister, you shut your jaw. And if you get the urge to open it, you remember who made that turn onto an unplowed road in the middle of a goddamned blizzard.'
He started to say something, and then shut his mouth. Thick color had risen up in his cheeks. Tookey went out to get his Scout out of the garage. I felt around under the bar for his chrome flask and filled it full of brandy. Figured we might need it before this night was over.
Maine blizzard-ever been out in one?
The snow comes flying so thick and fine that it looks like sand and sounds like that, beating on the sides of your car or pickup. You don't want to use your high beams because they reflect off the snow and you can't see ten feet in front of you. With the low beams on, you can see maybe fifteen feet. But I can live with the snow. It's the wind I don't like, when it picks up and begins to howl, driving the snow into a hundred weird flying shapes and sounding like all the hate and pain and fear in the world. There's death in the throat of a snowstorm wind, white death-and maybe something beyond death. That's no sound to hear when you're tucked up all cozy in your own bed with the shutters bolted and the doors locked. It's that much worse if you're driving. And we were driving smack into 'Salem's Lot.
'Hurry up a little, can't you?' Lumley asked.
I said, 'For a man who came in half frozen, you're in one hell of a hurry to end up walking again.'
He gave me a resentful, baffled look and didn't say anything else. We were moving up the highway at a steady twenty-five miles an hour. It was hard to believe that Billy Larribee had just plowed this stretch an hour ago; another two inches had covered it, and it was drifting in. The strongest gusts of wind rocked the Scout on her springs. The headlights showed a swirling white nothing up ahead of us. We hadn't met a single car.
About ten minutes later Lumley gasps: 'Hey! What's that?'
He was pointing out my side of the car; I'd been looking dead ahead. I turned, but was a shade too late. I thought I could see some sort of slumped form fading back from the car, back into the snow, but that could have been imagination.
'What was it? A deer?' I asked.
'I guess so,' he says, sounding shaky. 'But its eyes-they looked red.' He looked at me. 'Is that how a deer's eyes look at night?' He sounded almost as if he were pleading.
'They can look like anything,' I says, thinking that might be true, but I've seen a lot of deer at night from a lot of cars, and never saw any set of eyes reflect back red.
Tookey didn't say anything.
About fifteen minutes later, we came to a place where the snowbank on the right of the road wasn't so high because the plows are supposed to raise their blades a little when they go through an intersection.
'This looks like where we turned,' Lumley said, not sounding too sure about it. 'I don't see the sign-'
'This is it,' Tookey answered. He didn't sound like himself at all. 'You can just see the top of the signpost.'
'Oh. Sure.' Lumley sounded relieved. 'Listen, Mr. Tooklander, I'm sorry about being so short back there. I was cold and worried and calling myself two hundred kinds of fool. And I want to thank you both-'
