sk.dreamcatcher-第115部分

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　　　　Jonesy　and　Mr　Gray　were　crossing　the　Kittery…Portsmouth　bridge　into　New　Hampshire；　Henry；　Owen；　and　Duddits　were　passing　Exit　9；　which　gives　access　to　the　munities　of　Falmouth；　Cumberland；　and　Jerusalem's　Lot；　Kurtz；　Freddy；　and　Perlmutter　（Perlmutter's　belly　was　swelling　again；　he　lay　back　groaning　and　passing　noxious　gas；　perhaps　a　kind　of　critical　ment　on　the　Great　White　Father's　speech）　were　near　the　Bowdoinham　exit　of　295；　not　far　north　of　Brunswick。　All　three　vehicles　would　have　been　easy　enough　to　pick　out　because　so　many　people　had　pulled　in　somewhere　to　watch　the　President　give　his　soothing；　Chroma…Key…aided　lecture。
　　　　Drawing　on　Jonesy's　admirably　organized　memories；　Mr　Gray　left　95　for　495　just　after　crossing　over　the　New　Hampshire　Massachusetts　border　。　。　。　and　directed　by　Duddits；　who　saw　Jonesy's　passage　as　a　bright　yellow　line；　the　lead　Humvee　would　follow。　At　the　town　of　Marlborough；　Mr　Gray　would　leave　495　for　1…90；　one　of　America's　major　east…west　highways。　In　the　Bay　State　this　road　is　known　as　the　Mass　Pike。　Exit　8；　according　to　Jonesy；　was　marked　Palmer；　UMass；　Amherst；　and　Ware。　Six　miles　beyond　Ware　was　the　Quabbin。
　　　　Shaft　12　was　what　he　wanted；　Jonesy　said　so；　and　Jonesy　couldn't　lie；　much　as　he　might　have　liked　to。　There　was　a　Massachusetts　Water　Authority　office　at　the　Winsor　Dam；　on　the　south　end　of　the　Quabbin　Reservoir。　Jonesy　could　get　him　that　far；　and　then　Mr　Gray　would　do　the　rest。


