sk.cujo-第12部分

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She　and　Brett。
Just　the　two　of　them。
They　could　go　on　the　bus。
She　thought：　Last　November；　he　wanted　to　take　Brett　hunting　with；　him。
She　thought：　Could　a　trade　be　worked　out？
Cold　came　to　her；　filling　the　hollows　of　her　bones　with　spun　glass。　Would　she　actually　agree　to　such　a　trade？　He　could　take　Brett　to　Moosehead　with　him　in　the　fall　if　Joe　in　his　turn　would　agree　to　let　them　go　to　Stratford　on　the　bus　…？
There　was　money　enough　…　now　there　was　…　but　money　alone　wouldn't　do　it。　He'd　take　the　money　and　that　would　be　the　last　she　would　see　of　it。　Unless　she　played　her　cards　just　right。　just　。。。　right。
Her　mind　began　to　move　faster。　The　pounding　outside　stopped。　She　saw　Brett　leave　the　barn；　trotting；　and　was　dimly　grateful。　Some　premonitory　part　of　her　was　convinced　that　if　the　boy　ever　came　to　serious　harm；　it　would　be　in　that　dark　place　with　the　sawdust　spread　over　the　old　grease　on　the　plank　floor。
There　was　a　way。　There　must　be　a　way。
If　she　was　willing　to　gamble。
In　her　fingers　she　held　a　lottery　ticket。　She　turned　it　over　and　over　in　her　hand　as　she　stood　at　the　window；　thinking。
When　Steve　Kemp　got　back　to　his　shop；　he　was　in　a　kind　of　furious　ecstasy。　His　shop　was　on　the　western　outskirts　of　Castle　Rock；　on　Route　11。　He　had　rented　it　from　a　farmer　who　had　holdings　in　both　Castle　Rock　and　in　neighboring　Bridgton。　The　farmer　was　not　just　a　nurd；　he　was　a　Super　Nurd。
The　shop　was　dominated　by　Steve's　stripping　vat；　a　corrugated　iron　pot　that　looked　big　enough　to　boil　an　entire
congregation　of　missionaries　at　one　time。　Sitting　around　it　like　small　satellites　around　a　large　planet　was　his　work：　bureaus；　dressers；　china　cupboards；　bookcases；　tables。　The　air　was　aromatic　with　varnish；　stripping　pound；　linseed　oil。
He　had　a　fresh　change　of　clothes　in　a　battered　TWA　flightbag；　he　had　planned　to　change　after　making　love　to　the　fancy　cunt。　Now　he　hurled　the　bag　across　the　shop。　It　bounced　off　the　far　wall　and　landed　on　top　of　a　dresser。　He　walked　across　to　it　and　batted　it　aside。　He　drop…kicked　it　as　it　came　down；　and　it　hit　the　ceiling　before　failing　on　its　side　like　a　dead　woodchuck。　Then　he　simply　stood；　breathing　hard；　inhaling　the　heavy　smells；　staring　vacantly　at　three　chairs　he　had　promised　to　cane　by　the　end　of　the　week。　His　thumbs　were　jammed　into　his　belt。　His　fingers　were　curled　into　fists。　His　lower　lip　was　pooched　out。　He　looked　like　a　kid　sulking　after　a　bawling…out。
'Cheap…shit！'　he　breathed；　and　went　after　the　flightbag。　He　made　as　if　to　kick　it　again；　then　changed　his　mind　and　picked　it　up。　He　went　through　the　shed　and　into　the　three…room　house　that　adjoined　the　shop。　If　anything；　it　was　hotter　in　the　house。　Crazy　July　heat。　It　got　in　your　head。　The　kitchen　was　full　of　dirty　dishes。　Flies　buzzed　around　a　green　plastic　Hefty　bag　filled　with　Beefaroni　and　tuna…fish　cans。　The　living　room　was　dominated　by　a　big　old　Zenith　black…and…white　TV　he　had　rescued　from　the　Naples　dump。　A　big　spayed　brindle　cat；　name　of　Bernie　Carbo；　slept　on　top　of　it　like　a　dead　thing。
