sk.dreamcatcher-第8部分

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hed　he　had　shot　before　he　saw　the　orange　cap　and　the　orange　flagman's　vest。　Killing　Richard　McCarthy　couldn't　have　hurt；　and　it　might　have　helped。　Killing　McCarthy　might　have　saved　them　all。


2

Pete　and　Henry　had　gone　to　Gosselin's　Market；　the　closest　store；　to　stock　up　on　bread；　canned　goods；　and　beer；　the　real　essential。　They　had　plenty　for　another　two　days；　but　the　radio　said　there　might　be　snow　ing。　Henry　had　already　gotten　his　deer；　a　good…sized　doe；　and　Jonesy　had　an　idea　Pete　cared　a　lot　more　about　making　sure　of　the　beer　supply　than　he　did　about　getting　his　own　deer　…　for　Pete　Moore；　hunting　was　a　hobby；　beer　a　religion。　The　Beaver　was　out　there　someplace；　but　Jonesy　hadn't　heard　the　crack　of　a　rifle　any　closer　than　five　miles；　so　he　guessed　that　the　Beav；　like　him；　was　still　waiting；
　　　　There　was　a　stand　in　an　old　maple　about　seventy　yards　from　the　camp　and　that　was　where　Jonesy　was；　sipping　coffee　and　reading　a　Robert　Parker　mystery　novel；　when　he　heard　something　ing　and　put　the　book　and　the　Thermos　aside。　In　other　years　he　might　have　spilled　the　coffee　in　his　excitement；　but　not　this　time。　This　time　he　even　took　a　few　seconds　to　screw　on　the　Thermos's　bright　red　stopper。
　　　　The　four　of　them　had　been　ing　up　here　to　hunt　in　the　first　week　of　November　for　twenty…six　years；　if　you　counted　in　the　times　Beav's　Dad　had　taken　them；　and　Jonesy　had　never　bothered　with　the　tree…stand　until　now。　None　of　them　had；　it　was　too　confining。　This　year　Jonesy　had　staked　it　out。　The　others　thought　they　knew　why；　but　they　only　knew　half　of　it。
　　　　In　mid…March　of　2001；　Jonesy　had　been　struck　by　a　car　while　crossing　a　street　in　Cambridge；　not　far　from　John　Jay　College；　where　he　taught。　He　had　fractured　his　skull；　broken　two　ribs；　and　suffered　a　shattered　hip；　which　had　been　replaced　with　some　exotic　bination　of　Teflon　and　metal。　The　man　who'd　struck　him　was　a　retired　BU　history　professor　who　was　…　according　to　his　lawyer；　anyway　…　in　the　early　stages　of　Alzheimer's；　more　to　be　pitied　than　punished。　So　often；　Jonesy　thought；　there　was　no　one　to　blame　when　the　dust　cleared。　And　even　if　there　was；　what　good　did　it　do？　You　still　had　to　live　with　what　was　left；　and　console　yourself　with　the　fact　that；　as　people　told　him　every　day　（until　they　forgot　the　whole　thing；　that　was）；　it　could　have　been　worse。
　　　　And　it　could　have　been。　His　head　was　hard；　and　the　crack　in　it　healed。　He　had　no　memory　of　the　hour　or　so　leading　up　to　his　accident　near　Harvard　Square；　but　the　rest　of　his　mental　equipment　was　fine。　His　ribs　healed　in　a　month。　The　hip　was　the　worst；　but　he　was　off　the　crutches　by　October；　and　now　his　limp　only　became　appreciable　toward　the　end　of　the　day。
　　　　Pete；　Henry；　and　the　Beav　thought　it　was　the　hip　and　only　the　hip　that　had　caused　him　to　opt　for　the　tree…stand　instead　of　the　damp；　cold　woods；　and　the　hip　was　certainly　a　factor　just　not　the　only　one。　What　he　had　kept　from　them　was　that　he　now　had　little　interest　in　shooting　deer。　It　would　have　dismayed　them。　Hell；　it　dismayed　Jonesy　himself。　But　there　it　was；　something　new　in　his　existence　that　he　hadn't　even　suspected　until　they　had　actually　gotten　up　here　on　November　eleventh　and　he　had　uncased　the　Garand。　He　wasn't　revolted　by　the　idea　of　hunting；　not　at　all　…　he　just　had　no　real　urge　to　do　it。　Death　had　brushed　by　him　on　a　sunny　day　in　March；　and　Jonesy　had　no　desire　to　call　it　back；　even　if　he　were　dealing　rather　than　receiving。


