sk.dreamcatcher-第41部分

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　　　　He　looked　at　the　bag　with　distaste。　Couldn't　throw　it　into　the　woods；　couldn't　risk　waking　his　knee　up　again。　So　he　covered　it　with　snow；　like　a　dog　covering　its　own　scat；　and　then　he　began　to　crawl。
　　　　The　knee　wasn't　that　numb　after　all；　it　seemed。　Pete　crawled　on　his　elbows　and　pushed　with　his　good　foot；　teeth　clenched；　hair　hanging　in　his　eyes。　No　animals　now；　the　stampede　had　stopped　and　there　was　only　him　…　the　gaspy　sound　of　his　breathing　and　the　stifled　moans　of　pain　each　time　his　knee　bumped。　He　could　feel　sweat　running　down　his　arms　and　back；　but　his　feet　remained　numb　and　so　did　his　hands。
　　　　He　might　have　given　up；　but　halfway　along　the　straight　stretch　he　caught　sight　of　the　fire　he　and　Henry　had　made。　It　had　burned　down　considerably；　but　it　was　there。　Pete　began　to　crawl　toward　it；　and　each　time　he　bumped　his　leg　and　the　bolts　of　agony　came；　he　tried　to　project　them　into　the　orange　spark　of　the　fire。　He　wanted　to　get　there。　It　hurt　like　pluperfect　hell　to　move；　but　oh　how　he　wanted　to　get　there。　He　didn't　want　to　die　freezing　to　death　in　the　snow。
　　　　'I'll　make　it；　Becky；'　he　muttered。　'I'll　make　it；　Becky。'　He　spoke　her　name　half　a　dozen　times　before　he　heard　himself　using　it。
　　　　As　he　approached　the　fire　he　paused　to　glance　at　his　watch　and　frowned。　It　said　eleven…forty　or　thereabouts；　and　that　was　nuts　…　he　remembered　checking　it　before　starting　back　to　the　Scout；　and　it　had　said　twenty　past　twelve　then。　A　slightly　longer　look　revealed　the　source　of　the　confusion。　His　watch　was　running　backward；　the　second　hand　moving　counterclockwise　in　irregular；　spasmodic　jerks。　He　looked　at　this　without　much　surprise。　His　ability　to　appreciate　anything　so　fine　as　mere　peculiarity　had　passed。　Even　his　leg　was　no　longer　his　chief　concern。　He　was　very　cold；　and　big　shudders　began　to　course　his　body　as　he　elbowed　his　way　and　pushed　with　his　rapidly　tiring　good　leg；　covering　the　last　fifty　yards　to　the　dying　fire。
　　　　The　woman　was　no　longer　on　the　tarp。　She　now　lay　on　the　far　side　of　the　fire；　as　if　she　had　crawled　toward　the　remaining　wood　and　then　collapsed。
　　　　'Hi；　honey；　I'm　home；'　he　panted。　'Had　a　little　trouble　with　my　knee；　but　now　I'm　back。　Goddam　knee's　your　fault　anyway；　Becky；　so　don't　plain；　all　right？　Becky；　is　that　your　name？'
　　　　Maybe；　but　she　made　no　response。　Just　lay　there　staring。　He　could　still　see　only　one　of　her　eyes；　although　whether　it　was　the　same　one　or　the　other　he　didn't　know。　Didn't　seem　so　creepy　now；　but　maybe　that　was　because　he　had　other　things　to　worry　about。　Like　the　fire。　It　was　guttering；　but　there　was　a　good　bed　of　coals　and　he　thought　he　was　in　time。　Get　some　wood　on　that　sweetheart；　really　build　her　up；　then　lie　here　with　his　gal　Becky　（but　upwind；　please　God　…　those　hangers　were　bad）。　Wait　for　Henry　to　show　up。　Wouldn't　be　the　first　time　Henry　had　pulled　his　nuts　out　of　the　fire。
