sk.dreamcatcher-第62部分

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　　　　Brodsky　is　striding　rapidly　across　the　snowy；　muddy；　churned…up　ground　between　the　helicopter　landing　zone　and　the　paddock　where　the　Ripley…positives　are　to　be　kept　（there　are　already　a　good　number　of　them　in　there；　walking　around　with　the　bewildered　expressions　of　freshly　interned　prisoners　the　world　over；　calling　out　to　the　guards；　asking　for　cigarettes　and　information　and　making　vain　threats）。　Emil　Brodsky　is　squat　and　crewcut；　with　a　bulldog　face　that　looks　made　for　cheap　cigars　（in　fact；　Jonesy　knows；　Brodsky　is　a　devout　Catholic　who　has　never　smoked）。　He's　as　busy　as　a　one…armed　paperhanger　just　now。　He's　got　earphones　on　and　a　receptionist's　mike　hung　in　front　of　his　lips。　He　is　in　radio　contact　with　the　fuel…supply　convoy　ing　up　I…95　…　those　guys　are　critical；　because　the　helicopters　out　on　mission　are　going　to　e　back　low　…　but　he's　also　talking　to　Cambry；　who　is　walking　next　to　him；　about　the　control…and…surveillance　center　Kurtz　wants　set　up　by　nine　P。m。；　midnight　at　the　latest。　This　mission　is　going　to　be　over　in　forty…eight　hours　at　the　outside；　that's　the　scuttlebutt；　but　who　the　fuck　knows　for　sure？　According　to　the　scuttlebutt；　their　prime　target；　Blue　Boy；　has　already　been　taken　out；　but　Brodsky　doesn't　know　how　anyone　can　be　sure　of　that；　since　the　big　assault　choppers　haven't　e　back　yet。　And　anyhow；　their　'ob　here　is　simple：　turn　the　whole　works　up　to　eleven　and　then　yank　the　knobs　off。
　　　　And　ye　gods；　all　at　once　there　are　three　Jonesys：　the　one　watching　TV　in　the　fungus…crawling　hospital　room；　the　one　in　the　snowmobile　shed　。　。　。　and　Jonesy　III；　who　suddenly　appears　in　Emil　Brodsky's　crewcut　Catholic　head。　Brodsky　stops　walking　and　simply　looks　up　into　the　white　sky。
　　　　Cambry　walks　on　three　or　four　steps　by　himself　before　realizing　that　Dawg　has　stopped　cold；　is　just　standing　there　in　the　middle　of　the　muddy　cow　pasture。　In　the　midst　of　all　this　frantic　bustle　…　running　men；　hovering　helicopters；　revving　engines　…　he's　standing　there　like　a　robot　with　a　dead　battery。
　　　　'Boss？'　Cambry　asks。　'Everything　all　right？'
　　　　Brodsky　makes　no　reply　。　。　。　at　least　not　to　Cambry；　he　doesn't。　To　Jonesy　I　…　Shed　Jonesy　…　he　says：　Open　the　engine　cowling　and　show　me　the　plugs。
　　　　Jonesy　has　some　trouble　finding　the　catch　that　opens　the　cowling；　but　Brodsky　directs　him。　Then　Jonesy　leans　over　the　small　engine；　not　looking　for　himself　but　turning　his　eyes　into　a　pair　of　high…res　cameras　and　sending　the　picture　back　to　Brodsky。
　　　　'Boss？'　Cambry　asks　with　increasing　concern。　'Boss；　what　is　it？　What's　wrong？'
　　　　'Nothing　wrong；'　Brodsky　says；　slowly　and　distinctly。　He　puts　the　headphones　down　around　his　neck；　the　chatter　in　them　is　a　distraction。　'Just　let　me　think　a　minute。'　　　
　　　　And　to　Jonesy：　Someone　yanked　the　plugs。　Look　around　。　。　。　yeah；　there　they　are。　End　of　the　table。
