sk.dreamcatcher-第112部分

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oved　along　briskly；　praise　God；　following　these　tracks　would　be　a　walk　in　the　park。　'I　don't　think　we　need　him　anymore；　which　I　personally　find　a　great　relief　Go；　Freddy。　Go。'
　　　　The　Humvee　flirted　her　tail　and　then　steadied。　Kurtz　drew　his　nine　and　held　it　against　his　leg。　ing　for　you；　Owen。　ing　for　you；　buck。　And　you　better　get　your　speech　ready　for　God；　because　you're　going　to　be　making　it　just　about　an　hour　from　now。


9

The　office　which　he　had　furnished　so　beautifully　…　furnished　out　of　his　mind　and　his　memories　…　was　now　falling　apart。
　　　　Jonesy　limped　restlessly　back　and　forth；　looking　around　the　room；　lips　pressed　so　tightly　together　they　were　white；　forehead　beaded　with　sweat　even　though　it　had　gotten　damned　cold　in　here；
　　　　This　was　The　Fall　of　the　Office　of　Jonesy　instead　of　the　House　of　Usher。　The　furnace　was　howling　and　clanking　beneath　him；　making　the　floor　shake。　White　stuff　…　frost　crystals；　maybe　…　puffed　in　through　the　vent　and　left　a　powdery　triangular　shape　on　the　wall。　Where　it　touched　it　went　to　work　on　the　wood　paneling；　simultaneously　rotting　it　and　warping　it。　The　pictures　fell　one　by　one；　tumbling　to　the　floor　like　suicides。　The　Eames　chair　…　the　one　he'd　always　wanted；　the　very　one　…　split　in　two　as　if　it　had　been　hacked　by　an　invisible　axe。　The　mahogany　panels　on　the　walls　began　to　split　and　peel　free　like　dead　skin。　The　drawers　juddered　out　of　their　places　in　the　desk　and　clattered　one　by　one　to　the　floor。　The　shutters　Mr　Gray　had　installed　to　block　his　view　of　the　outside　world　were　vibrating　and　shaking；　producing　a　steady　metallic　squalling　that　set　Jonesy's　teeth　on　edge。
　　　　Crying　out　to　Mr　Gray；　demanding　to　know　what　was　going　on；　would　be　useless　。　。　。　and　besides；　Jonesy　had　all　the　information　he　needed。　He　had　slowed　Mr　Gray　down；　but　Mr　Gray　had　first　risen　to　the　challenge　and　then　above　it。　Viva　Mr　Gray；　who　had　either　reached　his　goal　or　almost　reached　it。　As　the　paneling　fell　off　the　walls；　he　could　see　the　dirty　Sheetrock　beneath：　the　walls　of　the　Tracker　Brothers　office　as　four　boys　had　seen　it　in　1978；　lined　up　with　their　foreheads　to　the　glass；　their　new　chum　standing　behind　them　as　bidden；　waiting　for　them　to　be　done　with　whatever　it　was　they　were　doing；　waiting　for　them　to　take　him　home。　Now　another　wood　panel　tore　loose；　ing　off　the　wall　with　a　sound　like　tearing　paper；　and　beneath　it　was　a　bulletin　board　with　a　single　photo；　a　Polaroid；　tacked　to　it。　Not　a　beauty　queen；　not　Tina　Jean　Schlossinger；　but　just　some　woman　with　her　skirt　hiked　to　the　bottom　of　her　panties；　pretty　stupid。　The　nice　rug　on　the　floor　suddenly　shrivelled　like　skin；　revealing　dirty　Tracker　Brothers　tile　beneath；　and　those　white　tadpoles；　scumbags　left　by　couples　who　came　in　here　to　screw　beneath　the　disinterested　gaze　of　the　Polaroid　woman　who　was　no　one；　really；　just　an　artifact　of　a　hollow　past。
　　　　He　paced；　lurching　on　his　bad　hip；　which　hadn't　hurt　this　badly　since　just　after　the　accident；　and　he　understood　all　of　this；　oh　yes　indeed；　you　had　better　believe　it。　His　hip　was　full　of　splinters　and　ground　glass；　his　shoulders　and　neck　ached　with　a　fierce　tiredness。　Mr　Gray　was　beating　his　body　to　death　as　he　made　his　final　charge　and　there　was　nothing　Jonesy　could　do　about　it。
