sk.dreamcatcher-第28部分

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y　faint。
　　　　'Tell　Marcy　to　make　them　give　me　a　shot；'　Pete　said；　enunciating　each　word　carefully　in　the　stillness；　and　knew　they　were　exactly　the　right　words。　Right　why　or　right　how　he　couldn't　say；　but　yes；　those　were　the　words　in　his　head。　Was　it　the　click；　or　had　the　lights　caused　those　thoughts？　Pete　couldn't　say　for　sure。
　　　　'Maybe　nyther；'　he　said。
　　　　Pete　realized　the　last　of　the　snow　had　stopped。　The　world　around　him　was　only　three　colors：　the　deep　gray　of　the　sky；　the　deep　green　of　the　firs；　and　the　perfect　unblemished　white　of　the　new　snow。　And　hushed。
　　　　Pete　cocked　his　head　first　to　one　side　and　then　to　the　other；　listening。　Yes；　hushed。　Nothing。　No　sound　in　the　world　and　the　humming　noise　had　stopped　as　pletely　as　the　snow。　When　he　looked　up；　he　saw　that　the　pale；　mothlike　glow　of　the　lights　was　also　gone。
　　　　'Marcy？'　he　said；　as　if　calling　someone。　It　occurred　to　him　that　Marcy　might　be　the　name　of　the　woman　who　had　caused　them　to　wreck；　but　he　dismissed　the　idea。　That　woman's　name　was　Becky；　he　knew　it　as　surely　as　he　had　known　the　name　of　the　real　estate　woman　that　time。　Marcy　was　just　a　word　now；　and　nothing　about　it　called　to　him。　Probably　he'd　just　had　a　brain…cramp。　Wouldn't　be　the　first　time。
　　　　He　finished　climbing　the　hill　and　started　down　the　other　side；　his　thoughts　returning　to　that　day　in　the　fall　of　1978；　the　day　they　had　met　Duddits。
　　　　He　was　almost　back　to　the　place　where　the　road　leveled　when　his　knee　abruptly　let　go；　not　locking　up　this　time　but　seeming　to　explode　like　a　pine　knot　in　a　hot　fire。
　　　　Pete　pitched　forward　into　the　snow。　He　didn't　hear　the　Bud　bottles　break　inside　the　bag　…　all　but　two　of　them。　He　was　screaming　too　loudly。

