sk.misery-第33部分

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　glance　（there　were　drips　of　ice…cream　on　some　of　the　carpeted　stair　levels　and　glazey　smears　of　it　on　the　banister）；　Paul　rolled　down　to　the　door。　He　thought　that　if　there　was　going　to　be　a　way　out　for　him；　tied　to　this　chair　as　he　was；　it　would　be　by　way　of　the　kitchen　door　…　the　one　Annie　used　when　she　went　out　to　feed　the　animals；　the　one　she　galloped　from　when　Mr　Rancho　Grande　showed　up　…　but　he　ought　to　check　this　one。　He　might　get　a　surprise。
　He　didn't。
　The　porch　stairs　were　every　bit　as　steep　as　he　had　feared；　but　even　if　there　had　been　a　wheelchair　ramp　（a　possibility　he　never　would　have　accepted　in　a　spirited　game　of　Can　You？；　even　if　a　friend　had　suggested　it）；　he　couldn't　have　used　it。　There　were　three　locks　on　the　door。　The　police…bar　he　could　have　coped　with。　The　other　two　were　Kreigs；　the　best　locks　in　the　whole　world；　according　to　his　ex…cop　friend　Tom　Twyford。　And　where　were　the　keys？　Umm　。。。　let　me　see。　On　their　way　to　Annie's　Laughing　Place；　maybe？　Yes…siree　Bob！　Give　that　man　a　cigar　and　a　blowtorch　to　light　it　with！
　He　reversed　down　the　hall；　fighting　panic；　reminding；　himself　he　hadn't　expected　much　from　the　front　door　anyway。　He　pivoted　the　chair　once　he　was　in　the　parlor　and　rolled　into　the　kitchen。　This　was　an　old…fashioned　room　with　bright　linoleum　on　the　floor　and　a　pressed…tin　ceiling。　The　refrigerator　was　old　but　quiet。　There　were　three　or　four；　magnets　stuck　to　its　door　…　not　surprisingly；　they　all　looked；　like　candy：　a　piece　of　bubble…gum；　a　Hershey　Bar；　a　Tootsie　Roll。　One　of　the　cabinet　doors　was　open　and　he　could　see　shelves　neatly　covered　with　oilcloth。　There　were　big　window　over　the　sink　and　they　would　let　in　a　lot　of　light　even　on　cloudy　days。　It　should　have　been　a　cheery　kitchen　but　wasn't。　The　open　garbage　can　overflowed　onto　the　floor　and　emitted　the　warm　reek　of　spoiling　food；　but　that　wasn't　the　only　thing　wrong；　or　the　worst　smell。　There　was　another　that　seemed　to　exist　mostly　in　his　mind；　but　which　was　no　less　real　for　that。　It　was　parfum　de　Wilkes；　a　psychic　odor　of　obsession。
　There　were　three　doors　in　the　room；　two　to　the　left　and　one　straight　ahead；　between　the　refrigerator　and　the　pantry　alcove。
　He　went　to　those　on　the　left　first。　One　was　the　kitchen　closet　…　he　knew　that　even　before　he　saw　the　coats；　hats；　scarves；　and　boots。　The　brief；　yapping　squeak　of　the　hinges　was　enough　to　tell　him。　The　other　was　the　one　Annie　used　to　go　out。　And　here　was　another　police…bar　and　two　more　Kreigs。　Roydmans；　stay　out。　Paul；　stay　in。
　He　imagined　her　laughing。
　〃You　fucking　bitch！〃　He　struck　his　fist　against　the　side　of　the　door。　It　hurt；　and　he　pressed　the　side　of　his　hand　against　his　mouth。　He　hated　the　sting　of　tears；　the　momentary　doubling　of　his　vision　when　he　blinked；　but　there　was　no　way　he　could　stop　it。　The　panic　was　yammering　more　loudly　now；　asking　what　was　he　going　to　do；　what　was　he　going　to　do；　for　Christ's　sake；　this　might　be　his　last　chance　…　What　I'm　going　to　do　first　is　a　thorough　job　of　checking　this　situation　out；　he　told　himself　grimly。　If　you　can　stay　cool　for　just　awhile　longer；　that　is。　Think　you　can　do　that；　chickenshit？