　　　　On　the　end　of　the　worktable　is　a　mayonnaise　jar　half　filled　with　gasoline。　The　jartop　has　been　vented　…　two　punches　with　the　tip　of　a　screwdriver　…　to　keep　the　fumes　from　building　up。　Sunk　in　it　like　exhibits　preserved　in　formaldehyde　are　two　Champion　sparkplugs。
　　　　Aloud；　Brodsky　says　'Dry　them　off　good；'　and　when　Cambry　asks；　'Dry　what　off　good？'　Brodsky　tells　him　absently　to　put　a　sock　in　it。
　　　　Jonesy　fishes　the　plugs　out；　dries　them　off；　then　seats　and　connects　them　as　Brodsky　directs。　Try　it　now；　Brodsky　says；　this　time　without　moving　his　lips；　and　the　snowmobile　starts　up　with　a　roar。　Check　the　gas；　too。
　　　　Jonesy　does；　and　says　thank　you。
　　　　'No　problem；　boss；'　Brodsky　says；　and　starts　walking　briskly　again。　Cambry　has　to　trot　a　little　to　catch　up。　He　sees　the　faintly　bewildered　look　on　Dawg's　face　when　Dawg　discovers　his　headphones　are　now　around　his　neck。
　　　　'What　the　hell　was　that　all　about？'　Cambry　asks。
　　　　'Nothing；'　Brodsky　says；　but　it　was　something；　all　right；　it　sure　as　shit　was　something。　Talking。　A　conversation。　A　。　。　。　consultation？　Yeah；　that。　He　just　can't　remember　exactly　what　the　subject　was。　What　he　can　remember　is　the　briefing　they　got　this　morning；　before　daylight；　when　the　team　went　hot。　One　of　the　directives；　straight　from　Kurtz；　had　been　to　report　anything　unusual。　Was　this　unusual？　What；　exactly；　had　it　been？
　　　　'Had　a　brain…cramp；　I　guess；'　Brodsky　says。　'Too　many　things　to　do　and　not　enough　time　to　do　them　in。　e　on；　son；　keep　up　with　me。'
　　　　Cambry　keeps　up。　Brodsky　resumes　his　divided　conversation　convoy　there；　Cambry　here　…　but　remembers　something　else；　some　third　conversation；　one　that　is　now　over。　Unusual　or　not？　Probably　not；　Brodsky　decides。　Certainly　nothing　he　could　talk　about　to　that　inpetent　bastard　Perlmutter　…　as　far　as　Pearly's　concerned；　if　it　isn't　on　his　ever…present　clipboard；　it　doesn't　exist。　Kurtz？　Never。　He　respects　the　old　buzzard；　but　fears　him　even　more。　They　all　do。　Kurtz　is　smart；　Kurtz　is　brave；　but　Kurtz　is　also　the　craziest　ape　in　the　jungle。　Brodsky　doesn't　even　like　to　walk　where　Kurtz's　shadow　has　run　across　the　ground。
　　　　Underhill？　Could　he　talk　to　Owen　Underhill？
　　　　Maybe　。　。　。　but　maybe　not。　A　deal　like　this；　you　could　get　into　hack　without　even　knowing　why。　He'd　heard　voices　there　for　a　minute　or　two　…　a　voice；　anyway　…　but　he　feels　okay　now。　Still　。　。　。
　　　　At　Hole　in　the　Wall；　Jonesy　roars　out　of　the　shed　and　heads　up　the　Deep　Cut　Road。　He　senses　Henry　when　he　passes　him　Henry　hiding　behind　a　tree；　actually　biting　into　the　moss　to　keep　from　screaming　…　but　successfully　hides　what　he　knows　from　the　cloud　which　surrounds　that　last　kernel　of　his　awareness。　It　is　almost　certainly　the　last　time　he　will　be　near　his　old　friend；　who　will　never　make　it　out　of　these　woods　alive。
　　　　Jonesy　wishes　he　could　have　said　goodbye。