CHAPTER　SIX

DUDDITS；　PART　TWO

　　　　
1
　　　　
Henry　started　off　in　the　direction　of　the　camp　at　a　quick　walk；　but　as　the　snow　subsided　to　isolated　flurries　and　the　wind　began　to　die；　he　upped　the　walk　to　a　steady；　clocklike　jog。　He　had　been　jogging　for　years；　and　the　pace　felt　natural　enough。　He　might　have　to　pull　up　for　awhile；　walk　or　even　rest；　but　he　doubted　it。　He　had　run　road…races　longer　than　nine　miles；　although　not　for　a　couple　of　years　and　never　with　four　inches　of　snow　underfoot。　Still；　what　was　there　to　worry　about？　Falling　down　and　busting　a　hip？　Maybe　having　a　heart　attack？　At　thirty…seven　a　heart　attack　seemed　unlikely；　but　even　if　he　had　been　a　prime　candidate　for　one；　worrying　about　it　would　have　been　ludicrous；　wouldn't　it？　Considering　what　he　was　planning？　So　what　was　there　to　worry　about？
　　　　Jonesy　and　Beaver；　that　was　what。　On　the　face　of　it　that　seemed　as　ludicrous　as　worrying　about　suffering　a　catastrophic　cardiac　outage　here　in　the　middle　of　nowhere　…　the　trouble　was　behind　him；　with　Pete　and　that　strange；　semi…atose　woman；　not　up　ahead　at　Hole　in　the　Wall　。　。　。　except　there　was　trouble　at　Hole　in　the　Wall；　bad　trouble。　He　didn't　know　how　he　knew　that；　but　he　did　and　he　accepted　the　knowing。　Even　before　he　started　encountering　the　animals；　all　hurrying　by　and　none　giving　him　more　than　the　most　cursory　glance；　he　knew　that。
　　　　Once　or　twice　he　glanced　up　into　the　sky；　looking　for　more　foo…lights；　but　there　were　none　to　be　seen　and　after　that　he　just　looked　straight　ahead；　sometimes　having　to　zig　or　zag　to　keep　out　of　the　way　of　the　animals。　They　weren't　quite　stampeding；　but　their　eyes　had　an　odd；　spooky　look　that　Henry　had　never　seen　before。　　　　　　　　
　　　　Once　he　had　to　skip　handily　to　keep　from　being　upended　by　a　pair　of　hurrying　foxes。
　　　　Eight　more　miles；　he　told　himself。　It　became　a　jogging　mantra；　different　from　the　ones　that　usually　went　through　his　head　when　he　was　running　（nursery　rhymes　were　the　most　mon）；　but　not　that　different　…　same　idea；　really。　Eight　more　miles；　eight　more　miles　to　Banbury　Cross。　No　Banbury　Cross；　though；　just　Mr　Clarendon's　old　camp　…　Beaver's　camp；　now　…　and　no　cock　horse　to　get　him　there。　What　was　a　cock　horse；　anyway？　Who　knew？　And　what　in　Christ's　name　was　happening　out　here　…　the　lights；　the　slow…motion　stampede　（dear　God；　what　was　that　in　the　woods　off　to　his　left；　was　that　a　fucking　bear？）；　the　woman　in　the　road；　just　sitting　there　with　most　of　her　teeth　and　most　of　her　brains　missing？　And　those　farts；　dear　God。　The　only　thing　he'd　ever　smelled　even　remotely　like　it　was　the　breath　of　a　patient　he'd　had　once；　a　schizophrenic　with　intestinal　cancer。　Always　that　smell；　an　internist　friend　had　told　Henry　when　Henry　tried　to　describe　it。　They　can　brush　their　teeth　a　dozen　times　a　day；　use　Lavoiis　every　hour　on　the　hour；　and　that　smell　still　es　through。　It's　the　smell　of　the　body　eating　itself；　because　that's　all　cancer　is　when　you　take　the　diagnostic　masks　off：　autocannibalism。
　　　　Seven　more　miles；　seven　more　miles；　and　all　the　animals　are　running；　all　the　animals　are　headed　for　Disneyland。　And　when　they　get　there　they'll　form　a　conga　line　and　sing　'It's　a　Small　World　After　All。'
　　　　　The　steady；　muted　thud　of　his　booted　feet。　The　feel　of　his　glasses　bouncing　up　and　down　on　the　bridge　of　his　nose。　His　breath　ing　out　in　balloons　of　cold　vapor。　But　he　felt　warm　now；　felt　good；　those　endorphins　kicking　in。　Whatever　was　wrong　with　him；　it　was　no　shortage　of　those；　he　was　suicidal　but　by　no　means　dysthytmic。
　　　　That　at　least　some　of　his　problem　…　the　physical　and　emotional　emptiness　that　was　like　a　near…whiteout　in　a　blizzard　…　was　physical；　hormonal；　he　had　no　doubt。　That　the　problem　could　be　addressed　if　not　entirely　corrected　by　pills　he　himself　had　prescribed　by　the　bushel　。　。　。　he　had　no　doubt　of　that；　either；　But　like　Pete；　who　undoubtedly　knew　there　was　a　rehab　and　years　of　AA　meetings　in　his　most　plausible　future；　Henry　did　not　want　to　be　fixed；　was　somehow　convinced　that　the　fix　would　be　a　he；　something　that　would　lessen　him。
　　　　He　wondered　if　Pete　had　gone　back　for　the　beer；　and　knew　the　answer　was　probably　yes。　Henry　would　have　suggested　bringing　it　along　if　he'd　thought　of　it；　making　such　a　risky　return　trip　（risky　for　the　woman　as　well　as　Pete　himself）　unnecessary；　but　he'd　been　pretty　freaked　out　…　and　the　beer　hadn't　even　crossed　his　mind。
　　　　He　bet　it　had　crossed　Pete's；　though。　Could　Pete　make　it　roundtrip　on　that　sprung　knee？　It　was　possible；　but　Henry　would　not　have　bet　on　it。
　　　　They're　back！　the　woman　had　screamed；　looking　up　at　the　sky。　They're　back！　They're　back！
　　　　Henry　put　his　head　down　and　jogged　a　little　faster。


