sk.dreamcatcher-第64部分

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n　stolen　from　him　。　。　。　only　they　weren't　really　words　at　all；　only　those　open　vowel　sounds；　so　strangely　beautiful：
　　　　Ooo　eee　a　yine；　Ete？　Do　you　see　the　line；　Pete？
　　　　Pete；　his　face　full　of　dreamy；　surprised　wonder；　had　said　yes；　he　saw　it。　And　he　had　been　doing　the　thing　with　his　finger　then；　that　tick…tock　thin　；　just　as　he　was　now。
　　　　The　finger　stopped；　the　tip　still　trembling　minutely；　like　a　dowsing　rod　at　the　edge　of　an　aquifer。　Then　Pete　pointed　at　the　ridge　on　a　line　slightly　to　starboard　of　the　snowmobile's　current　heading；
　　　　'There；'　he　said；　and　dropped　his　hand。　'Due　north。　Sight　on　that　rock…face。　The　one　with　the　pine　growing　out　of　the　middle。　Do　you　see　it？'
　　　　Yes；　I　see　it。　Mr　Gray　turned　forward　and　put　the　snowmobile　back　into　gear；　Jonesy　wondered　fleetingly　how　much　gas　was　left　in　the　tank。
　　　　'Can　I　get　off　now？'　Meaning；　of　course；　could　he　die　now。
　　　　No。
　　　　And　they　were　off　again；　with　Pete　clinging　weakly　to　Jonesy's　coat。
　　　　They　skirted　the　rock…face；　climbed　to　the　top　of　the　highest　hill　beyond　it；　and　here　Mr　Gray　paused　again　so　his　substitute　flashlight　could　rehead　them。　Pete　did　so　and　they　continued　on；　now　moving　on　a　path　that　was　a　little　bit　west　of　true　north。　Daylight　continued　to　fade。　Once　they　heard　helicopters　…　at　least　two；　maybe　as　many　as　four　…　ing　toward　them。　Mr　Gray　hulled　the　snowmobile　into　a　thick　stand　of　underbrush；　heedless　of　the　branches　that　slapped　at　Jonesy's　face；　drawing　blood　from　his　cheeks　and　brow。　Pete　tumbled　off　the　back　again。　Mr　Gray　killed　the　Cat's　engine；　then　dragged　Pete；　who　was　moaning　and　semi…conscious；　under　the　thickest　growth　of　bushes。　There　they　waited　until　the　helicopters　passed　over。　Jonesy　felt　Mr　Gray　reach　up　to　one　of　the　crew　and　quickly　scan　him；　perhaps　cross…checking　what　the　man　knew　with　what　Pete　had　been　telling　him。　When　the　choppers　had　passed　off　to　the　southeast；　apparently　heading　back　to　their　base；　Mr　Gray　re…started　the　snowmobile　and　they　went　on。　It　had　begun　to　snow　again。
　　　　An　hour　later　they　stopped　on　another　rise　and　Pete　fell　off　the　Cat　again；　this　time　tumbling　to　the　side。　He　raised　his　face；　but　most　of　his　face　was　gone；　buried　under　a　beard　of　vegetation。　He　tried　to　speak　aloud　and　couldn't；　his　mouth　was　stuffed；　his　tongue　buried　under　a　lush　mat　of　byrus。
　　　　I　can't；　man。　I　can't；　no　more；　please；　let　me　be。
　　　　'Yes；'　Mr　Gray　said。　'I　think　you've　served　your　purpose。'
　　　　Pete！　Jonesy　cried。　Then；　to　Mr　Gray：　No；　no；　don't！
