sk.theshining-第78部分

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　blue　mittens　dropped　into　Hallorann's　lap。　〃You'll　need　em　when　you　go　off　the　road　again；　I　guess。　Cold　out。　You　wear　em　unless　you　want　to　spend　the　rest　of　your　life　pickin　your　nose　with　a　crochetin　hook。　And　you　send　em　back。　My　wife　knitted　em　and　I'm　partial　to　em。　Name　and　address　is　sewed　right　into　the　linin。　I'm　Howard　Cottrell；　by　the　way。　You　just　send　em　back　when　you　don't　need　em　anymore。　And　I　don't　want　to　have　to　go　payin　no　postage　due；　mind。〃
　　〃All　right；〃　Hallorann　said。　〃Thanks。　One　hell　of　a　lot。〃
　　〃You　be　careful。　I'd　take　you　myself；　but　I'm　busy　as　a　cat　in　a　mess　of　guitar　strings。〃
　　〃That's　okay。　Thanks　again。〃　He　started　to　roll　up　the　window；　but　Cottrell　stopped　him。
　　〃When　you　get　to　Sidewinder…if　you　get　to　Sidewinder…you　go　to　Durkin's　Conoco。　It's　right　next　to　the　li'brey。　Can't　miss　it。　You　ask　for　Larry　Durkin。
　　Tell　him　Howie　Cottrell　sent　you　and　you　want　to　rent　one　of　his　snowmobiles。
　　You　mention　my　name　and　show　those　mittens；　you'll　get　the　cut　rate。〃
　　〃Thanks　again；〃　Hallorann　said。
　　Cottrell　nodded。　〃It's　funny。　Ain't　no　way　you　could　know　someone's　in　trouble　up　there　at　the　Overlook　。　。　。　the　phone's　out；　sure　as　hell。　But　I　believe　you。
　　Sometimes　I　get　feelins。〃　Hallorann　nodded。　〃Sometimes　I　do；　too。〃
　　〃Yeah。　I　know　you　do。　But　you　take　care。〃
　　〃I　will。〃　Cottrell　disappeared　into　the　blowing　dimness　with　a　final　wave；　his　engineer　cap　still　mounted　perkily　on　his　head。　Hallorann　got　going　again；　the　chains　flailing　at　the　snowcover　on　the　road；　finally　digging　in　enough　to　start　the　Buick　moving。　Behind　him；　Howard　Cottrell　gave　a　final　good…luck　blast　on　his　plow's　airhorn；　although　it　was　really　unnecessary；　Hallorann　could　feel　him　wishing　him　good　luck。
　　That's　two　shines　in　one　day；　he　thought；　and　that　ought　to　be　some　kind　of　good　omen。　But　he　distrusted　omens；　good　or　bad。　And　meeting　two　people　with　the　shine　in　one　day　（when　he　usually　didn't　run　across　more　than　four　or　five　in　the　course　of　a　year）　might　not　mean　anything。　That　feeling　of　finality；　a　feeling　（like　things　are　all　wrapped　up）　he　could　not　pletely　define　was　still　very　much　with　him。　It　was　The　Buick　wanted　to　skid　sideways　around　a　tight　curve　and　Hallorann　jockeyed　it　carefully；　hardly　daring　to　breathe。　He　turned　on　the　radio　again　and　it　was　Aretha；　and　Aretha　was　just　fine。　He'd　share　his　Hertz　Buick　with　her　any　day。
　　Another　gust　of　wind　struck　the　car；　making　it　rock　and　slip　around。　Hallorann　cursed　it　and　hunched　more　closely　over　the　wheel。　Aretha　finished　her　song　and　then　the　jock　was　on　again；　telling　him　that　driving　today　was　a　good　way　to　get　killed。
　　Hallorann　snapped　the　radio　off。
　　
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　　He　did　make　it　to　Sidewinder；　although　he　was　four　and　a　half　hours　on　the　road　between　Estes　Park　and　there。　By　the　time　he　got　to　the　Upland　Highway　it　was　full　dark；　but　the　snowstorm　showed　no　sign　of　abating。　Twice　he'd　had　to　stop　in　front　of　drifts　that　were　as　high　as　his　car's　hood　and　wait　for　the　plows　to　e　along　and　knock　holes　in　them。　At　one　of　the　drifts　the　plow　had　e　up　on　his　side　of　the　road　and　there　had　been　another　close　call。　The　driver　had　merely　swung　around　his　car；　not　getting　out　to　chew　the　fat；　but　he　did　deliver　one　of　the　two　finger　gestures　that　all　Americans　above　the　age　of　ten　recognize；　and　it　was　not　the　peace　sign。