　He　wiped　his　eyes　…　crying　was　not　going　to　get　him　out；　of　this　…　and　looked　out　through　the　window　which　made　up　the　top　half　of　the　door。　It　wasn't　really　just　one　window　but　sixteen　small　panes。　He　could　break　the　glass　in　each；　but　he　would　have　to　bust　the　lathes；　too；　and　that　might　take　hours　without　a　saw　…　they　looked　strong。　And　what　then？　A　kamikaze　dive　out　onto　the　back　porch？　A　great　idea。　Maybe　he　could　break　his　back；　and　that　would　take　his　mind　off　his　legs　for　awhile。　And　it　wouldn't　take　long；　lying　out　there　in　the　pelting　rain　before　he　died　of　exposure。　That　would　take　care　of　the　whole　rotten　business。
　No　way。　No　fucking　way。　Maybe　I'm　going　to　punch　out；　but　I　swear　to　God　I'm　not　going　to　do　it　until　I　get　a　chance　to　show　my　number…one　fan　just　how　much　I've　enjoyed　getting　to　know　her。　And　that　isn't　just　a　promise　…　that's　a　sacred　vow。
　The　idea　of　paying　Annie　back　did　more　to　still　his　panic　than　any　amount　of　self…scolding　had　done。　A　little　calmer；　he　flicked　the　switch　beside　the　locked　door。　It　turned　on　an　outside　light；　which　came　in　handy　…　the　last　of　the　daylight　had　drained　away　during　the　time　since　he　had　left　his　room。　Annie's　driveway　was　flooded；　and　her　yard　was　a　quagmire　of　mud；　standing　water；　and　gobbets　of　melting　snow。　By　positioning　his　wheelchair　all　the　way　to　the　left　of　the　door；　he　could　for　the　first　time　see　the　road　which　ran　by　her　place；　although　it　was　really　no　big　deal　…　two…lane　blacktop　between　decaying　snowbanks；　shiny　as　sealskin　and　awash　with　rainwater　and　snowmelt。
　Maybe　she　locked　the　doors　to　keep　the　Roydmans　out；　but　she　sure　didn't　need　to　lock　them　to　keep　me　in。　If　I　got　out　there　in　this　wheelchair；　I'd　be　bogged　to　the　hubcaps　in　five　seconds。　You're　not　going　anywhere；　Paul。　Not　tonight　and　probably　not　for　weeks　…　they'll　be　a　month　into　the　baseball　season　before　the　ground　firms　up　enough　for　you　to　get　out　to　the　road　in　this　wheelchair。　Unless　you　want　to　crash　through　a　window　and　crawl。
　No　…　he　didn't　want　to　do　that。　It　was　too　easy　to　imagine　how　his　shattered　bones　would　feel　after　ten　or　fifteen　minutes　of　wriggling　through　cold　puddles　and　melting　snow；　like　a　dying　tadpole。　And　even　supposing　he　could　make　it　out　to　the　road；　what　were　his　chances　of　flagging　down　a　car？　The　only　two　he'd　ever　heard　out　here；　other　than　Old　Bessie；　had　been　El　Rancho　Grande's　Bel　Air　and　the　car　which　had　scared　the　life　out　of　him　passing　the　house　on　the　first　occasion　he　had　escaped　his　〃guest…room〃。
　He　turned　off　the　outside　light　and　rolled　across　to　the；　other　door；　the　one　between　the　refrigerator　and　the　pantry。　There　were　three　locks　on　this　one　as　well；　and　it　didn't　even　open　on　the　outside　…　or　at　least　not　directly。　There　was　another　light…switch　beside　this　door。　Paul　flicked　it　and　saw　a　neat　shed　addition　which　ran　the　length　of　the　house　on　its　windward　side。　At　one　end　was　a　woodpile　and　a　chopping　block　with　an　axe　buried　in　it。　At　the　other　was　a　work…table　and　tools　hung　on　pegs。　To　its　left　there　was　another　door。　The　bulb　out　there　wasn't　terribly　bright；　but　it　was　bright　enough　for　him　to　see　another　police　bolt　and　another　two　Kreig　locks　on　that　door　as　well。
　The　Roydmans　。　。　。　everybody　。　。　。　all　out　to　get　me　。　。　。
　〃I　don't　know　about　them；〃　he　said　to　the　empty　kitchen；　〃but　I　sure　am。〃　Giving　up　on　the　doors；　he　rolled　into　the　pantry。　Before　he　looked　at　the　food　stored　on　the　shelves；　he　looked　at　the　matches。　There　were　two　cartons　of　paper　book　matches　and　at　least　two　dozen　boxes　of　Diamond　Blue　Tips；　neatly　stacked　up。