　　　　Mr　Gray　paid　no　attention；　of　course。　For　a　moment　Jonesy　saw　silent　understanding　in　Pete's　remaining　eye。　And　relief　For　that　moment　he　was　still　able　to　touch　Pete's　mind　…　his　boyhood　friend；　the　one　who　always　stood　outside　the　gate　at　DJHS；　one　hand　cupped　over　his　mouth；　hiding　a　cigarette　that　wasn't　really　there；　the　one　who　was　going　to　be　an　astronaut　and　see　the　world　entire　from　earth　orbit；　one　of　the　four　who　had　helped　save　Duddits　from　the　big　boys。
　　　　For　one　moment。　Then　he　felt　something　leap　from　Mr　Gray's　mind　and　the　stuff　growing　on　Pete　did　not　just　twitch　but　clenched。　There　was　a　tenebrous　creaking　sound　as　Pete's　skull　cracked　in　a　dozen　places。　His　face　…　what　remained　of　it　…　pulled　inward　in　a　kind　of　yank；　making　him　old　at　a　stroke。　Then　he　fell　forward　and　snow　began　to　fleck　the　back　of　his　parka。
　　　　You　bastard。
　　　　Mr　Gray；　indifferent　to　Jonesy's　curse　and　Jonesy's　anger；　made　no　reply。　He　faced　forward　again。　The　building　wind　dropped　momentarily　when　he　did；　and　a　hole　opened　in　the　curtain　of　snow。　About　five　miles　northwest　of　their　current　position；　Jonesy　saw　moving　lights　…　not　flashlights　but　headlights。　Lots　of　them。　Trucks　moving　in　convoy　along　the　turnpike。　Trucks　and　nothing　else；　he　supposed。　This　part　of　Maine　belonged　to　the　military　now。
　　　　And　they're　all　looking　for　you；　asshole；　he　spat　as　the　snowmobile　began　to　roll　again。　The　snow　closed　back　around　them；　cutting　off　their　momentary　view　of　the　trucks；　but　Jonesy　knew　that　Mr　Gray　would　have　no　trouble　finding　the　turnpike。　Pete　had　gotten　him　this　far；　to　a　part　of　the　quarantine　zone　where　Jonesy　supposed　little　trouble　was　expected。　He　was　counting　on　Jonesy　to　take　him　the　rest　of　the　way；　because　Jonesy　was　different。　For　one　thing；　he　was　clear　of　the　byrus。　The　byrus　didn't　like　him　for　some　reason。
　　　　You'll　never　get　out　of　here；　Jonesy　said。
　　　　I　will；　Mr　Gray　said。　We　always　die　and　we　always　live。　We　always　lose　and　we　always　win；　Like　it　or　not；　Jonesy；　we're　the　future。
　　　　If　　that's　true；　it's　the　best　reason　I　ever　heard　for　living　in　the　past；　Jonesy　replied；　but　from　Mr　Gray　there　was　no　answer；　Mr　Gray　as　an　entity；　a　consciousness；　was　gone；　merged　back　into　the　cloud。　There　was　only　enough　of　him　left　to　run　Jonesy's　motor　skills　and　keep　the　snowmobile　pointed　toward　the　turnpike。　And　Jonesy；　carried　helplessly　forward　on　whatever　mission　this　thing　had；　took　slender　fort　from　two　things。　One　was　that　Mr　Gray　didn't　know　how　to　get　at　the　last　piece　of　him；　the　tiny　part　that　existed　in　his　memory　of　the　Tracker　Brothers　office。　The　other　was　that　Mr　Gray　didn't　know　about　Duddits　…　about　no　bounce；　no　play。
　　　　Jonesy　intended　to　make　sure　Mr　Gray　didn't　find　out。
　　　　At　least　not　yet。

