Ben thought about it and met a blank wall: utter incomprehension.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Well, what about the kid? Do you think he can take it? He’ll be ready for the fucking nut hatch. And Matt will be dead. I’ll guarantee you that. And what do we do when the state cops start nosing around to find out what in hell happened to ’salem’s Lot? What do we tell them? ‘Pardon me while I stake this bloodsucker’? What about that, Ben?”

“How the hell should I know? Who’s had a chance to stop and think this thing out?”

They realized simultaneously that they were standing nose to nose, yelling at each other. “Hey,” Jimmy said. “Hey.”

Ben dropped his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“No, my fault. We’re under pressure…what Barlow would undoubtedly call an end game.” He ran a hand through his carroty hair and looked around aimlessly. His eye suddenly lit on something beside Petrie’s blueprint and he picked it up. It was a black grease pencil.

“Maybe this is the best way,” he said.

“What?”

“You stay here, Ben. Start turning out stakes. If we’re going to do this, it’s got to be scientific. You’re the production department. Mark and I will be research. We’ll go through the town, looking for them. We’ll find them, too, just the way we found Mike. I can mark the locations with this grease pencil. Then, tomorrow, the stakes.”

“Won’t they see the marks and move?”

“I don’t think so. Mrs Glick didn’t look as though she was connecting too well. I think they move more on instinct than real thought. They might wise up after a while, start hiding better, but I think at first it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

“Why don’t I go?”

“Because I know the town, and the town knows me—like they knew my father. The live ones in the Lot are hiding in their houses today. If you come knocking, they won’t answer. If I come, most of them will. I know some of the hiding places. I know where the winos shack up out in the Marshes and where the pulp roads go. You don’t. Can you run that lathe?”

“Yes,” Ben said.

Jimmy was right, of course. Yet the relief he felt at not having to go out and face themmade him feel guilty.

“Okay. Get going. It’s after noon now.”

Ben turned to the lathe, then paused. “If you want to wait a half hour, I can give you maybe half a dozen stakes to take with you.”

Jimmy paused a moment, then dropped his eyes. “Uh, I think tomorrow…tomorrow would be…”

“Okay,” Ben said. “Go on. Listen, why don’t you come back around three? Things ought to be quiet enough around that school by then so we can check it out.”

“Good.”

Jimmy stepped away from Petrie’s shop area and started for the stairs. Something—a half thought or perhaps inspiration—made him turn. He saw Ben across the basement, working under the bright glare of those three lights, hung neatly in a row.

Something…and it was gone.

He walked back.

Ben shut off the lathe and looked at him. “Something else?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “On the tip of my tongue. But it’s stuck there.”

Ben raised his eyebrows.

“When I looked back from the stairs and saw you, something clicked. It’s gone now.”

“Important?”

“I don’t know.” He shuffled his feet purposelessly, wanting it to come back. Something about the image Ben had made, standing under those work lights, bent over the lathe. No good. Thinking about it only made it seem more distant.

He went up the stairs, but paused once more to look back. The image was hauntingly familiar, but it wouldn’t come. He went through the kitchen and out to the car. The rain had faded to drizzle.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Roy McDougall’s car was standing in the driveway of the trailer lot on the Bend Road, and seeing it there on a weekday made Jimmy suspect the worst.

He and Mark got out, Jimmy carrying his black bag. They mounted the steps and Jimmy tried the bell. It didn’t work and so he knocked instead. The pounding roused no one in the McDougall trailer or in the neighboring one twenty yards down the road. There was a car in that driveway, too.

Jimmy tried the storm door and it was locked. “There’s a hammer in the backseat of the car,” he said.

Mark got it, and Jimmy smashed the glass of the storm door beside the knob. He reached through and unsnapped the catch. The inside door was unlocked. They went in.

The smell was definable instantly, and Jimmy felt his nostrils cringe against it and try to shut it out. The smell was not as strong as it had been in the basement of the Marsten House, but it was just as basically offensive—the smell of rot and deadness. A wet, putrefied stink. Jimmy found himself remembering when, as boys, he and his buddies had gone out on their bikes during spring vacation to pick up the returnable beer and soft-drink bottles the retreating snows had uncovered. In one of those (an Orange Crush bottle) he saw a small, decayed field mouse which had been attracted by the sweetness and had then been unable to get out. He had gotten a whiff of it and had immediately turned away and thrown up. This smell was plangently like that—sickish sweet and decayed sour, mixed together and fermenting wildly. He felt his gorge rise.

“They’re here,” Mark said. “Somewhere.”

They went through the place methodically—kitchen, dining nook, living room, the two bedrooms. They opened closets as they went. Jimmy thought they had found something in the master bedroom closet, but it was only a heap of dirty clothes.

“No cellar?” Mark asked.

“No, but there might be a crawl space.”

They went around to the back and saw a small door that swung inward, set into the trailer’s cheap concrete foundation. It was fastened with an old padlock. Jimmy knocked it off with five hard blows of the hammer, and when he pushed the half-trap open, the smell hit them in a ripe wave.

“There they are,” Mark said.

Peering in, Jimmy could see three sets of feet, like corpses lined up on a battlefield. One set wore work boots, one wore knitted bedroom slippers, and the third set—tiny feet indeed—were bare.

Family scene, Jimmy thought crazily. Reader’s Digest, where are you when we need you? Unreality washed over him. The baby, he thought. How are we supposed to do that to a little baby?

He made a mark with the black grease pencil on the trap and picked up the broken padlock. “Let’s go next door,” he said.

“Wait,” Mark said. “Let me pull one of them out.”

“Pull…? Why?”

“Maybe the daylight will kill them,” Mark said. “Maybe we won’t have to do that with the stakes.”

Jimmy felt hope. “Yeah, okay. Which one?”

“Not the baby,” Mark said instantly. “The man. You catch one foot.”

“All right,” Jimmy said. His mouth had gone cotton-dry, and when he swallowed there was a click in his throat.

Mark wriggled in on his stomach, the dead leaves that had drifted in crackling under his weight. He seized one of Roy McDougall’s work boots and pulled. Jimmy squirmed in beside him, scraping his back on the low overhang, fighting claustrophobia. He got hold of the other boot and together they pulled him out into the lessening drizzle and white light.

What followed was almost unbearable. Roy McDougall began to writhe as soon as the light struck him full, like a man who has been disturbed in sleep. Steam and moisture came from his pores, and the skin underwent a slight sagging and yellowing. Eyeballs rolled behind the thin skin of his closed lids. His feet kicked slowly and dreamily in the wet leaves. His upper lip curled back, showing upper incisors like those of a large dog—a German shepherd or a collie. His arms thrashed slowly, the hands clenching and unclenching, and when one of them brushed Mark’s shirt, he jerked back with a disgusted cry.

Roy turned over and began to hunch slowly back into the crawl space, arms and knees and face digging grooves in the rain-softened humus. Jimmy noted that a hitching, Cheyne-Stokes type of respiration had begun as soon as the light struck the body; it stopped as soon as McDougall was wholly in shadow again. So did the moisture extrusion.