7

I　don't　know　who　made　this　movie；　Jonesy　says；　but　I　don't　think　they　have　to　bother　pressing　their　tuxes　for　the　Academy　Awards。　In　fact…
　　　　He　looks　around　and　sees　only　snow…covered　trees。　Eyes　front　again　and　nothing　but　the　Deep　Cut　Road　unrolling　in　front　of　him　and　the　snowmobile　vibrating　between　his　thighs。　There　was　never　any　hospital；　never　any　Mr　Gray。　That　was　all　a　dream。
　　　　But　it　wasn't。　And　there　is　a　room。　Not　a　hospital　room；　though。　No　bed；　no　TV；　no　IV　pole。　Not　much　of　anything；　actually；　just　a　bulletin　board。　Two　things　are　tacked　to　it：　a　map　of　northern　New　England　with　certain　routes　mapped　…　the　Tracker　Brothers　routes　and　a　Polaroid　photo　of　a　teenage　girl　with　her　skirt　raised　to　reveal　a　golden　tuft　of　hair。　He　is　looking　out　at　the　Deep　Cut　Road　from　the　window。　It　is；　Jonesy　feels　quite　sure；　the　window　that　used　to　be　in　the　hospital　room。　But　the　hospital　room　was　no　good。　He　had　to　get　out　of　that　room；　because
　　　　The　hospital　room　wasn't　safe；　Jonesy　thinks　as　if　this　one　is；　as　if　anyplace　is。　And　yet　。　。　。　this　one's　safe…er；　maybe。　This　is　his　final　refuge；　and　he　has　decorated　it　with　the　picture　he　supposed　they　all　hoped　to　see　when　they　went　up　that　driveway　back　in　1978。　Tina　Jean　Sloppinger；　or　whatever　her　name　had　been。　　
　　　　Some　of　what　I　saw　was　real　。　。　。　valid　recovered　memories；　Henry　might　say。　I　really　did　think　I　saw　Duddits　that　day。　That's　why　I　went　into　the　street　without　looking。　As　for　Mr　Gray　。　。　。　that's　who　I　am　now。　Isn't　it？　Except　for　the　part　of　me　in　this　dusty；　empty；　uninteresting　room　with　the　used　rubbers　on　the　floor　and　the　picture　of　the　girl　on　the　bulletin　board；　I'm　all　Mr　Gray。　Isn't　that　the　truth？
　　　　No　answer。　Which　is　all　the　answer　he　needs；　really。
　　　　But　how　did　it　happen？　How　did　I　get　here？　And　why？　What's　it　for？
　　　　Still　no　answers；　and　to　these　questions　he　can　supply　none　of　his　own。　He's　only　glad　he　has　a　place　where　he　can　still　be　himself；　and　dismayed　at　how　easily　the　rest　of　his　life　has　been　hijacked。　He　wishes　again；　with　plete　and　bitter　sincerity；　that　he　had　shot　McCarthy。


8

A　huge　explosion　ripped　through　the　day；　and　although　the　source　had　to　be　miles　away；　it　was　still　strong　enough　to　send　snow　sliding　off　the　trees。　The　figure　on　the　snowmobile　didn't　even　look　around。　It　was　the　ship。　The　soldiers　had　blown　it　up。　The　byrum　were　gone。
　　　　A　few　minutes　later；　the　collapsed　lean…to　hove　into　view　on　his　right。　Lying　in　front　of　it　in　the　snow；　one　boot　still　caught　beneath　the　tin　roof；　was　Pete。　He　looked　dead　but　wasn't。　Playing　dead　wasn't　an　option；　not　in　this　game；　he　could　hear　Pete　thinking。　And　as　he　pulled　up　on　the　snowmobile　and　shifted　into　neutral；　Pete　raised　his　head　and　bared　his　remaining　teeth　in　a　humorless　grin。　The　left　arm　of　his　parka　was　blackened　and　melted。　There　seemed　to　be　only　one　working　finger　remaining　on　his　right　hand。　All　of　his　visible　skin　was　stippled　with　the　byrus。
　　　　'You're　not　Jonesy；'　Pete　said。　'What　have　you　done　with　Jonesy？'
　　　　'Get　on；　Pete；'　Mr　Gray　said。
　　　　'I　don't　want　to　go　anywhere　with　you。'　Pete　raised　his　right　hand　…　the　swooning　fingers；　the　red…gold　clumps　of　byrus　…　and　used　it　to　wipe　his　forehead。　'The　fuck　out　of　here。　Get　on　your　pony　and　ride。'　
　　　　Mr　Gray　lowered　the　head　that　had　once　belonged　to　Jonesy　（Jonesy　watching　it　all　from　the　window　of　his　bolt…hole　in　the　abandoned　Tracker　Brothers　depot；　unable　to　help　or　to　change　anything）　and　stared　at　Pete。　Pete　began　to　scream　as　the　byrus　growing　all　over　his　body