3
　　　　
What　surprised　him　was　that　he　still　liked　being　at　camp　…　in　some　ways；　better　than　ever。　Talking　at　night　…　books；　politics；　the　shit　they'd　gotten　up　to　as　kids；　their　plans　for　the　future。　They　were　in　their　thirties；　still　young　enough　to　have　plans；　plenty　of　them；　and　the　old　bond　was　still　strong。
　　　　And　the　days　were　good；　too　…　the　hours　in　the　tree…stand；　when　he　was　alone。　He　took　a　sleeping　bag　and　slid　into　it　up　to　his　hips　when　he　got　cold；　and　a　book；　and　a　Walkman。　After　the　first　day；　he　stopped　listening　to　the　Walkman；　discovering　that　he　liked　the　music　of　the　woods　better　…　the　silk　of　the　wind　in　the　pines；　the　rust　of　the　crows。　He　would　read　a　little；　drink　coffee；　read　a　little　more；　sometimes　work　his　way　out　of　the　sleeping　bag　（it　was　as　red　as　a　stoplight）　and　piss　off　the　edge　of　the　platform。　He　was　a　man　with　a　big　family　and　a　large　circle　of　colleagues。　A　gregarious　man　who　enjoyed　all　the　various　relationships　the　family　and　the　colleagues　entailed　（and　the　students；　of　course；　the　endless　stream　of　students）　and　balanced　them　well。　It　was　only　out　here；　up　here；　that　he　realized　the　attractions　of　silence　were　still　real；　still　strong。　It　was　like　meeting　an　old　friend　after　a　long　absence。
　　　　'You　sure　you　want　to　be　up　there；　man？'　Henry　had　asked　him　yesterday　morning。　'I　mean；　you're　wele　to　e　out　with　me。　We　won't　overuse　that　leg　of　yours；　I　promise。'
　　　　'Leave　him　alone；'　Pete　said。　'He　likes　it　up　there。　Don't　you；　Jones…boy？'
　　　　'Sort　of；'　he　said；　unwilling　to　say　much　more　…　how　much　he　actually　did　like　it；　for　instance。　Some　things　you　didn't　feel　safe　telling　even　your　closest　friends。　And　sometimes　your　closest　friends　knew；　anyway。
　　　　'Tell　you　something；'　the　Beav　said。　He　picked　up　a　pencil　and　began　to　gnaw　lightly　at　it　…　his　oldest；　dearest　trick；　going　all　the　way　back　to　first　grade。　'I　like　ing　back　and　seeing　you　there　…　like　a　lookout　in　the　crow's　nest　in　one　of　those　fuckin　Hornblower　books。　Keepin　an　eye　out；　you　know。'
　　　　'Sail；　ho；'　Jonesy　had　said；　and　they　all　laughed；　but　Jonesy　knew　what　the　Beav　meant。　He　felt　it。　Keeping　an　eye　out。　Just　thinking　his　thoughts　and　keeping　an　eye　out　for　ships　or　sharks　or　who　knew　what。　His　hip　hurt　ing　back　down；　the　pack　with　his　shit　in　it　was　heavy　on　his　back；　and　he　felt　slow　and　clumsy　on　the　wooden　rungs　nailed　to　the　trunk　of　the　maple；　but　that　was　okay。　Good；　in　fact。　Things　changed；　but　only　a　fool　believed　they　only　changed　for　the　worse。
　　　　That　was　what　he　thought　then。


