sk.dreamcatcher-第85部分

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door　and　through　the　heating　and　cooling　vent。　They　were　his　favorite　aromas：　popcorn；　coffee；　his　mother's　fish　chowder。　His　stomach　immediately　began　to　roar。
　　　　'Of　course　I　can't　promise　you　your　mother's　chowder；'　Mr　Gray　said。　'But　I'll　feed　you。　And　you're　hungry；　aren't　you？'
　　　　'With　you　driving　my　body　and　pigging　out　on　my　emotions；　it'd　be　a　wonder　if　I　wasn't；'　Jonesy　replied。
　　　　'There's　a　place　south　of　here　…　Dysart's。　According　to　you；　it's　open　twenty…four　hours　a　day；　which　is　a　way　of　saying　all　the　time。
　　　　Or　are　you　lying　about　that；　too？'
　　　　'I　never　lied；'　Jonesy　replied。　'As　you　said；　I　can't。　You've　got　the　controls；　you've　got　the　memory　banks；　you've　got　everything　but　what's　in　here。'
　　　　'Where　is　there？　How　can　there　be　a　there？'
　　　　'I　don't　know；'　Jonesy　said　truthfully。　'How　do　I　know　you'll　feed　me？'
　　　　'Because　I　have　to；'　Mr　Gray　said　from　his　side　of　the　door；　and　Jonesy　realized　Mr　Gray　was　also　being　truthful。　If　you　didn't　pour　gas　into　the　machine　from　time　to　time；　the　machine　stopped　running。　'But　if　you　satisfy　my　curiosity；　I'll　feed　you　the　things　you　like。　If　you　don't　。　。　。'
　　　　The　smells　from　under　the　door　changed；　became　the　greenly　assaultive　odor　of　broccoli　and　brussels　sprouts。
　　　　'All　right；'　Jonesy　said。　'I'll　tell　you　what　I　can；　and　you　feed　me　pancakes　and　bacon　at　Dysart's。　Breakfast　twenty…four　hours　a　day；　you　know。　Deal？'
　　　　'Deal。　Open　the　door　and　we'll　shake　on　it。'
　　　　Jonesy　was　surprised　into　a　smile　…　it　was　Mr　Gray's　first　attempt　at　humor；　and　really　not　such　a　bad　one。　He　glanced　into　the　rearview　mirror　and　saw　an　identical　smile　on　the　mouth　which　was　no　longer　his。　That　was　a　little　creepy。
　　　　'Maybe　we'll　skip　the　handshake　part；'　he　said。
　　　　'Tell　me。'
　　　　'Yes；　but　a　word　of　warning　…　break　a　promise　to　me；　and　you'll　never　get　to　make　another　one。'
　　　　'I'll　keep　it　in　mind。'
　　　　The　truck　sat　at　the　top　of　Standpipe　Hill；　rocking　slightly　on　its　springs；　its　headlamps　blazing　out　cylinders　of　snow…filled　light；　and　Jonesy　told　Mr　Gray　what　he　knew。　It　was；　he　thought；　the　perfect　place　for　a　scary　story。


