sk.dreamcatcher-第54部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　someone　in　authority　and　tell　them　what　had　happened。　They　might　already　know　…　based　on　the　sounds；　they　sure　as　shit　knew　something；　although　their　methods　of　dealing　with　it　made　Henry　feel　uneasy　…　but　they　might　not　know　about　the　weasels。　And　the　eggs。　He；　Henry　Devlin；　would　tell　them　…　who　better？　He　was　the　eggman；　after　all。
　　　　The　rawhide　lacings　of　the　snowshoes　had　been　chewed　by　so　many　mice　that　the　shoes　were　little　more　than　empty　frames。　After　some　sorting；　however；　he　found　a　stubby　pair　of　cross…country　skis　that　looked　as　if　they　might　have　been　state…of…the…art　around　1954　or　so。　The　clamps　were　rusty；　but　when　he　pushed　them　with　both　thumbs；　he　was　able　to　move　them　enough　to　take　a　reluctant　grip　on　his　boots。
　　　　There　was　a　steady　crackling　sound　ing　from　inside　the　cabin　now。　Henry　laid　one　hand　on　the　wood　and　felt　the　heat。　There　was　a　clutch　of　assorted　ski…poles　leaning　under　the　eave；　their　handgrips　buried　in　a　dirty　cobweb　caul。　Henry　didn't　like　to　touch　that　stuff　…　the　memory　of　the　eggs　and　the　weasel…thing's　wriggling　spawn　was　still　too　fresh　…　but　at　least　he　had　his　gloves　on。　He　brushed　the　cobwebs　aside　and　sorted　through　the　poles；　moving　quickly。　He　could　now　see　sparks　dancing　inside　the　window　beside　his　head。
　　　　He　found　a　pair　of　poles　that　were　only　a　little　short　for　his　lanky　height　and　skied　clumsily　to　the　er　of　the　building。　He　felt　like　a　Nazi　snow…trooper　in　an　Alistair　MacLean　film；　with　the　old　skis　on　his　feet　and　Jonesy's　rifle　slung　over　his　shoulder。　As　he　turned　around；　the　window　beside　which　he　had　been　standing　blew　out　with　a　surprisingly　loud　report　…　as　if　someone　had　dropped　a　large　glass　bowl　from　a　second…story　window。　Henry　hunched　his　shoulders　and　felt　pieces　of　glass　spatter　against　his　coat。　A　few　landed　in　his　hair。　It　occurred　to　him　that　if　he　had　spent　another　twenty　or　thirty　seconds　sorting　through　the　skis　and　poles；　that　exploding　glass　would　have　erased　most　of　his　face。
　　　　He　looked　up　at　the　sky；　spread　his　hands　palms…out　beside　his　cheeks　like　Al　Jolson；　and　said；　'Somebody　up　there　likes　me！　Hotcha！'
　　　　Flames　were　shooting　through　the　window　now；　licking　up　under　the　eaves；　and　he　could　hear　more　stuff　breaking　inside　as　the　heat…gradient　zoomed。　Lamar　Clarendon's　father's　camp；　originally　built　just　after　World　War　Two；　now　burning　merry　hell。　It　was　a　dream；　surely。
　　　　Henry　skied　around　the　house；　giving　it　a　wide　berth；　watching　as　gouts　of　sparks　rose　from　the　chimney　and　swirled　toward　the　low…bellied　clouds。　There　was　still　a　steady　crackle　of　gunfire　off　to　the　east。　Someone　was　bagging　their　limit；　all　right。　Their　limit　and　more。　Then　there　was　that　explosion　in　the　west　…　what　in　God's　name　had　that　been？　No　way　of　telling。　If　he　got　back　to　other　people　in　one　piece；　perhaps　they　would　tell　him。