　　　　The　dreamcatcher　was　still　okay。　Swaying　back　and　forth　in　great　looping　arcs；　but　still　okay。　Jonesy　fixed　his　eyes　on　it。　He　had　thought　himself　ready　to　die；　but　he　didn't　want　to　go　like　this；　not　in　this　stinking　office。　Outside　of　it；　they　had　once　done　something　good；　something　almost　noble。　To　die　in　here；　beneath　the　dusty；　indifferent　gaze　of　the　woman　pinned　to　the　bulletin　board　。　。　。　that　didn't　seem　fair。　Never　mind　the　rest　of　the　world；　he；　Gary　Jones　of　Brookline；　Massachusetts；　once　of　Derry；　Maine；　lately　of　the　Jefferson　Tract；　deserved　better。
　　　　'Please；　I　deserve　better　than　this！'　he　cried　to　the　swaying　cobweb　shape　in　the　air；　and　on　the　disintegrating　desk　behind　him；　the　telephone　rang。
　　　　Jonesy　wheeled　around；　groaning　at　the　fiery；　plicated　pain　in　his　hip。　The　phone　on　which　he'd　called　Henry　earlier　had　been　his　office　phone；　the　blue　Trimline。　The　one　on　the　cracked　surface　of　the　desk　now　was　black　and　clunky；　with　a　dial　instead　of　buttons　and　a　sticker　on　it　reading　MAY　THE　FORCE　BE　WITH　YOU。　It　was　the　phone　he'd　had　in　his　childhood　room；　the　one　his　parents　had　given　him　for　his　birthday。　949…7784；　the　number　to　which　he　had　charged　the　call　to　Duddits　all　those　years　ago。
　　　　He　sprang　for　it；　ignoring　his　hip；　praying　the　line　wouldn't　disintegrate　and　disconnect　before　he　could　answer。
　　　　'Hello？　Hello！'　Swaying　back　and　forth　on　the　shaking；　vibrating　floor。　The　whole　office　now　going　up　and　down　like　a　ship　on　a　heavy　sea。
　　　　Of　all　the　voices　he　might　have　expected；　Roberta's　was　the　last。　'Yes；　Doctor；　hold　on　for　your　call。'
　　　　There　was　a　click　so　loud　it　hurt　his　head；　then　silence。　Jonesy　groaned　and　was　about　to　put　the　phone　down　when　there　was　another　click。
　　　　'Jonesy？'　It　was　Henry。　Faint；　but　undoubtedly　Henry。
　　　　'Where　are　you？'　Jonesy　shouted。　'Christ；　Henry；　the　place　is　falling　apart！　I'm　falling　apart！'
　　　　'I'm　in　Gosselin's；'　Henry　said；　'only　I'm　not。　Wherever　you　are；　you're　not。　We're　in　the　hospital　where　they　took　you　after　you　got　hit　。　。　。'　A　crackle　on　the　line；　a　buzz；　and　then　Henry　came　back；　sounding　closer　and　stronger。　Sounding　like　a　lifeline　in　all　this　disintegration。　not　there；　either！'
　　　　'What？'
　　　　'We're　in　the　dreamcatcher；　Jonesy！　We're　in　the　dreamcatcher　and　we　always　were！　Ever　since　'78！　Duddits　is　the　dreamcatcher；　but　he's　dying！　He's　holding　on；　but　I　don't　know　how　long　。　。　。　'　Another　click　followed　by　another　buzz；　bitter　and　electric。
　　　　'Henry！　Henry！'
　　　　'　。　。　。　e　out！'　Faint　again　now。　Henry　sounded　desperate。　'You　have　to　e　out；　Jonesy！　Meet　me！　Run　along　the　dreamcatcher　and　meet　me！　There's　still　time！　We　can　take　this　son　of　a　bitch！　Do　you　hear　me？　We　can…'
　　　　There　was　another　click　and　the　phone　went　dead。　The　body　of　his　childhood　phone　cracked；　split　open；　and　vomited　out　a　senseless　tangle　of　wires。　All　of　them　were　red…orange；　all　of　them　were　contaminated　with　the　byrus。
　　　　Jonesy　dropped　the　phone　and　looked　up　at　the　swaying　dreamcatcher；　that　ephemeral　cobweb。　He　remembered　a　line　they'd　been　fond　of　as　kids；　pulled　out　of　some　edian's　routine：　Wherever　you　are；　there　you　are。　That　had　been　right　up　there　with　Same　shit；　different　day；　had　perhaps　even　taken　over　first　place　as　they　grew　older　and　began　to　consider　themselves　sophisticated。　Wherever　you　are；　there　you　are。　Only　according　to　Henry's　call　just　now；　that　wasn't　true。　Wherever　they　thought　they　were；　they　weren't。
　　　　They　were　in　the　dreamcatcher。
　　　　He　noted　that　the　one　swaying　in　the　air　above　the　ruins　of　his　desk　had　four　central　spokes　radiating　out　from　the　center。　Many　connecting　threads　were　held　together　by　those　spokes；　but　what　held　the　spokes　together　was　the　center　…　the　core　where　they　merged。
　　　　Run　along　the　dreamcatcher　and　meet　me！　There's　still　time！
　　　　Jonesy　turned　and　sprinted　for　the　door。


