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He
carried
the
body
over
to
the
hill
which
housed
Pleasantview
's
crypt
with
its
two
steel
sliding
doors
(
the
doors
made
it
look
queerly
like
a
two-car
garage
)
.
He
saw
what
would
have
to
be
done
if
he
were
going
to
get
his
forty-pound
bundle
up
that
steep
slope
now
that
his
rope
was
gone
and
prepared
to
do
it
.
He
backed
up
and
then
ran
at
the
slope
,
leaning
forward
,
letting
his
forward
motion
carry
him
as
far
as
it
would
.
He
got
almost
to
the
top
before
his
feet
skidded
out
from
under
him
on
the
short
,
slick
grass
,
and
he
tossed
the
canvas
roll
as
far
as
he
could
as
he
came
down
.
It
landed
almost
at
the
crest
of
the
hill
.
He
scrambled
the
rest
of
the
way
up
,
looked
around
again
,
saw
no
one
,
and
laid
the
rolled-up
tarp
against
the
fence
.
Then
he
went
back
for
the
rest
of
his
things
.
He
gained
the
top
of
the
hill
again
,
put
the
gloves
on
,
piled
the
flashlight
,
pick
,
and
shovel
next
to
the
tarp
.
Then
he
rested
,
back
against
the
staves
of
the
fence
,
hands
propped
on
his
knees
.
The
new
digital
watch
Rachel
had
given
him
for
Christmas
informed
him
that
it
was
now
2:01
.
He
gave
himself
five
minutes
to
regroup
and
then
toss
the
shovel
over
the
fence
.
He
heard
it
thud
in
the
grass
.
He
tried
to
stuff
the
flashlight
into
his
pants
,
but
it
just
would
n't
go
.
He
slipped
it
through
two
of
the
iron
staves
and
listened
to
it
roll
down
the
hill
,
hoping
it
would
not
hit
a
stone
and
break
.
He
wished
he
had
worn
a
packsack
.
He
removed
his
dispenser
of
strapping
tape
from
the
pocket
of
his
jacket
and
bound
the
business-end
of
the
pick
to
the
canvas
roll
,
going
around
and
around
,
drawing
the
tape
tight
over
the
pick
's
metal
arms
and
tight
under
the
canvas
.
He
did
this
until
the
tape
was
gone
and
then
tucked
the
empty
dispenser
back
in
his
pocket
.
He
lifted
the
bundle
and
hoisted
it
over
the
fence
(
his
back
screamed
in
protest
;
he
would
pay
for
this
night
all
the
following
week
,
he
suspected
)
and
then
let
it
drop
,
wincing
at
the
soft
thud
.
Now
he
swung
one
leg
over
the
fence
,
grasped
two
of
the
decorative
arrow
points
,
and
swung
his
other
leg
over
.
He
skidded
down
,
digging
in
at
the
earth
between
the
staves
of
the
fence
with
the
toes
of
his
shoes
,
and
dropped
to
the
ground
.
He
made
his
way
down
the
far
side
of
the
hill
and
felt
through
the
grass
.
He
found
the
shovel
right
away
--
muted
as
the
glow
from
the
streetlights
was
through
the
trees
,
it
reflected
a
faint
gleam
from
the
blade
.
He
had
a
couple
of
bad
moments
when
he
was
unable
to
find
the
flashlight
--
how
far
could
it
have
rolled
in
this
grass
?
He
got
down
on
his
hands
and
knees
and
felt
through
the
thick
plush
,
his
breath
and
heartbeat
loud
in
his
own
ears
.
At
last
he
spotted
it
,
a
thin
black
shadow
some
five
feet
from
where
he
had
guessed
it
would
be
--
like
the
hill
masking
the
cemetery
crypt
,
the
regularity
of
its
shape
gave
it
away
.
He
grabbed
it
,
cupped
a
hand
over
its
felted
lens
,
and
pushed
the
little
rubber
nipple
that
hid
the
switch
.
His
palm
lit
up
briefly
,
and
he
switched
the
flashlight
off
.
It
was
okay
.
He
used
his
pocketknife
to
cut
the
pick
free
from
the
canvas
roll
and
took
the
tools
through
the
grass
to
the
trees
.
He
stood
behind
the
biggest
,
looking
both
ways
along
Mason
Street
.
It
was
utterly
deserted
now
.
He
saw
only
one
light
on
the
entire
street
--
a
square
of
yellow-gold
in
an
upstairs
room
.
An
insomniac
,
perhaps
,
or
an
invalid
.