　　　　'If　they　don't　just　decide　to　bag　me；　too；'　he　said。　His　voice　came　out　in　a　dry　croak；　and　he　realized　he　was　all　but　dying　of　thirst。　He　bent　down　carefully　（he　hadn't　been　on　skis　of　any　type　in　ten　years　or　more）；　scooped　up　a　double　handful　of　snow；　and　took　a　big　mouthful。　He　let　it　melt　and　trickle　down　his　throat。　The　feeling　was　heavenly。　Henry　Devlin；　psychiatrist　and　onetime　author　of　a　paper　about　the　Hemingway　Solution；　a　man　who　had　once　been　a　virgin　boy　and　who　was　now　a　tall　and　geeky　fellow　whose　glasses　always　slid　down　to　the　tip　of　his　nose；　whose　hair　was　going　gray；　whose　friends　were　either　dead；　fled；　or　changed；　this　man　stood　in　the　open　gate　of　a　place　to　which　he　would　never　e　again；　stood　on　skis；　stood　eating　snow　like　a　kid　eating　a　Sno…Cone　at　the　Shrine　Circus；　stood　and　watched　the　last　really　good　place　in　his　life　bum。　The　flames　came　through　the　cedar　shingles。　Melting　snow　turned　to　steaming　water　and　ran　hissing　down　the　rusting　gutters。　Arms　of　fire　popped　in　and　out　of　the　open　door　like　enthusiastic　hosts　encouraging　the　newly　arrived　guests　to　hurry　up；　hurry　up；　dammit；　get　your　asses　in　here　before　the　whole　place　bums　down。　The　mat　of　red…gold　fuzz　growing　on　the　granite　slab　had　crisped；　lost　its　color；　turned　gray。　'Good；'　Henry　muttered　under　his　breath。　He　was　clenching　his　fists　rhythmically　on　the　grips　of　his　ski…poles　without　being　aware　of　it。　'Good；　that's　good。'
　　　　He　stood　that　way　for　another　fifteen　minutes；　and　when　he　could　bear　it　no　more；　he　set　his　back　to　the　flames　and　started　back　the　way　he　had　e。


7

There　was　no　hustle　left　in　him。　He　had　twenty　miles　to　go　（22。2　to　be　exact；　he　told　himself）；　and　if　he　didn't　pace　himself　he'd　never　make　it。　He　stayed　in　the　packed　track　of　the　snowmobile；　and　stopped　to　rest　more　frequently　than　he　had　going　the　other　way。
　　　　Ah；　but　I　was　younger　then；　he　thought　with　only　slight　irony。
　　　　Twice　he　checked　his　watch；　forgetting　that　it　was　now　Eastern　Standard　No　Time　At　All　in　the　Jefferson　Tract。　With　the　mat　of　clouds　firmly　in　place　overhead；　all　he　knew　for　sure　was　that　it　was　daytime。　Afternoon；　of　course；　but　whether　mid　or　late　he　couldn't　tell。　On　another　afternoon　his　appetite　might　have　served　as　a　gauge；　but　not　today。　Not　after　the　thing　on　Jonesy's　bed；　and　the　eggs；　and　the　hairs　with　their　protuberant　black　eyes。　Not　after　the　foot　sticking　out　of　the　bathtub。　He　felt　that　he　would　never　eat　again　。　。　。　and　if　he　did；　he　would　never　eat　anything　with　even　a　slight　tinge　of　red。　And　mushrooms？　No　thanks。
　　　　Skiing；　at　least　on　cross…country　stubs　like　these；　was　sort　of　like　riding　a　bike；　he　discovered：　you　never　forgot　how　to　do　it。　He　fell　once　going　up　the　first　hill；　the　skis　slipping　out　from　under　him；　but　glided　giddily　down　the　other　side　with　only　a　couple　of　wobbles　and　no　spills。　He　guessed　that　the　skis　hadn't　been　waxed　since　the　peanut…farmer　was　President；　but　if　he　stayed　in　the　crimped　and　flattened　track　of　the　snowmobile；　he　should　be　all　right。　He　marvelled　at　the　stippling　of　animal　tracks　on　the　Deep　Cut　Road　he　had　never　seen　a　tenth　as　many。　A　few　critters　had　gone　walking　along　it；　but　most　of　the　tracks　only　crossed　it；　west　to　east。　The　Deep　Cut　took　a　lazy　northwest　course；　and　west　was　clearly　a　point　of　the　pass　the　local　animal　population　wanted　to　avoid。
