Forest Park cemetery was completely . different at night. The darkness seemed very thick. There was a sign on the iron gate that said, "No visitors after sunset," but the gate itself was open.
I don't want to be here, Phil thought.
James drove down the single lane road that curved around the cemetery and parked underneath a huge and ancient gingko tree.
"What if somebody sees us? Don't they have a guard or something?"
"They have a night watchman. He's asleep. I took care of it before I picked you up." James got out and began unloading an amazing amount of equipment from the backseat of the Integra.
Two heavy duty flashlights. A crowbar. Some old boards. A couple of tarps. And two brand-new shovels.
"Help me carry this stuff."
"What's it all for?" But Phil helped. Gravel crunched under his feet as he followed James on one of the little winding paths.
They went up some weathered wooden stairs and down the other side and then they were in Toyland.
That was what somebody at the funeral had called it. Phil had overheard two business friends of Cliff's talking about it. It was a section of the cemetery where mostly kids were buried. You could tell without even looking at the headstones because there were teddy bears and things on the graves.
Poppy's grave was right on the edge of Toyland. It didn't have a headstone yet, of course. There was only a green plastic marker.
James dumped his armload on the grass and then knelt to examine the ground with a flashlight.
Phil stood silently, looking around the cemetery. He was still scared, partly with the normal fear that they'd get caught before they got finished, and partly with the supernatural fear that they wouldn't. The only sounds were crickets and distant traffic. Tree branches and bushes moved gently in the wind.
"Okay," James said. "First we've got to peel this sod off."
"Huh?" Phil hadn't even thought about why there was already grass on the new grave. But of course it was sod. James had found the edge of one strip and was rolling it up like a carpet.
Phil found another edge. The strips were about six feet long by one and a half feet wide. They were heavy, but it wasn't too hard to roll them up and off the foot of the grave.
"Leave 'em there. We've got to put them on again afterward,"
James grunted. "We don't want it to look as if this place has been disturbed."
A light went on for Phil. "That's why the tarps and stuff."
"Yeah. A little mess won't be suspicious. But if we leave dirt scattered everywhere, somebody's going to wonder." James laid the boards around the perimeter of the grave, then spread the tarps on either side. Phil helped him straighten them.
What was left where the sod had been was fresh, loamy soil.
Phil positioned a flashlight and picked up a shovel.
I don't believe I'm doing this, he thought.
But he was doing it. And as long as all he thought about was the physical work, the job of digging a hole in the ground, he was okay. He concentrated on that and stepped on the shovel.
It went straight into the dirt, with no resistance. It was easy to spade up one shovelful of dirt and drop it onto the tarp. But by about the thirtieth shovelful, he was getting tired.
"This is insane. We need a backhoe," he said, wiping his forehead.
"You can rest if you want," James said coolly.
Phil understood. James was the backhoe. He was stronger than anyone Phil had ever seen. He pitched up shovelful after shovelful of dirt without even straining. He made it look like fun.
"Why don't we have you on any. of the teams at school?" Phil said, leaning heavily on his shovel.
"I prefer individual sports. Like wrestling," James said and grinned, just for a moment, up at Phil. It was the kind of locker-room remark that couldn't be misunderstood from one guy to another. He meant wrestling with, for instance, Jacklyn and Michaela.
And, just at that particular moment, Phil couldn't help grinning back. He couldn't summon up any righteous disapproval.
Even with James, it took a long time to dig the hole. It was wider than Phil would have thought necessary. When his shovel finally chunked on something solid, he found out why.
"It's the vault," James said.
"What vault?"
"The burial vault. They put the coffin inside it so it doesn't get crushed if the ground collapses. Get out and hand me the crowbar."
Phil climbed out of the hole and gave him the crowbar. He could see the vault now. It was made of unfinished concrete and he guessed that it was just a rectangular box with a lid.
James was prying the lid off with the crowbar.
"There," James said, with an explosive grunt as he lifted the lid and slid it, by degrees, behind the concrete box. That was why the hole was so wide, to accommodate the lid on one side and James on the other.
And now, looking straight down into the hole, Phil could see the casket. A huge spray of slightly crushed yellow roses was on top.
James was breathing hard, but Phil didn't think it was with exertion. His own lungs felt as if they were being squeezed flat, and his heart was thudding hard enough to shake his body.
"Oh, God," he said quietly and with no particular emphasis.
James looked up. "Yeah. This is it." He pushed the roses down toward the foot of the casket. Then, in what seemed like slow motion to Phillip, he began unfastening latches on the casket's side.
When they were unfastened, he paused for just an instant, both hands flat on the smooth surface of the casket. Then he lifted the upper panel, and Phillip could see what was inside.
CHAPTER 12
Poppy was lying there on the white velvet lining, eyes shut.
She looked very pale and strangely beautiful-but was she dead?
"Wake up," James said. He put his hand on hers. Phillip had the feeling that he was calling with his mind as well as his voice.
There was an agonizingly long minute while nothing happened.
James put his other hand under Poppy's neck, lifting her just slightly. "Poppy, it's time.
Wake up. Wake up."
Poppy's eyelashes fluttered.
Something jarred violently in Phillip. He wanted to give a yell of victory and pound the grass. He also wanted to run way.
Finally he just collapsed by the graveside, his knees giving out altogether.
"Come on, Poppy. Get up. We have to go." James was speaking in a gentle, insistent voice, as if he were talking to someone coming out of anesthesia.