9

Jonesy　couldn't　sit　behind　the　desk　anymore　…　if　he　did；　he'd　start　to　blubber。　From　blubbering　he　would　no　doubt　progress　to　gibbering；　from　gibbering　to　yammering；　and　once　he　started　to　yammer；　he'd　probably　be　out　and　rushing　into　Mr　Gray's　arms；　totally　bonkers　and　ready　to　be　extinguished。
　　　　Where　are　we　now；　anyway？　he　wondered。　Marlborough　yet？　Leaving　495　for　90？　7hat　sounds　about　right。
　　　　Not　that　there　was　any　way　to　tell　for　sure；　with　his　window　shuttered。　Jonesy　looked　at　the　window　。　。　。　and　grinned　in　spite　of　himself。　Had　to。　GIVE　UP　E　OUT　had　been　replaced　with　what　he'd　been　thinking　of…　SURRENDER　DOROTHY。
　　　　I　did　that；　he　thought；　and　I　bet　I　could　make　the　goddam　shutters　vanish；　if　I　wanted　to。
　　　　And　so　what？　Mr　Gray　would　put　up　another　set；　or　maybe　just　slop　some　black　paint　on　the　glass。　If　he　didn't　want　Jonesy　looking　out；　Jonesy　would　stay　blind。　The　point　was；　Mr　Gray　controlled　the　outside　part　of　him。　Mr　Gray's　head　had　exploded；　he'd　sporulated　right　in　front　of　Jonesy's　eyes　…　Dr　Jekyll　turns　into　Mr　Byrus　…　and　Jonesy　had　inhaled　him。　Now　Mr　Gray　was　。　。　。
　　　　He's　a　pain；　Jonesy　thought。　Mr　Gray　is　the　pain　in　my　brain。
　　　　Something　tried　to　protest　this　view；　and　he　actually　had　a　coherent　dissenting　thought　…　No；　you've　got　it　all　backward；　you　were　the　one　who　got　out；　who　escaped　…　but　he　pushed　it　away。　That　was　pseudo…intuitive　bullshit；　a　cognitive　hallucination；　not　much　different　than　a　thirsty　man　seeing　a　nonexistent　oasis　in　the　desert。　He　was　locked　in　here。　Mr　Gray　was　out　there；　eating　bacon　and　ruling　the　roost。　If　Jonesy　allowed　himself　to　think　differently；　he'd　be　an　April　Fool　in　November。
　　　　Got　to　slow　him　down。　If　I　can't　stop　him；　is　there　a　way　I　can　at　least　throw　a　monkeywrench　into　the　works？
　　　　He　got　up　and　began　to　walk　around　the　edge　of　the　office。　It　was　thirty…four　paces。　Hell　of　a　short　round…trip。　Still；　he　supposed；　it　was　bigger　than　your　average　jail　cell；　guys　in　Walpole　or　Danvers　or　Shawshank　would　think　this　was　the　cat's　ass。　In　the　middle　of　the　room；　the　dreamcatcher　danced　and　turned。　One　part　of　Jonesy's　mind　counted　paces；　the　other　wondered　how　close　they　were　getting　to　Exit　8　of　the　Mass　Pike。
　　　　Thirty…one；　thirty…two；　thirty…three；　thirty…four。　And　here　he　was；　back　behind　his　chair　again。　Time　for　Round　Two。
　　　　They'd　be　in　Ware　soon　enough　。　。　。　not　that　they'd　stop　there。　Unlike　the　Russian　woman；　Mr　Gray　knew　exactly　where　he　wanted　to　go。
　　　　Thirty…two；　thirty…three；　thirty…four；　thirty…five；　thirty…six。　Behind　his　chair　again　and　ready　for　another　spin。
　　　　He　and　Carla　had　had　three　children　by　the　time　they　turned　thirty　（number　four　had　e　less　than　a　year　ago）；　and　neither　of　them　had　expected　to　own　a　summer　cottage；　not　even　a　modest　one　like　the　place　on　Osborne　Road　in　North　Ware；　any　time　soon。　Then　there　had　been　a　seismic　shift　in　Jonesy's　department。　A　good　friend　had　assumed　the　chairmanship；　and　Jonesy　had　found　himself　an　associate　professor　at　least　three　years　earlier　than　his　most　optimistic　expectations。　The　salary　bump　had　been　considerable。
　　　　Thirty…five；　thirty…six；　thirty…seven；　thirty…eight；　and　behind　his　chair　again。　This　was　good。　It　was　pacing　the　cell；　no　more　than　that；　but　it　was　calming　him。
　　　　That　same　year；　Carla's　grandmother　had　passed　away；　and　there　had　been　a　considerable　estate；　settled　between　Carla　and　her　sister；　as　the　close　blood　kin　in　the　intervening　generation　had　died。　So　they　got　the　cottage；　and　that　first　summer　they'd　taken　the　kids　up　to　the　Winsor　Dam。　From　there　they'd　gone　on　one　of　the　regularly　scheduled　summer　tours。　Their　guide；　an　MWA　employee　in　a　forest…green　uniform；　had　told　them　the　area　around　the　Quabbin　Reservoir　was　called　'the　accidental　wilderness'；　and　had　bee　the　major　nesting　area　for　eagles　in　Massachusetts。　