　　　　Pete　crawled　toward　the　woman　and　the　little　stockpile　of　wood　beyond　her；　and　as　he　got　close　…　close　enough　to　start　picking　up　that　ethery　chemical　smell　again　…　he　understood　why　her　gaze　no　longer　bothered　him。　That　creepy　jackalope　look　had　gone　out　of　it。　Everything　had。　She'd　crawled　halfway　around　the　fire　and　died。　The　crusting　of　snow　around　her　waist　and　hips　had　gone　a　dark　red。
　　　　Pete　stopped　for　a　moment；　up　on　his　aching　arms　and　peering　at　her；　but　his　interest　in　her；　dead　or　alive；　was　not　much　more　than　the　passing　interest　he'd　felt　in　his　back…turning　watch。　What　he　wanted　to　do　was　get　some　wood　on　the　fire　and　get　warm。　He　would　consider　the　problem　of　the　woman　later。　Next　month；　maybe；　when　he　was　sitting　in　his　own　living　room　with　a　cast　on　his　knee　and　a　cup　of　hot　coffee　in　his　hand。
　　　　He　finally　made　it　to　the　wood。　Only　four　pieces　were　left；　but　they　were　big　pieces。　Henry　might　be　back　before　they　burned　down；　and　Henry　would　pick　up　some　more　before　going　on　to　get　help。　Good　old　Henry。　Still　wearing　his　dorky　horn…rims；　even　in　this　age　of　soft　contacts　and　laser　surgery；　but　you　could　count　on　him。
　　　　Pete's　mind　tried　to　return　to　the　Scout；　crawling　into　the　Scout　and　smelling　the　cologne　Henry　had　not；　in　fact；　been　wearing；　and　he　wouldn't　let　it。　Let's　not　go　there；　as　the　kids　said。　As　if　memory　was　a　destination。　No　more　ghost…cologne；　no　more　memories　of　Duddits。　No　more　no　bounce；　no　more　no　play。　He　had　enough　on　his　plate　already。
　　　　He　threw　the　wood　onto　the　fire　one　branch　at　a　time；　sidearming　the　pieces　awkwardly；　wincing　at　the　pain　in　his　knee　but　enjoying　the　way　the　sparks　rose　in　a　cloud；　whirling　beneath　the　lean…to's　canted　tin　ceiling　like　crazy　fireflies　before　winking　out。
　　　　Henry　would　be　back　soon。　That　was　the　thing　to　hold　onto。　Just　watch　the　fire　blaze　up　and　hold　that　thought。
　　　　No；　he　won't。　Because　things　have　gone　wrong　back　at　Hole　in　the　Wall。　Something　to　do　with…
　　　　'Rick；'　he　said；　watching　the　flames　taste　the　new　wood。　Soon　they　would　feed　and　grow　tall。
　　　　He　stripped　off　his　gloves；　using　his　teeth；　and　held　his　hands　up　to　the　warmth　of　the　fire。　The　cut　on　the　pad　of　his　right　hand；　where　the　busted　bottle　had　gotten　him；　was　long　and　deep。　Was　going　to　leave　a　scar；　but　so　what？　What　was　a　scar　or　two　between　friends？　And　they　were　friends；　weren't　they？　Yeah。　The　old　Kansas　Street　Gang；　the　Crimson　Pirates　with　their　plastic　swords　and　battery…powered　Star　Wars　ray…guns。　Once　they　had　done　something　heroic　…　twice；　if　you　counted　the　Rinkenhauer　girl。　They　had　even　gotten　their　pictures　in　the　paper　that　time；　and　so　what　if　he　had　a　few　scars？　And　so　what　if　they　had　once　maybe　…just　maybe　…　killed　a　guy？　Because　if　ever　there　was　a　guy　who　deserved　killing…
　　　　But　he　wasn't　going　to　go　there；　either。　No　way；　baby。
　　　　He　saw　the　line；　though。　Like　it　or　not；　he　saw　the　line；　more　clearly　than　he'd　seen　it　in　years。　Primarily　he　saw　Beaver　。　。　。　and　heard　him；　too。　Right　in　the　center　of　his　head。
　　　　Jonesy？　You　there；　man？
　　　　'Don't　get　up；　Beav；'　Pete　said；　watching　the　flames　crackle　and　climb。　The　fire　was　hot　now；　beating　warmth　against　his　face；　making　him　feel　sleepy。　'You　stay　right　where　you　are。　Just　。　。　。　you　know；　just　sit　tight。'