2

Six　more　miles；　six　more　to　Banbury　Cross。　Was　it　down　to　six　yet；　or　was　he　being　optimistic？　Giving　those　old　endorphins　a　little　too　much　free　rein？　Well；　so　what　if　he　was？　Optimism　couldn't　hurt　at　this　point。　The　snow　had　almost　stopped　falling　and　the　tide　of　animals　had　slackened；　and　that　was　also　good…　What　wasn't　so　good　was　the　thoughts　in　his　head；　some　of　which　seemed　less　and　less　like　his　own。　Becky；　for　instance；　who　was　Becky？　The　name　had　begun　to　resonate　in　his　head；　had　bee　another　part　of　the　mantra。　He　supposed　it　was　the　woman　he'd　just　avoided　killing。　Whose　little　girl　are　you？　Becky；　why　I'm　Becky；　I'm　pretty　Becky　Shue。
　　　　Except　she　hadn't　been　pretty；　not　pretty　at　all。　One　heavyset　smelly　mama　was　what　she'd　been；　and　now　she　was　in　Pete　Moore's　less　than　reliable　care。
　　　　Six。　Six。　Six　more　miles　to　Banbury　Cross。
　　　　Jogging　steadily　…　as　steadily　as　was　possible；　given　the　footing　…　and　hearing　strange　voices　in　his　head。　Except　only　one　of　them　was　really　strange；　and　that　one　wasn't　a　voice　at　all　but　a　kind　of　hum　with　a　rhythmic　beat
　　　　（whose　little　girl；　whose　little　girl；　pretty　Becky　Shue）
　　　　caught　in　it。　The　rest　were　voices　he　knew；　or　voices　his　friends　knew。　One　was　a　voice　Jonesy　had　told　him　about；　a　voice　he'd　heard　after　his　accident　and　associated　with　all　his　pain：　Please　stop；　I　can't　stand　it；　give　me　a　shot；　where's　Marcy。
　　　　He　heard　Beaver's　voice：　Go　look　in　the　chamber　pot。
　　　　Jonesy；　answering：　Why　don't　we　just　knock　on　the　bathroom　door　and　ask　him　how　he　is？
　　　　A　stranger's　voice　saying　that　if　he　could　just　do　a　number　two　he'd　be　okay　。　。　。
　　　　。。。　only　he　was　no　stranger；　he　was　Rick；　pretty　Becky's　friend　Rick。　Rick　what？　McCarthy？　McKinley？　McKeen？　Henry　wasn't　sure；　but　he　leaned　toward　McCarthy；　like　Kevin　McCarthy　in　that　old　horror　movie　about　the　pods　from　space　that　made　themselves　look　like　people。　One　of　Jonesy's　raves。　Get　a　few　drinks　in　him　and　mention　that　movie　and　Jonesy　would　respond　with　the　key　line　at　once：　'They're　here！　They're　here！'
　　　　The　woman；　looking　up　at　the　sky　and　screaming　They're　back；　they're　back。
　　　　Dear　Christ；　there'd　been　nothing　like　this　since　they　were　kids　and　this　was　worse；　like　picking　up　a　power…line　filled　with　voices　instead　of　electricity。
　　　　All　those　patients　over　the　years；　plaining　of　voices　in　their　heads。　And　Henry；　the　big　psychiatrist　（Young　Mr　God；　one　state　hospital　patient　called　him　back　in　the　early　days）；　had　nodded　as　if　he　knew　what　they　were　talking　about。　Had　in　fact　believed　he　did　know　what　they　were　talking　about。　But　maybe　only　now　did　he　really　know。
　　　　Voices。　Listening　to　them　so　hard　he　missed　the　whup…whup…whup　of　the　helicopter　passing　overhead；　a　dark　rushing　shark…shape　barely　obscured　by　the　bottoms　of　the　clouds。　Then　the　voices　began　to　fade　as　radio　signals　from