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As
gas
prices
went
up
,
they
had
used
the
big
station
wagon
less
and
less
.
For
some
time
it
had
had
a
bad
wheel-bearing
,
but
Louis
had
kept
putting
off
the
repair
job
.
This
was
partly
because
he
did
n't
want
to
part
with
the
two
hundred
it
was
likely
to
cost
,
but
mostly
because
it
was
a
nuisance
.
Now
,
when
he
could
have
really
used
the
big
old
dinosaur
,
he
did
n't
dare
chance
it
.
The
Civic
was
a
hatchback
,
and
Louis
was
nervous
about
going
back
to
Ludlow
with
the
pick
,
shovel
,
and
spade
in
there
.
Jud
Crandall
's
eyes
were
sharp
,
and
there
was
nothing
wrong
with
his
brains
either
.
He
would
know
what
was
up
.
Then
it
occurred
to
him
that
there
was
no
real
reason
to
go
back
to
Ludlow
anyway
.
Louis
recrossed
the
Chamberlain
Bridge
into
Bangor
and
checked
into
the
Howard
Johnson
's
Motor
Lodge
on
the
Odlin
Road
--
once
again
near
the
airport
,
once
again
near
Pleasantview
Cemetery
where
his
son
was
buried
.
He
checked
in
under
the
name
Dee
Dee
Ramone
and
paid
cash
for
his
room
.
He
tried
to
nap
,
reasoning
that
he
would
be
glad
of
the
rest
before
tomorrow
morning
.
In
the
words
of
some
Victorian
novel
or
other
,
there
was
wild
work
ahead
of
him
tonight
--
enough
wild
work
to
last
a
lifetime
.
But
his
brain
simply
would
not
shut
down
.
He
lay
on
the
anonymous
motel
bed
beneath
a
nondescript
motel
print
of
picturesque
boats
at
dock
beside
a
picturesque
old
wharf
in
a
picturesque
New
England
harbor
,
fully
dressed
except
for
his
shoes
,
his
wallet
,
coins
,
and
keys
on
the
night
table
beside
him
,
his
hands
behind
his
head
.
That
feeling
of
coldness
still
held
;
he
felt
totally
unplugged
from
his
people
,
the
places
that
had
become
so
familiar
to
him
,
even
his
work
.
This
could
have
been
any
Howard
Johnson
's
in
the
world
--
in
San
Diego
or
Duluth
or
Bangkok
or
Charlotte
Amalie
.
He
was
nowhere
,
and
now
and
then
a
thought
of
surpassing
oddity
struck
him
:
before
he
saw
any
of
those
familiar
places
and
faces
again
,
he
would
see
his
son
.
His
plan
kept
unreeling
in
his
mind
.
He
looked
at
it
from
all
angles
,
poked
it
,
prodded
it
,
looked
for
holes
or
soft
places
.
And
he
felt
that
in
truth
he
was
walking
along
a
narrow
beam
over
a
gulf
of
insanity
.
Madness
was
all
around
him
,
softly
fluttering
as
the
wings
of
night-hunting
owls
with
great
golden
eyes
:
he
was
heading
into
madness
.
The
voice
of
Tom
Rush
echoed
dreamily
in
his
head
:
O
death
your
hands
are
clammy
...
I
feel
them
on
my
knees
...
you
came
and
took
my
mother
...
wo
n't
you
come
back
after
me
?
Madness
.
Madness
all
around
,
close
,
hunting
him
.