　　It　seemed　that　as　he　drew　closer　to　the　Overlook；　his　need　to　hurry　became　more　and　more　pulsive。　He　found　himself　glancing　at　his　wristwatch　almost　constantly。　The　hands　seemed　to　be　flying　along。
　　Ten　minutes　after　he　had　turned　onto　the　Upland；　he　passed　two　signs。　The　whooping　wind　had　cleared　both　of　their　snow　pack　so　he　was　able　to　read　them。
　　SIDEWINDER　10；　the　first　said。　The　second：　ROAD　CLOSED　12　MILES　AHEAD　DURING　WINTER　MONTHS。
　　〃Larry　Durkin；〃　Hallorann　muttered　to　himself。　His　dark　face　was　strained　and　tense　in　the　muted　green　glow　of　the　dashboard　instruments。　It　was　ten　after　six。　〃The　Conoco　by　the　library。　Larry…〃　And　that　was　when　it　struck　him　full…force；　the　smell　of　oranges　and　the　thought…force；　heavy　and　hateful；　murderous：　（GET　OUT　OF　HERE　YOU　DIRTY　NIGGER　THIS　IS　NONE　OF　YOUR　BUSINESS　YOU　NIGGER　TURN　AROUND　TURN　AROUND　OR　WE'LL　KILL　YOU　HANG　YOU　UP　FROM　A　TREE　LIMB　YOU　FUCKING　JUNGLE…BUNNY　COON　AND　THEN　BURN　THE　BODY　THAT'S　WHAT　WE　DO　WITH　NIGGERS　SO　TURN　AROUND　NOW）　Hallorann　screamed　in　the　close　confines　of　the　car。　The　message　did　not　e　to　him　in　words　but　in　a　series　of　rebuslike　images　that　were　slammed　into　his　head　with　terrific　force。　He　took　his　hands　from　the　steering　wheel　to　blot　the　pictures　out。
　　Then　the　car　smashed　broadside　into　one　of　the　embankments；　rebounded；　slewed　halfway　around；　and　came　to　a　stop。　The　rear　wheels　spun　uselessly。
　　Hallorann　snapped　the　gearshift　into　park；　and　then　covered　his　face　with　his　hands。　He　did　not　precisely　cry；　what　escaped　him　was　an　uneven　huh…huh…huh　sound。　His　chest　heaved。　He　knew　that　if　that　blast　had　taken　him　on　a　stretch　of　road　with　a　dropoff　on　one　side　or　the　other；　he　might　well　be　dead　now。
　　Maybe　that　had　been　the　idea。　And　it　might　hit　him　again；　at　any　time。　He　would　have　to　protect　against　it。　He　was　surrounded　by　a　red　force　of　immense　power　that　might　have　been　memory。　He　was　drowning　in　instinct。
　　He　took　his　hands　away　from　his　face　and　opened　his　eyes　cautiously。　Nothing。
　　If　there　was　something　trying　to　scare　him　again；　it　wasn't　getting　through。　He　was　closed　off。
　　Had　that　happened　to　the　boy？　Dear　God；　had　that　happened　to　the　little　boy？
　　And　of　all　the　images；　the　one　that　bothered　him　the　roost　was　that　dull　whacking　sound；　like　a　hammer　splatting　into　thick　cheese。　What　did　that　mean？　。
　　（Jesus；　not　that　little　boy。　Jesus；　please。）　He　dropped　the　gearshift　lever　into　low　range　and　fed　the　engine　gas　a　little　at　a　time。　The　wheels　spun；　caught；　spun；　and　caught　again。　The　Buick　began　to　move；　its　headlights　cutting　weakly　through　the　swirling　snow。　He　looked　at　his　watch。　Almost　six…thirty　now。　And　he　was　beginning　to　feel　that　was　very　late　indeed。
　　　
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　　Wendy　Torrance　stood　indecisive　in　the　middle　of　the　bedroom；　looking　at　her　son；　who　had　fallen　fast　asleep。
　　Half　an　hour　ago　the　sounds　had　ceased。　All　of　them；　all　at　once。　The　elevator；　the　party；　the　sound　of　room　doors　opening　and　closing。　Instead　of　easing　her　mind　it　made　the　tension　that　had　been　building　in　her　even　worse；　it　was　like　a　malefic　hush　before　the　storm's　final　brutal　push。　But　Danny　had　dozed　off　almost　at　once；　first　into　a　light；　twitching　doze；　and　in　the　last　ten　minutes　or　so　a　heavier　sleep。　Even　looking　directly　at　him　she　could　barely　see　the　slow　rise　and　fall　of　his　narrow　chest。
