sk.misery-第11部分

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　Images　of　the　blackened　pages　floating　up；　the　flames；　the　sounds；　the　smell　of　the　uncreation　…　he　gritted　his　teeth　against　the　images　and　tried　to　shut　his　mind　away　from　them；　vivid　was　not　always　good。
　No；　you　didn't；　but　nine　out　of　ten　writers　would　have　…　at　least　they　would　if　they　were　getting　paid　as　much　as　you　have　been　for　even　the　non…Misery　books。　She　never　even　thought　of　it。
　She's　not　a　writer。
　Neither　is　she　stupid；　as　I　think　we　have　both　agreed。　I　think　that　she　is　filled　with　herself　…　she　does　not　just　have　a　large　ego　but　one　which　is　positively　grandiose。　Burning　it　seemed　to　her　the　proper　thing　to　do；　and　the　idea　that　her　concept　of　the　proper　thing　to　do　might　be　short…circuited　by　something　so　piddling　as　a　bank　Xerox　machine　and　a　couple　of　rolls　of　quarters　。　。　。　that　blip　just　never　crossed　her　screen；　my　friend。
　His　other　deductions　might　be　like　houses　built　on　quicksand；　but　this　view　of　Annie　Wilkes　seemed　to　him　as　solid　as　the　Rock　of　Gibraltar。　Because　of　his　researches　for　Misery；　he　had　rather　more　than　a　layman's　understanding　of　neurosis　and　psychosis；　and　he　knew　that　although　a　borderline　psychotic　might　have　alternating　periods　of　deep　depression　and　almost　aggressive　cheerfulness　and　hilarity；　the　puffed　and　infected　ego　underlay　all；　positive　that　all　eyes　were　upon　him　or　her；　positive　that　he　or　she　was　staffing　in　a　great　drama；　the　oute　was　a　thing　for　which　untold　millions　waited　with　held　breath。
　Such　an　ego　simply　forbade　certain　lines　of　thought。　These　lines　were　predictable　because　they　all　stretched　in　the　same　direction：　from　the　unstable　person　to　objects；　situations；　or　other　persons　outside　of　the　subject's　field　of　control　（or　fantasy：　to　the　neurotic　there　might　be　some　difference　but　to　the　psychotic　they　were　one　and　the　same）。
　Annie　Wilkes　had　wanted　Fast　Cars　destroyed；　and　so；　to　her；　there　had　been　only　the　one　copy。
　Maybe　I　could　have　saved　the　damn　thing　by　telling　her　there　were　more。　She　would　have　seen　destroying　the　manuscript　was　futile。　She　…　His　breathing；　which　had　been　slowing　toward　sleep；　suddenly　caught　in　his　throat　and　his　eyes　widened。
　Yes；　she　would　have　seen　it　was　futile。　She　would　have　been　forced　to　acknowledge　one　of　those　lines　leading　to　a　place　beyond　her　control。　The　ego　would　be　hurt；　squealing　…　I　have　such　a　temper！
　If　she　had　been　clearly　faced　with　the　fact　that　she　couldn't　destroy　his　〃dirty　book〃；　might　she　not　have　decided　to　destroy　the　creator　of　the　dirty　book　instead？　After　all；　there　was　no　copy　of　Paul　Sheldon。
　His　heart　was　beating　fast。　In　the　other　room　the　clock　began　to　bong；　and　overhead　he　heard　her　thumping　footfalls　cross　his　ceiling。　The　faint　sound　of　her　urinating。　The　toilet　flushing。　The　heavy　pad　of　her　feet　as　she　went　back　to　bed。　The　creak　of　the　springs。
　You　won't　make　me　mad　again；　will　you？
　His　mind　suddenly　tried　to　break　into　a　gallop；　an　overbred　trotter　trying　to　break　stride。　What；　if　anything；　did　all　this　dime…store　psychoanalysis　mean　in　terms　of　his　car？　About　when　it　was　found？　What　did　it　mean　to　him？
　〃Wait　a　minute；〃　he　whispered　in　the　dark。　〃Wait　a　minute；　wait　a　minute；　just　hold　the　phone。　Slow　down。〃　He　put　his　arm　across　his　eyes　again　and　again　conjured　up　the　state　trooper　with　the　dark　sunglasses　and　the　overlong　sideburns。　We've　found　an　overturned　car　halfway　down　Humbuggy　Mountain；　the　state　trooper　was　saying；　and　blah…de…blah…de…blah。