4

When　he　heard　the　whicker　of　moving　brush　and　the　soft　snap　of　a　twig　…　sounds　he　never　questioned　were　those　of　an　approaching　deer　…　Jonesy　thought　of　something　his　father　said：　You　can't　make　yourself　be　lucky。　Lindsay　Jones　was　one　of　life's　losers　and　had　said　few　things　worth　mitting　to　memory；　but　that　was　one；　and　here　was　the　proof　of　it　again：　days　after　deciding　he　had　finished　with　deer　hunting；　here　came　one；　and　a　big　one　by　the　sound　a　buck；　almost　surely；　maybe　one　as　big　as　a　man。
　　　　That　it　was　a　man　never　so　much　as　crossed　Jonesy's　mind。　This　was　an　unincorporated　township　fifty　miles　north　of　Rangely；　and　the　nearest　hunters　were　two　hours'　walk　away。　The　nearest　paved　road；　the　one　which　eventually　took　you　to　Gosselin's　Market　（BEER　BAIT　OUT　OF　STATE　LICS　LOTTERY　TIX）；　was　at　least　sixteen　miles　away。
　　　　Well；　he　thought；　it　isn't　as　if　I　took　a　vow；　or　anything。
　　　　No；　he　hadn't　taken　a　vow。　Next　November　he　might　be　up　here　with　a　Nikon　instead　of　a　Garand；　but　it　wasn't　next　year　yet；　and　the　rifle　was　at　hand。　He　had　no　intention　of　looking　a　gift　deer　in　the　mouth。
　　　　Jonesy　screwed　the　red　stopper　into　the　Thermos　of　coffee　and　put　it　aside。　Then　he　pushed　the　sleeping　bag　off　his　lower　body　like　a　big　quilted　sock　（wincing　at　the　stiffness　in　his　hip　as　he　did　it）　and　grabbed　his　gun。　There　was　no　need　to　chamber　a　round；　producing　that　loud；　deer…frightening　click；　old　habits　died　hard；　and　the　gun　was　ready　to　fire　as　soon　as　he　thumbed　off　the　safety。　This　he　did　when　he　was　solidly　on　his　feet。　The　old　wild　excitement　was　gone；　but　there　was　a　residue　…　his　pulse　was　up　and　he　weled　the　rise。　In　the　wake　of　his　accident；　he　weled　all　such　reactions　…　it　was　as　if　there　were　two　of　him　now；　the　one　before　he　had　been　knocked　flat　in　the　street　and　the　warier；　older　fellow　who　had　awakened　in　Mass　General　。　。　。　if　you　could　call　that　slow；　drugged　awareness　being　awake。　Sometimes　he　still　heard　a　voice　…　whose　he　didn't　know；　but　not　his　…　calling　out　Please　stop；　I　can't　stand　it；　give　me　a　shot；　where's　Marcy；　I　want　Marcy。　He　thought　of　it　as　death's　voice　…　death　had　passed　him　in　the　street　and　had　then　e　to　the　hospital　to　finish　the　job；　death　masquerading　as　a　man　（or　perhaps　it　had　been　a　woman；　it　was　hard　to　tell）　in　pain；　someone　who　said　Marcy　but　meant　Jonesy。
　　　　The　idea　passed　…　all　of　the　funny　ideas　he'd　had　in　the　hospital　eventually　passed　…　but　it　left　a　residue。　Caution　was　the　residue。　He　had　no　memory　of　Henry　calling　and　telling　him　to　watch　himself　for　the　next　little　while　（and　Henry　hadn't　reminded　him）；　but　since　then　Jonesy　had　watched　himself。　He　was　careful。　Because　maybe　death　was　out　there；　and　maybe　sometimes　it　called　your　name。
　　　　But　the　past　was　the　past。　He　had　survived　his　brush　with　death；　and　nothing　was　dying　here　this　morning　but　a　deer　（a　buck；　he　hoped）　who　had　strolled　in　the　wrong　direction。
　　　　The　sound　of　the　rustling　brush　and　snapping　twigs　was　conu'ng　toward　him　from　the　southwest；　which　meant　he　wouldn't　have　to　shoot　around　the　trunk　of　the　maple　…　good　…　and　put　him　upwind。　Even　better。　Most　of　the　maple's　leaves　had　fallen；　and　he　had　a　good；　if　not　perfect；　sightline　through　the　interlacing　branches。　Jonesy　raised　the　Garand