　　She　wondered　when　he　had　last　gotten　a　full　night's　sleep；　one　without　tormenting　dreams　or　long　periods　of　dark　wakefulness；　listening　to　revels　that　had　only　bee　audible…and　visible…to　her　in　the　last　couple　of　days；　as　the　Overlook's　grip　on　the　three　of　them　tightened。
　　（Real　psychic　phenomena　or　group　hypnosis？）　She　didn't　know；　and　didn't　think　it　mattered。　What　had　been　happening　was　just　as　deadly　either　way。　She　looked　at　Danny　and　thought　（God　grant　he　lie　still）　that　if　he　was　undisturbed；　he　might　sleep　the　rest　of　the　night　through。
　　Whatever　talent　he　had；　he　was　still　a　small　boy　and　he　needed　his　rest。
　　It　was　Jack　she　had　begun　to　worry　about。；　She　grimaced　with　sudden　pain；　took　her　hand　away　from　her　mouth；　and　saw　she　had　torn　off　one　of　her　fingernails。　And　her　nails　were　one　thing　she'd　always　tried　to　keep　nice。　They　weren't　long　enough　to　be　called　hooks；　but　still　nicely　shaped　and　（and　what　are　you　worrying　about　your　fingernails　for？）　She　laughed　a　little；　but　it　was　a　shaky　sound；　without　amusement。
　　First　Jack　had　stopped　howling　and　battering　at　the　door。　Then　the　party　had　begun　again　（or　did　it　ever　stop？　did　it　sometimes　just　drift　into　a　slightly　different　angle　of　time　where　they　weren't　meant　to　hear　it？）　counterpointed　by　the　crashing；　banging　elevator。　Then　that　had　stopped。　In　that　new　silence；　as　Danny　had　been　falling　asleep；　she　had　fancied　she　heard　low；　conspiratorial　voices　ing　from　the　kitchen　almost　directly　below　them。
　　At　first　she　had　dismissed　it　as　the　wind；　which　could　mimic　many　different　human　vocal　ranges；　from　a　papery　deathbed　whisper　around　the　doors　and　window　frames　to　a　full…out　scream　around　the　eaves　。　。　。　the　sound　of　a　woman　fleeing　a　murderer　in　a　cheap　melodrama。　Yet；　sitting　stiffly　beside　Danny；　the　idea　that　it　was　indeed　voices　became　more　and　more　convincing。；　Jack　and　someone　else；　discussing　his　escape　from　the　pan…　try。
　　Discussing　the　murder　of　his　wife　and　son。
　　It　would　be　nothing　new　inside　these　walls；　murder　had　been　done　here　before。
　　She　had　gone　to　the　heating　vent　and　had　placed　her　ear　against　it；　but　at　that　exact　moment　the　furnace　had　e　on；　and　any　sound　was　lost　in　the　rush　of　warm　air　ing　up　from　the　basement。　When　the　furnace　had　kicked　off　again；　five　minutes　ago；　the　place　was　pletely　silent　except　for　the　wind；　the　gritty　spatter　of　snow　against　the　building；　and　the　occasional　groan　of　a　board。
　　She　looked　down　at　her　ripped　fingernail。　Small　beads　of　blood　were　oozing　up　from　beneath　it。
　　（lack's　gotten　out。）　（Don't　talk　nonsense。）　（Yes；　he's　out。　He's　gotten　a　knife　from　the　kitchen　or　maybe　the　meat　cleaver。　He's　on　his　way　up　here　right　now；　walking　along　the　sides　of　the　risers　so　the　stairs　won't　creak。）　（！　You're　insane　！）　Her　lips　were　trembling；　and　for　a　moment　it　seemed　that　she　must　have　cried　the　words　out　loud。　But　the　silence　held。
　　She　felt　watched。
　　She　whirled　around　and　stared　at　the　night…blackened　window；　and　a　hideous　white　face　with　circles　of　darkness　for　eyes　was　gibbering　in　at　her；　the　face　of　a　monstrous　lunatic　that　had　been　hiding　in　these　groaning　walls　all　along…　It　was　only　a　pattern　of　frost　on　the　outside　of　the　glass。
　　She　let　her　breath　out　in　a　long；　susurrating　whisper　of　fear；　and　it　seemed　to　her　that　she　heard；　quite　clearly　this　time；　amused　titters　from　somewhere。
　　（You're　jumping　at　shadows。　It's　bad　enough　without　that。　By　to