8

The　years　of　1984　and　'85　were　bad　ones　in　Derry。　In　the　summer　of　1984；　three　local　teenagers　had　thrown　a　gay　man　into　the　Canal；　killing　him。　In　the　ten　months　which　followed；　half　a　dozen　children　had　been　murdered；　apparently　by　a　psychotic　who　sometimes　masqueraded　as　a　clown。
　　　　'Who　is　this　John　Wayne　Gacey？'　Mr　Gray　asked。　'Was　he　the　one　who　killed　the　children？'
　　　　'No；　just　someone　from　the　midwest　who　had　a　similar　modus　operandi；'　Jonesy　said。　'You　don't　understand　many　of　the　cross…connections　my　mind　makes；　do　you？　Bet　there　aren't　many　poets　out　where　you　e　from。'
　　　　Mr　Gray　made　no　reply　to　this。　Jonesy　doubted　if　he　knew　what　a　poet　was。　Or　cared。
　　　　'In　any　case；'　Jonesy　said；　'the　last　bad　thing　to　happen　was　a　kind　of　freak　hurricane。　It　hit　on　May　thirty…first；　1985。　Over　sixty　people　died。　The　Standpipe　blew　over。　It　rolled　down　that　hill　and　into　Kansas　Street。'　He　pointed　to　the　right　of　the　truck；　where　the　land　sloped　sharply　away　into　the　dark。
　　　　'Almost　three　quarters　of　a　million　gallons　of　water　ran　down　Upmile　Hill；　then　into　downtown；　which　more　or　less　collapsed。　I　was　in　college　by　then。　The　storm　happened　during　my　Finals　Week。　My　Dad　called　and　told　me　about　it；　but　of　course　I　knew　…　it　was　national　news。'
　　　　Jonesy　paused；　thinking；　looking　around　the　office　which　was　no　longer　bare　and　dirty　but　nicely　finished　（his　subconscious　had　added　both　a　couch　that　he　had　at　home　and　an　Eames　chair　he'd　seen　in　the　Museum　of　Modem　Art　catalogue；　lovely　but　out　of　his　financial　reach）　and　really　quite　pleasant　。　。　。　certainly　nicer　than　the　blizzardy　world　his　body's　usurper　was　currently　having　to　deal　with。　　　　
　　　　'Henry　was　in　school；　too。　Harvard。　Pete　was　bumming　around　the　West　Coast；　doing　his　hippie　thing。　Beaver　was　trying　a　junior　college　downstate。　Majoring　in　hashish　and　video　games；　is　what　he　said　later。'　Only　Duddits　had　been　here　in　Derry　when　the　big　storm　blew　through　。　。　。　but　Jonesy　discovered　he　didn't　want　to　speak　Duddits's　name。
　　　　Mr　Gray　said　nothing；　but　Jonesy　got　a　clear　sense　of　his　impatience。　Mr　Gray　cared　only　about　the　Standpipe。　And　how　Jonesy　had　fooled　him。
　　　　'Listen；　Mr　Gray　…　if　there　was　any　fooling　going　on；　you　did　it　to　yourself　I　got　a　few　of　the　DERRY　boxes；　that's　all；　and　brought　them　in　here　while　you　were　busy　killing　that　poor　soldier。'
　　　　'The　poor　soldiers　came　in　ships　from　the　sky　and　massacred　all　of　my　kind　that　they　could　find。'
　　　　'Spare　me。　You　guys　didn't　e　here　to　wele　us　into　the　Galactic　Book　Circle。'
　　　　'Would　things　have　been　any　different　if　we　had？'
　　　　'You　can　also　spare　me　the　hypotheticals；'　Jonesy　said。　'After　what　you　did　to　Pete　and　the　Army　guy；　I　could　care　less　about　having　an　intellectual　discussion　with　you。'
　　　　'We　do　what　we　have　to　do。'
　　　　'That　might　be；　but　if　you　expect　me　to　help　you；　you're　mad。'
　　　　The　dog　was　looking　at　Jonesy　with　even　more　unease　apparently　not　used　to　masters　who　held　animated　conversations　with　themselves。
　　　　'The　Standpipe　fell　over　in　1985　…　sixteen　years　ago　…　but　you　stole　this　memory？'
　　　　'Basically；　yeah；　although　I　don't　think　you'd　have　much　luck　with　that　in　a　court　of　law；　since　the　memories　were　mine　to　begin　with。'
　　　　'What　else　have　you　stolen？'
　　　　'That's　for　me　to　know　and　you　to　think　about。'
　　　　There　was　a　hard　and　ill…tempered　thump　at　the　door。　Jonesy　was　once　more　reminded　of　the　story　about　The　Three　Little　Pigs。　Huff　and　puff；　Mr　Gray；　enjoy　the　dubious　pleasures　of　rage。
　　　　But　Mr　Gray　had　apparently　left　the　door。
　　　　'Mr　Gray？　'Jonesy　called。　'Hey；　don't　go　'way　mad；　okay？'　Jonesy　guessed　that　Mr　Gray　might　be　off　on　another　information　search。　The　Standpipe　was　gone　but　Derry　was　still　here；　ergo；　the　town's　water　had　to　be　ing　from　somewhere。　Did　Jonesy　know　the　location　of　that　somewhere？　　　　
　　　　Jonesy　didn't。　He　had　a　vague　memory　of　drinking　a　lot　of　bottled　water　after　ing　back　from　college　for　the　summer；　but　that　was　all。　Eventually　water　had　started　ing　out　of　their　taps　again；　but　what　was　that　to　a　twenty…one…year…old　whose　biggest　concern　had　been　getting　into　Mary　Shratt's　pants？　The　water　came；　you　drank　it。　You　didn't　worry　about　where　it　came　from　as　long　as　it　didn't　give　you　the　heaves　or　the　squatters。
　　　　A　sense　of　frustration　from　Mr　Gray？　Or　was　that　just　his　imagination？　Jonesy　most　sincerely　hoped　not。
　　　　This　had　been　a　good　one　。　。　。　what　the　four　of　them；　in　the　days　of　their　misspent　youth；　would　undoubtedly　have　called　'a　fuckin　pisser'。