CHAPTER　THIRTEEN

AT　GOSSELIN'S


1

To　Archie　Perlmutter；　high…school　valedictorian　（speech　topic：　'The　Joys　and　the　Responsibilities　of　Democracy'）；　onetime　Eagle　Scout；　faithful　Presbyterian；　and　West　Point　grad；　Gosselin's　Country　Market　no　longer　looked　real。　Now　spotlighted　by　enough　candlepower　to　illuminate　a　small　city；　it　looked　like　a　set　in　a　movie。　Not　just　any　movie；　either；　but　the　sort　of　James　Cameron　extravaganza　where　the　catering　costs　alone　would　amount　to　enough　to　feed　the　people　of　Haiti　for　two　years。　Even　the　steadily　increasing　snow　did　not　cut　into　the　glare　of　the　lights　very　much；　or　change　the　illusion　that　the　whole　works；　from　the　crappy　siding　to　the　pair　of　tin　woodstove　stacks　sticking　acrooked　out　of　the　roof　to　the　single　rusty　gas…pump　out　front；　was　simply　set…dressing。
　　　　This　would　be　Act　One；　Pearly　thought　as　he　strode　briskly　along　with　his　clipboard　tucked　under　his　arm　（Archie　Perlmutter　had　always　felt　he　was　a　man　of　considerable　artistic　nature　。　。　。　mercial；　too）。　We　fade　in　on　an　isolated　country　store。　The　oldtimers　are　sitting　around　the　woodstove　…　not　the　little　one　in　Gosselin's　office　but　the　big　one　in　the　store　itself　…　while　the　snow　pelts　down　outside。　They're　talking　about　lights　in　the　sky　。　。　。　missing　hunters　。　。　。　sightings　of　little　gray　men　skulking　around　in　the　woods。　The　store　owner　…　call　him　Old　Man　Rossiter　…　scoffs。　'Oh　gosh　fishes；　you're　all　a　buncha　old　wimmin！'　he　says；　and　just　then　the　whole　place　is　bathed　in　these　brilliant　lights　（think　Close　Encounters　of　the　Third　Kind）　as　a　UFO　settles　down　to　the　ground！　Bloodthirsty　aliens　e　piling　out；　firing　their　deathrays！　It's　like　Independence　Day；　only；　here's　the　hook；　in　the　woods！
　　　　Beside　him；　Melrose；　the　cook's　third　（which　was　about　as　close　as　anyone　got　to　an　official　rating　on　this　little　adventure）；　struggled　to　keep　up。　He　was　wearing　sneakers　on　his　feet　instead　of　shoes　or　boots　…　Perlmutter　had　dragged　him　out　of　Spago's；　which　was　what　the　men　called　the　cook…tent　…　and　he　kept　slipping。　Men　（and　a　few　women）　passed　everywhere　around　them；　mostly　at　the　double。　Many　were　talking　into　lavalier　mikes　or　walkie…talkies。　The　sense　that　this　was　a　movie…set　instead　of　a　real　place　was　enhanced　by　the　trailers；　the　semis；　the　idling　helicopters　（the　worsening　weather　had　brought　them　all　back　in）；　and　the　endless　conflicting　roar　of　motors　and　generators。
　　　　'Why　does　he　want　to　see　me？'　Melrose　asked　again。　Out　of　breath　and　whinier　than　ever。　They　were　passing　the　paddock　and　corral　to　one　side　of　Gosselin's　barn；　now。　The　old　and　dilapidated　fence　（it　had　been　ten　years　or　more　since　there'd　been　an　actual　horse　in　the　corral　or　exercised　in　the　paddock）　had　been　reinforced　by　alternating　strands　of　barbwire　and　smoothwire。　There　was　an　electrical　charge　running　through　the　smoothwire；　probably　not　lethal　but　high　enough　to　lay　you　out　on　the　ground；　convulsing　。　。　。　and　the　charge　could　be　jacked　up　to　lethal　levels　if　the　natives　became　restless。　Behind　this　wire；　watching　them；　were　twenty　or　thirty　men；　Old　Man　Gosselin　among　them　（in　the　James　Cameron　version；　Gosselin　would　be　played　by　some　craggy　oldtimer　like　Bruce　Dern）。　Earlier；　the　men　behind　the　wire　would　have　called　out；　issuing　threats　and　angry　demands；　but　since　they'd　seen　what　happened　to　that　banker　from　Massachusetts　who　tried　to　run；　their　peckers　had　wilted　considerably；　poor　fellows。　Seeing　someone　shot　in　the　head　took　a　lot　of　the　fuck…you　out　of　a　man。　And　then　there　was　the　fact　that　all　the　cps　guys　were　now　wearing　nose…and…mouth　masks。　That　had　to　take　whatever　fuck…you　was　left。
　　　　'Boss？'　Almost　whining　had　given　way　to　actual　whining。　The　sight　of　American　citizens　standing　behind　barbed　wire　had　apparently　added　to　Melrose's　unease。　'Boss；　e　on　…　why　does　the　big　boy　want　to　see　me？　Big　boy　shouldn't　know　a　cook's　third　even　exists。'
　　　　'I　don't　know；'　Pearly　replied。　It　was