　Only　this　time　Annie　doesn't　invite　him　to　stay　for　coffee。　This　time　she　isn't　going　to　feel　safe　until　he's　out　of　her　house　and　far　down　the　road。　Even　in　the　kitchen；　even　with　two　closed　doors　between　them　and　the　guest…room；　even　with　the　guest　doped　to　the　ears；　the　trooper　might　hear　a　groan。
　If　his　car　was　found；　Annie　Wilkes　would　know　she　was　in　trouble；　wouldn't　she？
　〃Yes；〃　Paul　whispered。　His　legs　were　beginning　to　hurt　again；　but　in　the　dawning　horror　of　this　recognition　he　barely　noticed。
　She　would　be　in　trouble　not　because　she　had　taken　him　to　her　house；　especially　if　it　was　closer　than　Sidewinder　（and　so　Paul　believed　it　to　be）；　for　that　they　would　probably　give　her　a　medal　and　a　lifetime　membership　in　the　Misery　Chastain　Fan　Club　（to　Paul's　endless　chagrin　there　actually　was　such　a　thing）。　The　problem　was；　she　had　taken　him　to　her　house　and　installed　him　in　the　guest…room　and　told　no　one。　No　phone…call　to　the　local　ambulance　service：　〃This　is　Annie　up　on　the　Humbuggy　Mountain　Road　and　I've　got　a　fellow　here；　looks　a　bit　like　King　Kong　used　him　for　a　trampoline。〃　The　problem　was；　she　had　filled　him　full　of　dope　to　which　she　was　certainly　not　supposed　to　have　access　…　not　if　he　was　even　half　as　hooked　as　he　thought　he　was。　The　problem　was；　she　had　followed　the　dope　with　a　weird　sort　of　treatment；　sticking　needles　in　his　arms；　splinting　his　legs　with　sawed…off　pieces　of　aluminum　crutches。　The　problem　was；　Annie　Wilkes　had　been　on　the　stand　up　there　in　Denver　。　。　。　and　not　as　a　supporting　witness；　either；　Paul　thought。　I'd　bet　the　house　and　lot　on　that。
　So　she　watches　the　cop　go　down　the　road　in　his　spandy…clean　cruiser　（spandy…clean　except　for　the　caked　chunks　of　snow　and　salt　nestled　in　the　wheel…wells　and　under　the　bumpers；　that　is）；　and　she　feels　safe　again　。　。　。　but　not　too　safe；　because　now　she　is　like　an　animal　with　its　wind　up。
　Way；　way　up。
　The　cops　will　look　and　look　and　look；　because　he　is　not　just　good　old　Joe　Blow　from　Kokomo；　he　is　Paul　Sheldon；　the　literary　Zeus　from　whose　brow　sprang　Misery　Chastain；　darling　of　the　dump…bins　and　sweetheart　of　the　supermarkets。　Maybe　when　they　don't　find　him　they'll　stop　looking；　or　at　least　look　someplace　else；　but　maybe　one　of　the　Roydmans　saw　her　going　by　that　night　and　saw　something　funny　in　the　back　of　Old　Bessie；　something　wrapped　in　a　quilt；　something　vaguely　manlike。　Even　if　they　hadn't　seen　a　thing；　she　wouldn't　put　it　past　the　Roydmans　to　make　up　a　story　to　get　her　in　trouble；　they　didn't　like　her。
　The　cops　might　e　back；　and　next　time　her　house…guest　might　not　be　so　quiet。
　He　remembered　her　eyes　darting　around　aimlessly　when　the　fire　in　the　barbecue　pot　was　on　the　verge　of　getting　out　of　control。　He　could　see　her　tongue　sticking　her　lips。　He　could　see　her　walking　back　and　forth；　hands　clenching　and　unclenching；　peeking　every　now　and　then　into　the　guest…room　where　he　lay　lost　in　his　cloud。　Every　now　and　then　she　would　utter　〃Goodness！〃　to　the　empty　rooms。
　She　had　stolen　a　rare　bird　with　beautiful　feathers　…　a　rare　bird　which　came　from　Africa。
　And　what　would　they　do　if　they　found　out？
　Why；　put　her　up　on　the　stand　again；　of　course。　Put　her　up　on　the　stand　again　in　Denver。　And　this　time　she　might　not　walk　free。
