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
coming. He turned toward the sole break in the low stone, walked to
the posts, and looked downhill toward Toby had almost reached that long
rectangular buildg. He skidded to a halt, glanced back at his
laggardly father, and waved. He tossed the Frisbee straight into the
air. On edge, the disc knifed high, then curved toward the zenith and
caught a current of wind. Like a spacecraft from another world, it
whirled across the somber sky. Much higher than the greatest altitude
reached by the frisbee, under the pendulous clouds, a lone bird circled
above the boy, like a hawk maintaining surveillance of potential prey,
though it was likely a crow rather than a hawk. Circling and
circling.
A puzzle piece in the shape Of a black crow. Gliding on rising
thermals. Silent as a talker in a dream, patient and mysterious.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
After sending Jack to discover what Toby was doing among the
gravestones, Heather returned to the spare bedroom where she had been
working with her computers.
She watched from the window as Jack climbed the hill to the cemetery.
He stood with the boy for a minute, then knelt beside him. From a
distance, everything seemed all right, no sign of trouble. Evidently,
she’d been worried for no good reason. A lot of that going around
lately. She sat in her office chair, sighed at her excessive maternal
concern, and turned her attention to the computers.
For a while she searched the hard disc of each machine, ran tests, and
made sure the programs were in place and that nothing had crashed
during the move.
Later, she grew thirsty, and before going to the kitchen to get a
Pepsi, she stepped to the window to check on Jack and Toby. They were
almost out of her line of view, near the stables, tossing the Frisbee
back and forth. Judging by the heavy sky and by how icy cold the
window was when she touched it, snow would begin to fall soon. She was