　　　　What；　exactly；　was　all　this　about？　What's　all　this　jobba…nobba？　as　the　Beav　himself　had　sometimes　said　when　they　were　kids；　a　phrase　that　meant　nothing　but　still　cracked　them　up。　Pete　sensed　he　could　know　if　he　wanted　to；　the　line　was　that　bright。　He　got　a　glimpse　of　blue　tiles；　a　filmy　blue　shower　curtain；　a　bright　orange　cap　…　Rick's　cap；　McCarthy's　cap；　old　Mr　I…Stand…at…the…Door's　cap　…　and　sensed　he　could　have　all　the　rest　if　he　wanted　it。　He　didn't　know　if　this　was　the　future；　the　past；　or　what　was　happening　right　this　minute；　but　he　could　have　it　if　he　wanted　it；　if　he…
　　　　'I　don't；'　he　said；　and　pushed　the　whole　thing　away。
　　　　There　were　a　few　sticks　and　twigs　left　on　the　ground。　Pete　fed　them　to　the　fire；　then　looked　at　the　woman。　Her　open　eye　had　no　menace　in　it　now。　It　was　dusty；　the　way　a　deer's　eyes　got　dusty　after　you　shot　it。　All　that　blood　around　her　。　。　。　he　supposed　she'd　hemorrhaged。　Something　inside　had　gone　bust。　Hell　of　a　tough　break。　He　supposed　maybe　she'd　known　it　was　ing　and　had　sat　down　in　the　road　because　she　wanted　to　be　sure　of　being　seen　if　someone　came　along。　Someone　had；　but　look　how　it　had　turned　out。　Poor　bitch。　Poor　unlucky　bitch。
　　　　Pete　shifted　to　the　left；　slowly；　until　he　could　snag　the　tarp；　then　began　to　move　forward　again。　It　had　been　her　makeshift　sled；　now　it　could　be　her　makeshift　shroud。　'I'm　sorry；'　he　said。　'Becky　or　whatever　your　name　is；　I'm　really　sorry。　But　I　couldn't　have　helped　you　by　staying；　you　know；　I'm　not　a　doctor；　I'm　a　fucking　car　salesman。　You　were…'
　　　　…fucked　from　the　start　was　how　he'd　meant　to　finish；　but　the　words　dried　up　in　his　throat　as　he　saw　the　back　of　her。　That　part　hadn't　been　visible　until　he　got　close；　because　she　had　died　facing　the　fire。　The　seat　of　her　jeans　was　blown　out；　as　if　she'd　finally　finished　farting　fumes　and　had　gotten　down　to　the　dynamite。　Tom　rags　of　denim　fluttered　in　the　breeze。　Also　fluttering　were　fragments　of　the　garments　she　had　been　wearing　beneath；　at　least　two　pairs　of　longjohns　…　one　heavy　white　cotton；　the　other　pink　silk。　And　something　was　growing　on　both　the　legs　of　the　jeans　and　the　back　of　her　parka。　It　looked　like　mildew　or　some　kind　of　fungus。　Red…gold；　or　maybe　that　was　just　reflected　firelight。
　　　　Something　had　e　out　of　her。　Something…
　　　　Yes。　Something。　And　it's　watching　me　right　now。
　　　　Pete　looked　into　the　woods。　Nothing。　The　flood　of　animals　had　dried　up。　He　was　alone。
　　　　Except　I'm　not。
　　　　No；　he　wasn't。　Something　was　out　there；　something　that　didn't　do　well　in　the　cold；　something　that　preferred　warm；　wet　places。　Except…
　　　　Except　it　got　too　big。　And　it　ran　out　of　food。
　　　　'Are　you　out　there？'
　　　　Pete　thought　that　calling　out　like　that　would　make　him　feel　foolish；　but　it　didn't。　What　it　made　him　feel　was　more　frightened　than　ever。
　　　　His　eye　fastened　on　a　sketchy　track　of　that　mildewy　stuff。　It　stretched　away　from　Becky　…　yeah；　she　was　a　Becky；　all　right；　as　Becky　as　Becky　could　be　…　and　around　the　er　of　the　lean…to。　A　moment　later　Pete　heard　a　scaly　scraping　sound　as　something　slithered　on　the　tin　roof