high-powered auto specialists from Harrisburg, they had probably overlooked an elephant while looking for a needle. I couldn't blame them, either. Cars just don't run backward, like a movie in reverse. And there are no such things as ghosts or revenants or demons preserved in Quaker State motor oil.
Believe in one, believe in all, I thought, and shuddered.
'Want to turn up the heater, Denny?' Mom asked brightly.
'Would you, Mom?'
I thought of Leigh, who was due back tomorrow. Leigh with her lovely face (enhanced by those slanting, almost cruel cheekbones), her young and sweetly luscious figure that had not yet been marred by the forces of time or gravity; like that long-ago Plymouth that had rolled out of Detroit on a carrier in 1957, she was, in a sense, still under warranty. Then I thought of LeBay, who was dead and yet undead, and I thought of his lust (but was it lust? or just a need to spoil things?). I thought of Arnie saying with calm assurance that they were going to be married. And then, with a helpless clarity, I saw their wedding night. I saw her looking up into the darkness of some motel room and seeing a rotting grinning corpse poised over her. I heard her screams as Christine, a Christine still festooned with crepe streamers and soaped-on JUST MARRIED signs, waited faithfully outside the closed and locked door. Christine - or the terrible female force that animated her - would know Leigh wouldn't last long . . . and she, Christine, would be around when Leigh was gone.
I closed my eyes to block the images out, but that only intensified them.
It had begun with Leigh wanting Arnie and had progressed logically enough to Arnie wanting her back. But it hadn't stopped there, had it? Because now LeBay had Arnie. . . and he wanted Leigh.
But he wasn't going to have her. Not if I could help it. That night I called George LeBay.
'Yes, Mr Guilder,' he said, He sounded older, tireder. 'I remember you very well. I talked your ear off in front of my unit in what I believe may have been the most depressing motel in the universe. What can I do for you?' He sounded as though he hoped I wouldn't require too much.
I hesitated. Did I tell him that his brother had come back from the dead? That not even the grave had been able to end his hate of the shitters? Did I tell him he had possessed my friend, had picked him out as unerringly as Arnie had picked out Christine? Did we talk about mortality, and time, and rancid love?
'Mr Guilder? Are you there?'
'I've got a problem, Mr LeBay. And I don't know exactly how to tell you about it. It concerns your brother.'
Something new came into his voice then, something tight and controlled. 'I don't know what sort of a problem you could have that would concern him. Rollie's dead.'
'That's just it.' Now I was unable to control my own voice. It trembled up to a higher octave and then drifted back down again. 'I don't think he is.'
'What are you talking about?' His voice was taut, accusing . . . and fearful. 'If this is your idea of a joke, I assure you it's in the poorest possible taste.'
'No joke. Just let me tell you some of the stuff that's happened since your brother died.'
'Mr Guilder, I have several sets of papers to correct, and a novel I want to finish, and I really don't have time to indulge in - '
'Please,' I said. 'Please, Mr LeBay, please help me, and help my friend.'
There was a long, long pause, and then LeBay sighed. 'Tell your tale,' he said, and then, after a brief pause, he added, 'Goddam you.'
I passed the story along to him by way of modern long-distance cable; I could imagine my voice going through computerized switching stations full of miniaturized circuits, under snow-blanketed wheatfields, and finally into the ear of this man.
I told him about Arnie's trouble with Repperton, Buddy's expulsion and revenge; I told him about the death of Moochie Welch; what had happened at Squantic Hills; what had happened during the Christmas Eve storm. I told him about windscreen cracks that seemed to run backward and a milometer that did for sure. I told him about t e radio that seemed to receive only WDIL, the oldies station, no matter where you set it - that brought a soft grunt of surprise