The　bedroom　was　where　he　worked　on　his　writing。　The　bed　itself　was　a　rollaway；　not　made；　the　sheets　stiff　with　e。　No　matter　how　much　he　was　getting　（and　over　the　last　two　weeks　that　had　been　zero）；　he　masturbated　a　great　deal。　Masturbation；　he　believed；　was　a　sign　of　creativity。　Across　from　the　bed　was　his　desk。　A　big　old…fashioned　Underwood　sat　on　top　of　it。　Manuscripts　were　stacked　to　both　sides。　More　manuscripts；　some　in　boxes；　some　secured　with　rubber　bands；　were　piled　up　in　one　corner。　He　wrote　a　lot　and　he　moved　around　a　lot　and　his　main　luggage　was　his　work　…　mostly　poems；　a　few　stories；　a　surreal　play　in　which　the　characters　spoke　a　grand　total　of　nine　words；　and　a　novel　he　had　attacked　badly　from　six　different　angles。　It　had　been　five　years　since　he　had　lived　in　one　place　long　enough　to　get　pletely　unpacked。
Last　December；　while　shaving　one　day；　he　had　discovered　the　first　threads　of　gray　in　his　beard。　The　discovery　had　thrown　him　into　a　savage　depression；　and　he　had　stayed　depressed　for　weeks。　He　hadn't　touched　a　razor　between　then　and　now；　as　if　it　was　the　act　of　shaving　that　had　somehow　caused　the　gray　to　show　up。　He　was　thirty…eight。　He　refused　to　entertain　the　thought　of　being　that　old；　but　sometimes　it　crept　up　on　his　blind　side　and　surprised　him。　To　he　that　old　…　less　than　seven　hundred　days　shy　of　forty　terrified　him。　He　had　really　believed　that　forty　was　for　other　people。
That　bitch；　he　thought　over　and　over　again。　That　bitch。
He　had　left　dozens　of　women　since　he　had　first　gotten　laid　by　a　vague；　pretty；　softly　helpless　French　substitute　when　he　was　a　high　school　junior；　but　he　himself　had　only　been　dropped　two　or　three　times。　He　was　good　at　seeing　the　drop　ing　and　opting　out　of　the　relationship　first。　It　was　a　protective　device；　like　bombing　the　queen　of　spades　on　someone　else　in　a　game　of　Hearts。　You　had　to　do　it　while　you　could　still　cover　the　bitch；　or　you　got　screwed。　You　covered　yourself。　The　way　you　didn't　think　about　your　age。　He　had　known　Donna　was　cooling　it；　but　she　had　struck　him　as　a　woman　who　could　be　manipulated　with　no　great　difficulty；　at　least　for　a　while；　by　a　bination　of　psychological　and　sexual　factors。　By　fear；　if　you　wanted　to　be　crude。　That　it　hadn't　worked　that　way　left　him　feeling　hurt　and　furious；　as　if　he　had　been　whipped　raw。
He　got　out　of　his　clothes；　tossed　his　wallet　and　change　onto　his　desk；　went　into　the　bathroom；　showered。　When　he　came　out　he　felt　a　little　better。　He　dressed　again；　pulling　jeans　and　a　faded　chambray　shirt　from　the　flightbag。　He　picked　his　change　up；　put　it　in　a　front　pocket；　and　paused；　looking　speculatively　at　his　Lord　Buxton。　Some　of　the　business　cards　had　fallen　out　They　were　always　doing　that；　because　there　were　so　many　of　them。
Steve　Kemp　had　a　packrat　sort　of　wallet。　One　of　the　items　he　almost　always　picked　up　and　tucked　away　were　business　cards。　They　made　nice　bookmarks；　and　the　space　on　the　blank　flip　side　was　just　right　for　jotting　an　address；　simple　directions；　or　a　phone　number。　He　would　sometimes　take　two　or　three　if　he　happened　to　be　in　a　plumbing　shop　or　if　an　insurance　salesman　stopped　by。　Steve　would　unfailingly　ask　the　nine…to…fiver　for　his　card　with　a　big　shiteating　grin。