（John　and　Misha；　the　older　kids；　had　hoped　to　see　an　eagle　or　two；　but　they　had　been　disappointed。）　The　Reservoir　had　been　formed　in　the　thirties　by　flooding　three　fanning　munities；　each　with　its　own　little　market…town。　At　that　time　the　land　surrounding　the　new　lake　had　been　tame。　In　the　sixty　or　so　years　since；　it　had　returned　to　what　all　of　New　England　must　have　been　like　before　the　tillage　and　industry　began　midway　through　the　seventeenth　century。　A　tangle　of　rutted；　unpaved　roads　ran　up　the　east　side　of　the　lake　…　one　of　the　purest　reservoirs　in　North　America；　their　guide　had　told　them　…　but　that　was　it。　If　you　wanted　to　go　much　beyond　Shaft　12　on　the　East　Branch；　you'd　need　your　hiking　shoes。　That　was　what　the　guide　said。　Lorrington；　his　name　had　been。
　　　　There　had　been　maybe　a　dozen　other　people　on　the　tour；　and　by　then　they　had　been　about　back　to　their　starting　place　again。　Standing　on　the　edge　of　the　road　which　ran　across　Winsor　Dam；　looking　north　at　the　Reservoir　（the　Quabbin　bright　blue　in　the　sunlight；　sparkling　with　a　million　points　of　light；　Joey　fast　asleep　in　the　Papoose　carrier　on　Jonesy's　back）。　Lorrington　had　been　wrapping　up　his　spiel；　just　about　to　wish　them　a　nice　day；　when　some　guy　in　a　Rutgers　sweatshirt　had　raised　his　hand　like　a　school　kid　and　said：　Shaft　12；　Isn't　that　where　the　Russian　woman　。　。　。　？
　　　　Thirty…eight；　thirty…nine；　forty；　forty…one；　and　back　to　the　desk　chair。　Counting　without　really　thinking　about　the　numbers；　something　he　did　all　the　time。　Carla　said　it　was　a　sign　of　obsessive…pulsive　disorder。　Jonesy　didn't　know　about　that；　but　he　knew　that　the　counting　was　soothing　him；　and　so　he　set　off　on　another　round。
　　　　Lorrington's　mouth　had　tightened　at　the　words　'Russian　woman'。　Not　part　of　the　lecture；　apparently；　not　part　of　the　good　vibes　the　Water　Authority　wanted　visitors　to　take　with　them。　Depending　upon　which　municipal　pipes　it　flowed　through　during　the　last　eight　or　ten　miles　of　its　journey；　Boston　tap　water　could　be　the　purest；　best　tap　water　in　the　world：　that　was　the　gospel　they　wanted　to　spread。
　　　　I　really　don't　know　much　about　that；　sir；　Lorrington　had　said；　and　Jonesy　had　thought：　My　goodness；　I　think　our　guide　just　told　a　little　fibby…wibby；
　　　　Forty…one；　forty…two；　forty…three；　back　behind　the　chair　and　ready　to　start　around　again。　Walking　a　little　faster　now。　Hands　clasped　behind　his　back　like　a　ship's　captain　pacing　the　foredeck　。　。　。　or　pacing　the　brig　after　a　successful　mutiny。　He　supposed　that　was　really　more　like　it。
　　　　Jonesy　had　been　a　history　teacher　most　of　his　life；　and　curiosity　came　as　second　nature。　He　had　gone　to　the　library　one　day　later　that　week；　had　looked　for　the　story　in　the　local　paper；　and　had　eventually　found　it。　It　had　been　brief　and　dry　…　there　were　stories　about　lawn…parties　inside　that　had　more　detail　and　color　…　but　their　postman　had　known　more　and　had　been　happy　to　share。　Old　Mr　Beckwith。　Jonesy　still　remembered　his　final　words　before　he'd　put　his　blue…and…white　mail…truck　back　in　gear　and　rolled　on　down　Osborne　Road　to　the　next　rural　box；　there　was　a　lot　of　mail　to　be　delivered　on　the　south　end　of　the　lake　in　summertime。　Jonesy　had　walked　back　to　the　cottage；　their　unexpected　gift；　thinking　it　was　no　wonder　Lorrington　hadn't　wanted　to　talk　about　the　Russian　woman。
　　　　Not　good　public　relations　at　all。


10

Her　name　is　either　Ilena　or　Elaina　Timarova　…　no　one　seems　sure　which。　She　turns　up　in　Ware　in　the　early　fall　of　1995　in　a　Ford　Escort　with　a　discreet　yellow　Hertz　sticker　on　the　windshield。　The　car　turns　out　to　be　stolen；　and　a　story　makes　the　rounds　…　unsubstantiated　but　juicy　…　that　she　obtained　it　at　Logan　Airport；　swapping　sex　for　a　set　of　car　keys。　Who　knows；　it　could　have　happened　that　way。
　　　　However　it　happens；　she　is　clearly　disoriented；　not　quite　right　in　the　head。　Someone　remembers　the　bruise　on　the　side　of　her　face；　someone　else　the　fact　that　her　blouse　is　buttoned　wrong。　Her　English　i