9

Roberta　Cavell　woke　up　from　some　unpleasant　dream　and　looked　to　her　right；　half…expecting　to　see　only　darkness。　But　the　forting　blue　numbers　were　still　glowing　from　the　clock　by　her　bed；　so　the　power　hadn't　gone　out。　That　was　pretty　amazing；　considering　the　way　the　wind　was　howling。
　　　　1：04　A。M。；　the　blue　numbers　said。　Roberta　turned　on　the　bedside　lamp　…　might　as　well　use　it　while　she　could　…　and　drank　some　water　from　her　glass。　Was　it　the　wind　that　had　awakened　her？　The　bad　dream？　It　had　been　bad；　all　right；　something　about　aliens　with　deathrays　and　everyone　running；　but　she　didn't　think　that　was　it；　either。
　　　　Then　the　wind　dropped；　and　she　heard　what　had　waked　her：　Duddits's　voice　from　downstairs。　Duddits　。　。　。　singing？　Was　that　possible？　She　didn't　see　how；　considering　the　terrible　afternoon　and　evening　the　two　of　them　had　put　in。
　　　　'Eeeyer…eh！''　for　most　of　the　hours　between　two　and　five　…　Beaver's　dead！　Duddits　seemingly　inconsolable；　finally　bringing　on　a　nosebleed。　She　feared　these。　When　Duddits　started　bleeding；　it　was　sometimes　impossible　to　get　him　stopped　without　taking　him　to　the　hospital。　This　time　she　had　been　able　to　stop　it　by　pushing　cotton…wads　into　his　nostrils　and　then　pinching　his　nose　high　up；　between　the　eyes。　She　had　called　Dr　Briscoe　to　ask　if　she　could　give　Duddits　one　of　his　yellow　Valium　tablets；　but　Dr　Briscoe　was　off　in　Nassau；　if　you　please。　Some　other　doctor　was　on　call；　some　whitecoat　johnny　who　had　never　seen　Duddits　in　his　life；　and　Roberta　didn't　even　bother　to　call　him。　She　just　gave　Duddits　the　Valium；　painted　his　poor　dry　lips　and　the　inside　of　his　mouth　with　one　of　the　lemon…flavored　glycerine　swabs　that　he　liked　…　the　inside　of　his　mouth　was　always　developing　cankers　and　ulcers。　Even　when　the　chemo　was　over；　these　persisted。　And　the　chemo　was　over。　None　of　the　doctors　…　not　Briscoe；　not　any　of　them　…　would　admit　it；　and　so　the　plastic　catheter　stayed　in；　but　it　was　over。　Roberta　would　not　let　them　put　her　boy　through　that　hell　again。
　　　　Once　he'd　taken　his　pill；　she　got　in　bed　with　him；　held　him　（being　careful　of　his　left　side；　where　the　indwelling　catheter　hid　under　a　bandage）；　and　sang　to　him。　Not　Beaver's　lullaby；　though。　Not　today。
　　　　At　last　he　had　begun　to　quiet；　and　when　she　thought　he　was　asleep；　she　had　gently　pulled　the　cotton　wads　from　his　nostrils。　The　second　one　stuck　a　little；　and　Duddits's　eyes　had　opened　…　that　beautiful　flash　of　green。　His　eyes　were　his　true　gift；　she　sometimes　thought；　and　not　that　other　business　。　。　。　seeing　the　line　and　all　that　went　with　it。