When　he　and　Donna　were　going　at　it　hot　and　heavy；　he　had　happened　to　notice　one　of　her　husband's　business　cards　lying　on　top　of　the　TV。　Donna　had　been　taking　a　shower　or　something。　He　had　taken　the　business　card。　No　big　reason。　Just　the　packrat　thing。
Now　he　opened　his　wallet　and　thumbed　through　the　cards；　cards　from　Prudential　agents　in　Virginia；　realtors　in　Colorado；　a　dozen　businesses　in　between。　For　a　moment　he　thought　he　had　lost　Handsome　Hubby's　card；　but　it　had　just　slipped　down　between　a　couple　of　dollar　bills。　He　fished　it　out　and　looked　at　it。　White　card；　blue　lettering　done　in　modish　lower　case；　Mr。　Businessman　Triumphant。　Quiet　but　impressive。　Nothing　flashy。
roger　breakstone　ad　worx　victor　trenton
1633　congress　street
telex：　ADWORX　portland；　maine　04001　tel　（207）　799…8600
Steve　pulled　a　sheet　of　paper　from　a　ream　of　cheap　mimeo　stuff　and　cleared　a　place　in　front　of　him。　He　looked　briefly　at　his　typewriter。　No。　Each　machine's　typescript　was　as　individual　as　a　fingerprint。　It　was　his　crooked　lower…case　'a'　that　hung　the　blighter；　Inspector。　The　jury　was　only　out　long　enough　to　have　tea。
This　would　not　be　a　police　matter；　nohow；　no　way；　but　caution　came　without　even　thinking。　Cheap　paper；　available　at　any　office　supply　store；　no　typewriter。
He　took　a　Pilot　Razor　Point　from　the　coffee　can　on　the　er　of　the　desk　and　printed　in　large　block　letters：
HELLO；　
VIC
NICE　WIFE　YOU'VE　GOT　THERE　
I　ENJOYED　FUCKING　THE　SHIT　OUT　OF　HER。　
He　paused；　tapping　the　pen　against　his　teeth。　He　was　starting　to　feel　good　again。　On　top。　Of　course；　she　was　a　good…looking　woman；　and　he　supposed　there　was　always　the　possibility　that　Trenton　might　discount　what　he　had　written　so　far。　Talk　was　cheap；　and　you　could　mail　someone　a　letter　for　less　than　the　price　of　a　coffee。　But　there　was　something　。。。　always　something。　What　might　it　be？
He　smiled　suddenly；　when　he　smiled　that　way　his　entire　face　lit　up；　and　it　was　easy　to　see　why　he　had　never　had　much　trouble　with　women　since　the　evening　with　the　vague；　pretty　French　sub。
He　wrote：
WHAT'S　THAT　MOLE　JUST　ABOVE　HER　PUBIC　HAIR　LOOK　LIKE　TO　YOU？
TO　ME　IT　LOOKS　LIKE　A　QUESTION　MARK。
DO　YOU　HAVE　ANY　QUESTIONS？
That　was　enough；　a　meal　is　as　good　as　a　feast；　his　mother　had　always　said。　He　found　an　envelope　and　put　the　message　inside。　After　a　pause；　he　slipped　the　business　card　in；　and　addressed　the　envelope；　also　in　block　letters；　to　Vic's　office。　After　a　moment's　thought；　he　decided　to　show　the　poor　slob　a　little　mercy　and　added　PERSONAL　below　the　address。
He　propped　the　letter　on　the　windowsill　and　leaned　back　in　his　chair；　feeling　totally　good　again。　He　would　be　able　to　write　tonight；　he　felt　sure　of　it。
Outside；　a　truck　with　out…of…state　plates　pulled　into　his　driveway。　A　pickup　with　a　great　big　Hoosier　cabinet　in　the　back。　Someone　had　picked　up　a　bargain　at　a　barn　sale。　Lucky　them。
Steve　strolled　out。　He　would　be　glad　to　take　their　money　and　their　Hoosier　cabinet；　but　he　really　doubted　if　he　would　have　time　to　do　the　work。　Once　that　letter　was　mailed