　　　　I'm　on　a　journey；　he　told　himself。　Maybe　someday　someone　will　write　an　epic　poem　about　it：　'Henry's　journey'。
　　　　'Yeah；'　he　said。　〃'Time　slowed　and　reality　bent；　on　and　on　the　eggman　went。〃'　He　laughed　at　that；　and　in　his　dry　throat　the　laughter　turned　to　hacking　coughs。　He　skied　to　the　side　of　the　snowmobile　track；　got　another　double　handful　of　snow；　and　ate　it　down。
　　　　'Tasty　and　good　for　you！'　he　proclaimed。　'Snow！　Not　just　for　breakfast　anymore！'
　　　　He　looked　up　at　the　sky；　and　that　was　a　mistake。　For　a　moment　he　was　overwhelmed　with　dizziness　and　thought　he　might　go　right　over　on　his　back。　Then　the　vertigo　retreated。　The　clouds　overhead　looked　a　little　darker。　Snow　ing？　Night　ing？　Both　ing　at　the　same　time？　His　knees　and　ankles　hurt　from　the　steady　shuffle…shuffle　of　the　skis；　and　his　arms　hurt　even　worse　from　wielding　the　poles。　The　pads　of　muscle　on　his　chest　were　the　worst。　He　had　already　accepted　as　certainty　that　he　wouldn't　make　it　to　Gosselin's　before　dark；　now；　standing　here　and　eating　more　snow；　it　occurred　to　him　that　he　might　not　make　it　at　all。
　　　　He　loosened　the　Red　Sox　tee…shirt　he'd　tied　around　his　leg；　and　terror　leaped　in　him　when　he　saw　a　brilliant　thread　of　scarlet　against　his　bluejeans。　His　heart　beat　so　hard　that　white　dots　appeared　in　his　field　of　vision；　flocking　and　pumping。　He　reached　down　to　the　red　with　shaking　fingers。
　　　　What　do　you　think　you're　going　to　do？　he　jeered　at　himself。　Pick　it　off　like　it　was　a　thread　or　a　piece　of　lint？
　　　　Which　was　exactly　what　he　did　do；　because　it　was　a　thread：　a　red　one　from　the　shirt's　printed　logo。　He　dropped　it　and　watched　it　float　down　to　the　snow。　Then　he　retied　the　shirt　around　the　tear　in　his　jeans。　For　a　man　who　had　been　considering　all　sorts　of　final　options　not　four　hours　ago　…　the　rope　and　the　noose；　the　tub　and　the　plastic　bag；　the　bridge　abutment　and　the　ever…popular　Hemingway　Solution；　known　in　some　quarters　as　The　Policeman's　Farewell　…　he　had　been　pretty　goddamned　scared　there　for　a　second　or　two。
　　　　Because　I　don't　want　to　go　like　that；　he　told　himself。　Not　eaten　alive　by　。　。　。
　　　　'By　toadstools　from　Planet　X；'　he　said。
　　　　The　eggman　got　moving　again。


8

The　world　shrank；　as　it　always　does　when　we　approach　exhaustion　with　our　work　not　done；　or　even　close　to　done。　Henry's　life　was　reduced　to　four　simple；　repetitive　motions：　the　pump　of　his　arms　on　the　poles　and　the　push　of　the　skis　in　the　snow。　His　aches　and　pains　faded；　at　least　for　the　time　being；　as　he　entered　some　other　zone。　He　only　remembered　anything　remotely　like　this　happening　once　before；　in　high　school；　when　he'd　been　the　starting　center　on　the　Derry　Tigers　basketball　team。　During　a　crucial　pre…playoff　game；　three　of　their　four　best　players　had　somehow　fouled　out　before　three　minutes　of　the　third　quarter　were　gone。　Coach　had　left　Henry　in　for　the　rest　of　the　game　…　he　didn't　get　a　single　blow　except　for　time…outs　and　trips　to　the　foul　line。　He　made　it；　but　by　the　time　the　final　buzzer　honked　and　put　an　end　to　the　affair　（the　Tigers　had