10

Mr　Gray　was　also　at　a　door　…　the　one　into　the　shaft　house。　It　was　locked。　Considering　what　had　happened　with　the　Russian　woman；　this　didn't　surprise　him　much。　Locking　the　barn　door　after　the　horse　had　been　stolen　was　Jonesy's　phrase　for　it。　If　he'd　had　one　of　the　kim；　this　would　have　been　easy。　As　it　was；　he　wasn't　too　perturbed。　One　of　the　interesting　side　effects　of　having　emotions；　he　had　discovered；　was　that　they　caused　you　to　think　ahead；　plan　ahead；　so　that　you　wouldn't　trigger　an　all…out　emotional　attack　if　things　went　wrong。　
　　　　It　might　be　one　reason　these　creatures　had　survived　as　long　as　they　had。
　　　　Jonesy's　suggestion　that　he　give　in　to　all　this　…　go　native　had　been　his　phrase　for　it；　one　that　struck　Mr　Gray　as　both　mysterious　and　exotic　…　wouldn't　quite　leave　his　mind；　but　Mr　Gray　pushed　it　aside。　He　would　acplish　his　mission　here；　satisfy　the　imperative。　After　that；　who　knew？　Bacon　sandwiches；　perhaps。　And　what　Jonesy's　mind　identified　as　a　'cocktail'。　This　was　a　cool　and　refreshing　drink；　slightly　intoxicating…
　　　　A　gust　of　wind　rolled　off　the　Reservoir；　slapping　wet　snow　into　his　face；　momentarily　blinding　him。　It　was　like　the　snap　of　a。　wet　towel；　returning　him　to　the　here　and　now；　where　he　had　a　job　to　finish。
　　　　He　sidled　to　the　left　on　the　rectangular　granite　stoop；　slipped；　then　dropped　to　his　knees；　ignoring　the　howl　from　Jonesy's　hip。　He　hadn't　e　all　this　way　…　black　light…years　and　white　miles　…　either　to　fall　back　down　the　steps　and　break　his　neck　or　to　tumble　into　the　Quabbin　and　die　of　hypothermia　in　that　chilly　water。
　　　　The　stoop　had　been　placed　atop　a　mound　of　crushed　stone。　Leaning　over　the　left　side　of　the　stoop；　he　brushed　snow　away　and　began　feeling　for　a　loose　chunk。　There　were　windows　flanking　the　locked　door；　narrow　but　not　too　narrow。
　　　　Sound　was　tamped　down　and　flattened　by　the　heavy　fall　of　wet　snow；　but　he　could　hear　the　sound　of　an　approaching　motor。　There　had　been　another；　as　well；　but　that　one　had　already　stopped；　probably　at　the　end　of　East　Street。　They　were　ing；　but　they　were　too　late。　It　was　a　mile　along　the　path；　which　was　densely　overgrown　and　slippery　underfoot。　By　the　time　they　got　here　the　dog　would　be　down　the　shaft；　drowning　and　delivering　the　byrum　into　the　aqueduct　at　the　same　time。
　　　　He　found　a　loose　rock　and　pulled　it　free；　working　carefully　so　as　not　to　dislodge　the　pulsing　body　of　the　dog　around　his　shoulders。　He　backed　away　from　the　edge　on　his　knees；　then　tried　to　get　to　his　feet。　At　first　he　couldn't。　The　ball　of　Jonesy's　hip　had　swelled　tight　again。　He　finally　lurched　upright；　although　the　pain　was　incredible；　seeming　to　go　all　the　way　up　to　his　teeth　and　his　temples。
　　　　He　stood　for　a　moment；　holding　Jonesy's　bad　right　leg　a　little　off　the　ground　like　a　horse　with　a　stone　in　its　hoof；　bracing　himself　against　the　locked　shaft…house　door。　When　the　pain　had　abated　somewhat；　he　used　the　rock　to　beat　the　glass　out　of　the　window　to　the　left　of　the　door。　He　cut　Jonesy's　hand　in　several　places；　once　deeply；　and　several　cracked　panes　in　the　upper　half　of　the　window　hung　over　the　lower　half　like　a　cut…rate　guillotine；　bu