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"
Oh
.
"
Church
.
Treasure
your
cojones
while
you
got
em
,
Church
,
old
boy
.
Then
he
slipped
away
from
everything
,
down
a
hole
,
sleeping
deeply
and
without
dreams
.
Something
woke
him
much
later
,
a
crash
loud
enough
to
cause
him
to
sit
up
in
bed
,
wondering
if
Ellie
had
fallen
onto
the
floor
or
if
maybe
Gage
's
crib
had
collapsed
.
Then
the
moon
sailed
out
from
behind
a
cloud
,
flooding
the
room
with
cold
white
light
,
and
he
saw
Victor
Pascow
standing
in
the
doorway
.
The
crash
had
been
Pascow
throwing
open
the
door
.
He
stood
there
with
his
head
bashed
in
behind
the
left
temple
.
The
blood
had
dried
on
his
face
in
maroon
stripes
like
Indian
warpaint
.
His
collarbone
jutted
whitely
.
He
was
grinning
.
"
Come
on
,
Doctor
,
"
Pascow
said
.
"
We
got
places
to
go
.
"
Louis
looked
around
.
His
wife
was
a
vague
hump
under
her
yellow
comforter
,
sleeping
deeply
.
He
looked
back
at
Pascow
,
who
was
dead
but
somehow
not
dead
.
Yet
Louis
felt
no
fear
.
He
realized
why
almost
at
once
.
It
's
a
dream
,
he
thought
,
and
it
was
only
in
his
relief
that
he
realized
he
had
been
frightened
after
all
.
The
dead
do
not
return
;
it
is
physiologically
impossible
.
This
young
man
is
in
an
autopsy
drawer
in
Bangor
with
the
pathologist
's
tattoo
--
a
Y-cut
stitched
back
up
--
on
him
.
The
pathologist
probably
tossed
his
brain
into
his
chest
cavity
after
taking
a
tissue
sample
and
filled
up
the
skull
cavity
with
brown
paper
to
prevent
leaking
--
simpler
than
trying
to
fit
the
brain
back
into
the
skull
like
a
jigsaw
piece
into
a
puzzle
.
Uncle
Carl
,
father
of
the
unfortunate
Ruthie
,
had
told
him
that
pathologists
did
that
,
and
all
sorts
of
other
random
information
that
he
supposed
would
give
Rachel
,
with
her
death
phobia
,
the
screaming
horrors
.
But
Pascow
was
not
here
--
no
way
,
baby
.
Pascow
was
in
a
refrigerated
locker
with
a
tag
around
his
toe
.
And
he
is
most
certainly
not
wearing
those
red
jogging
shorts
in
there
.
Yet
the
compulsion
to
get
up
was
strong
.
Pascow
's
eyes
were
upon
him
.
He
threw
back
the
covers
and
swung
his
feet
onto
the
floor
.
The
hooked
rug
--
a
wedding
present
from
Rachel
's
grandmother
long
ago
--
pressed
cold
nubbles
into
the
balls
of
his
feet
.
The
dream
had
a
remarkable
reality
.
It
was
so
real
that
he
would
not
follow
Pascow
until
Pascow
had
turned
and
begun
to
go
back
down
the
stairs
.
The
compulsion
to
follow
was
strong
,
but
he
did
not
want
to
be
touched
,
even
in
a
dream
,
by
a
walking
corpse
.
But
he
did
follow
.
Pascow
's
jogging
shorts
glimmered
.