　For　a　moment　he　considered　simply　lighting　the　place　on　fire；　began　to　reject　the　idea　as　the　most　ridiculous　yet；　and　then　saw　something　which　made　him　reconsider　it　briefly。　In　here　was　yet　another　door；　and　this　one　had　no　locks　on　it。
　He　opened　it　and　saw　a　set　of　steep；　rickety　stairs　pitching　and　yawing　their　way　into　the　cellar。　An　almost　vicious　smell　of　dampness　and　rotting　vegetables　rose　from　the　dark。　He　heard　low　squeaking　sounds　and　thought　of　her　saying：　They　e　into　the　cellar　when　it　rains。　I　put　down　traps。　I　have　to。
　He　slammed　the　door　shut　in　a　hurry。　A　drop　of　sweat　trickled　down　from　his　temple　and　ran；　stinging；　into　the　corner　of　his　right　eye。　He　knuckled　it　away。　Knowing　that　door　must　lead　to　the　cellar　and　seeing　that　there　were　no　locks　on　it　had　made　the　idea　of　torching　the　place　seem　momentarily　more　rational　…　he　could　maybe　shelter　there。　But　the　stairs　were　too　steep；　the　possibility　of　being　burned　alive　if　Annie's　flaming　house　collapsed　into　the　cellar…hole　before　the　Sidewinder　fire　engines　could　get　here　was　too　real；　and　the　rats　down　there　。　。　。　the　sound　of　the　rats　was　somehow　the　worst。
　How　its　heart　beats！　How　it　struggles　to　get　away！　As　we　do；　Paul。　As　we　do。
　〃Africa；〃　Paul　said；　and　didn't　hear　himself　say　it。　He　began　to　look　at　the　cans　and　bags　of　food　in　the　pantry；　trying　to　assess　what　he　could　take　with　the　least　chance　of　raising　her　suspicions　next　time　she　came　out　here。　Part　of　him　understood　exactly　what　this　assessment　meant：　he　had　given　up　the　idea　of　escape。
　Only　for　the　time　being；　his　troubled　mind　protested。
　No；　a　deeper　voice　responded　implacably。　Forever；　Paul。　Forever。
　〃I　will　never　give　up；〃　he　whispered。　〃Do　you　hear　me？　Never。〃　Oh　no？　the　voice　of　the　cynic　whispered　sardonically。　Well　。　。　。　we'll　see；　won't　we？
　Yes。　They　would　see。
　
　
　17
　
　Annie's　larder　looked　more　like　a　survivalist's　bomb　shelter　than　a　pantry。　He　guessed　that　some　of　this　hoarding　was　a　simple　nod　to　the　realities　of　her　situation：　she　was　a　woman　alone　living　in　the　high　country；　where　a　person　might　reasonably　expect　to　spend　a　certain　period　…　maybe　only　a　day；　but　sometimes　as　long　as　a　week　or　even　two　…　cut　off　from　the　rest　of　the　world。　Probably　even　those　cockadoodie　Roydmans　had　a　pantry　that　would　make　a　homeowner　from　another　part　of　the　country　raise　his　or　her　brows　。　。　。　but　he　doubted　if　the　cockadoodie　Roydmans　or　anyone　else　up　here　had　anything　which　came　close　to　what　he　was　now　looking　at。　This　was　no　pantry；　this　was　a　goddam　supermarket。　He　supposed　there　was　a　certain　symbolism　in　Annie's　pantry　…　the　ranks　of　goods　had　something　to　say　about　the　murkiness　of　the　borderline　between　the　Sovereign　State　of　Reality　and　the　People's　Republic　of　Paranoia。　In　his　current　situation；　however；　such　niceties　hardly　seemed　worth　examination。　Fuck　the　symbolism。　Go　for　the　food。
　Yes；　but　be　careful。　It　wasn't　just　a　matter　of　what　she　might　miss。　He　must　take　no　more　than　he　could　reasonably　hope　to　hide　if　she　came　back　suddenly　。　。　。　and　how　else　did　he　think　she　would　e？　Her　phone　was　dead　and　he　somehow　doubted　if　Annie　would　send　him　a　telegram　or　Flowers　by　Wire。　But　in　the　end　what　she　might　miss　in　here　or　find　in　his　room　hardly　mattered。　After　all；　he　had　to　eat。　He　was　hooked　on　that；　too。
　Sardines。　There　were　lots　of　sardines　in　those　flat　rectangular　cans　with　the　key　under　the　paper。　Good。　He　would　have　some　of　those。　Tins　of　deviled　ham。　No　keys；　but　he　could　open　a　couple　of　cans