　He　took　his　arm　away　from　his　eyes。　He　looked　at　the　interlocking　W's　swaying　drunkenly　across　the　ceiling。　He　didn't　need　his　elbow　over　his　eyes　to　see　the　rest。　She　might　hang　on　to　him　for　a　day　or　a　week。　It　might　take　a　follow…up　phone…call　or　visit　to　make　her　decide　to　get　rid　of　her　rara　avis。　But　in　the　end　she　would　do　it；　just　as　wild　dogs　begin　to　bury　their　illicit　kills　after　they　have　been　hunted　awhile。
　She　would　give　him　five　pills　instead　of　two；　or　perhaps　smother　him　with　a　pillow；　perhaps　she　would　simply　shoot　him。　Surely　there　was　a　rifle　around　somewhere　…　almost　everyone　living　in　the　high　country　had　one　…　and　that　would　take　care　of　the　problem。
　No　…　not　the　gun。
　Too　messy。
　Might　leave　evidence。
　None　of　that　had　happened　yet　because　no　one　had　found　the　car。　They　might　be　looking　for　him　in　New　York　or　in　L。A。；　but　no　one　was　looking　for　him　in　Sidewinder；　Colorado。
　But　in　the　spring。
　The　W's　straggled　across　the　ceiling。　Washed。　Wiped。　Wasted。
　The　throbbing　in　his　legs　was　more　insistent；　the　next　time　the　clock　bonged　she　would　e；　but　he　was　almost　afraid　she　would　read　his　thoughts　on　his　face；　like　the　bare　premise　of　a　story　too　gruesome　to　write。　His　eyes　drifted　left。　There　was　a　calendar　on　the　wall。　It　showed　a　boy　riding　a　sled　down　a　hill。　It　was　February　according　to　the　calendar；　but　if　his　calculations　were　right　it　was　already　early　March。　Annie　Wilkes　had　just　forgotten　to　turn　the　page。
　How　long　before　the　melting　snows　revealed　his　Camaro　with　its　New　York　plates　and　its　registration　in　the　glove　partment　proclaiming　the　owner　to　be　Paul　Sheldon？　How　long　before　that　trooper　called　on　her；　or　until　she　read　it　in　the　paper？　How　long　until　the　spring　melt？
　Six　weeks？　Five？
　That　could　be　the　length　of　my　life；　Paul　thought；　and　began　shuddering。　By　then　his　legs　were　fully　awake；　and　it　was　not　until　she　had　e　in　and　given　him　another　dose　of　medicine　that　he　was　able　to　fall　asleep。
　
　
　23
　
　The　next　evening　she　brought　him　the　Royal。　It　was　an　e　model　from　an　era　when　such　things　as　electric　typewriters；　color　TVs；　and　touch…tone　telephones　were　only　science　fiction。　It　was　as　black　and　as　proper　as　a　pair　of　high…button　shoes。　Glass　panels　were　set　into　the　sides；　revealing　the　machine's　levers；　springs；　ratchets；　and　rods。　A　steel　return　lever；　dull　with　disuse；　jutted　to　one　side　like　a　hitchhiker's　thumb。　The　roller　was　dusty；　its　hard　rubber　scarred　and　pitted。　The　letters　ROYAL　ran　across　the　front　of　the　machine　in　a　semicircle。　Grunting；　she　set　it　down　on　the　foot　of　the　bed　between　his　legs　after　holding　it　up　for　his　inspection　for　a　moment。
　He　stared　at　it。
　Was　it　grinning？
　Christ；　it　looked　like　it　was。
　Anyway；　it　already　looked　like　trouble。　The　ribbon　was　a　faded　two…tone；　red　over　black。　He　had　forgotten　there　were　such　ribbons。　The　sight　of　this　one　called　up　no　pleasant　nostalgia。
　〃Well？〃　She　was　smiling　eagerly。　〃What　do　you　think？〃
　〃It's　nice！〃　he　said　at　once。　〃A　real　antique。〃　Her　smile　clouded。　〃I　didn't　buy　it　for　an　antique。　I　bought　it　for　second…hand。　Good　second…hand。〃　He　responded　with　immediate　glibness。　〃Hey！　There　ain't　no　such　thing　as　an　antique　typewriter　…　not　when　you　e　right　down　to　it。　A　good　typewriter　lasts　damn　near　forever。　These　old　office　babies　are　tanks！〃　If　he　could　have　reached　it　he　would　have　patted　it。　If　he　could　have　reached　it　he　would　have　kissed　it。
　Her　smile　returned。　His　heartbeat　slowed　a　little。
　〃I　got　it　at　Used　News。　Isn't　that