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Harry
swung
into
Moores
's
gravelled
driveway
and
parked
the
grumbling
truck
behind
the
warden
's
sensible
black
Buick
.
Ahead
and
slightly
to
our
right
was
a
neat-as-a-pin
house
in
the
style
which
I
believe
is
called
Cape
Cod
.
That
sort
of
house
should
have
looked
out
of
place
in
our
ridge
country
,
perhaps
,
but
it
did
n't
.
The
moon
had
come
up
,
its
grin
a
little
fatter
this
morning
,
and
by
its
light
I
could
see
that
the
yard
,
always
so
beautifully
kept
,
now
looked
uncared
for
.
It
was
just
leaves
,
mostly
,
that
had
n't
been
raked
away
.
Under
normal
circumstances
that
would
have
been
Melly
's
job
,
but
Melly
had
n't
been
up
to
any
leaf-raking
this
fall
,
and
she
would
never
see
the
leaves
fall
again
.
That
was
the
truth
of
the
matter
,
and
I
had
been
mad
to
think
this
vacant-eyed
idiot
could
change
it
.
Maybe
it
still
was
n't
too
late
to
save
ourselves
,
though
.
I
made
as
if
to
get
up
,
the
blanket
I
'd
been
wearing
slipping
off
my
shoulders
.
I
would
lean
over
,
tap
on
the
driver
's
-
side
window
,
tell
Harry
to
get
the
hell
out
before
--
John
Coffey
grabbed
my
forearm
in
one
of
his
hamhock
fists
,
pulling
me
back
down
as
effortlessly
as
I
might
have
done
to
a
toddler
.
"
Look
,
boss
,
"
he
said
,
pointing
.
"
Someone
's
up
.
"
I
followed
the
direction
of
his
finger
and
felt
a
sinking
--
not
just
of
the
belly
,
but
of
the
heart
.
There
was
a
spark
of
light
in
one
of
the
back
windows
.
The
room
where
Melinda
now
spent
her
days
and
nights
,
most
likely
;
she
would
be
no
more
capable
of
using
the
stairs
than
she
would
of
going
out
to
rake
the
leaves
which
had
fallen
during
the
recent
storm
.
They
'd
heard
the
truck
,
of
course
--
Harry
Terwilliger
's
goddam
Farmall
,
its
engine
bellowing
and
farting
down
the
length
of
an
exhaust
pipe
unencumbered
by
anything
so
frivolous
as
a
muffler
.
Hell
,
the
Mooreses
probably
were
n't
sleeping
that
well
these
nights
,
anyway
.
A
light
closer
to
the
front
of
the
house
went
on
(
the
kitchen
)
,
then
the
living-room
overhead
,
then
the
one
in
the
front
hall
,
then
the
one
over
the
stoop
.
I
watched
these
forward-marching
lights
the
way
a
man
standing
against
a
cement
wall
and
smoking
his
last
cigarette
might
watch
the
lockstep
approach
of
the
firing
squad
.
Yet
I
did
not
entirely
acknowledge
to
myself
even
then
that
it
was
too
late
until
the
uneven
chop
of
the
Farmall
's
engine
faded
into
silence
,
and
the
doors
creaked
,
and
the
gravel
crunched
as
Harry
and
Brutal
got
out
.
John
was
up
,
pulling
me
with
him
.
In
the
dim
light
,
his
face
looked
lively
and
eager
.
Why
not
?
I
remember
thinking
.
Why
should
n't
he
look
eager
?
He
's
a
fool
.
Brutal
and
Harry
were
standing
shoulder
to
shoulder
at
the
foot
of
the
truck
,
like
kids
in
a
thunderstorm
,
and
I
saw
that
both
of
them
looked
as
scared
,
confused
,
and
uneasy
as
I
felt
.
That
made
me
feel
even
worse
.
