sk.dreamcatcher-第20部分

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　　　　Only　Jonesy　didn't　think　it　was　his　nose　that　had　been　bleeding。


3

Of　all　the　things　in　his　life　he　hadn't　wanted　to　do　…　calling　his　brother　Mike　to　tell　him　Ma　had　died　of　a　heart　attack；　telling　Carla　she　had　to　do　something　about　the　booze　and　all　the　prescriptions　or　he　was　going　to　leave　her；　telling　Big　Lou；　his　cabin　counselor　at　Camp　Agawam；　that　he　had　wet　his　bed　…　crossing　the　big　central　room　at　Hole　in　the　Wall　to　that　closed　bathroom　door　was　the　hardest。　It　was　like　walking　in　a　nightmare　where　you　seem　to　cover　ground　at　the　same　dreamy；　underwater　pace　no　matter　how　fast　you　move　your　legs。
　　　　In　bad　dreams　you　never　got　to　where　you're　going；　but　they　made　it　to　the　other　side　of　the　room　and　so　Jonesy　supposed　it　wasn't　a　dream　after　all。　They　stood　looking　down　at　the　splatters　of　blood。　They　weren't　very　big；　the　largest　the　size　of　a　dime。
　　　　'He　must　have　lost　another　tooth；'　Jonesy　said；　still　whispering。　'That's　probably　it。'
　　　　The　Beav　looked　at　him；　one　eyebrow　raised。　Then　he　went　to　the　bedroom　door　and　looked　in。　After　a　moment　he　turned　to　Jonesy　and　curled　his　finger　in　a　beckoning　gesture。　Jonesy　went　to　where　Beaver　stood　in　a　kind　of　sidle；　not　wanting　to　lose　sight　of　the　closed　bathroom　door。
　　　　In　the　bedroom　the　covers　had　been　thrown　all　the　way　back　onto　the　floor；　as　if　McCarthy　had　risen　suddenly；　urgently。　The　shape　of　his　head　was　still　in　the　middle　of　the　pillow　and　the　shape　of　his　body　still　lay　printed　on　the　sheet。　Also　printed　on　the　sheet；　about　halfway　down；　was　a　large　bloody　blotch。　Soaking　into　the　blue　sheet；　it　looked　purple。
　　　　'Funny　place　to　lose　a　tooth　from；'　Beaver　whispered。　He　bit　down　on　the　toothpick　in　his　mouth　and　the　ragged　front　half　of　it　fell　on　the　doorsill。　'Maybe　he　was　hoping　for　a　quarter　from　the　Ass　Fairy。'
　　　　Jonesy　didn't　respond。　He　pointed　to　the　left　of　the　doorway；　instead。　There；　in　a　tangle；　were　the　bottoms　of　McCarthy's　longjohns　and　the　jockey　briefs　he'd　been　wearing　beneath　them。　Both　were　matted　with　blood。　The　jockeys　had　caught　the　worst　of　it；　if　not　for　the　waistband　and　the　cotton　high　up　on　the　front；　you　might　have　thought　they　were　a　racy；　jaunty　red；　the　kind　of　shorts　a　devotee　of　the　Penthouse　Forum　might　put　on　if　he　was　expecting　to　get　laid　when　the　date　was　over。
　　　　'Go　look　in　the　chamber　pot；'　Beaver　whispered。
　　　　'Why　don't　we　just　knock　on　the　bathroom　door　and　ask　him　how　he　is？'
　　　　'Because　I　want　to　know　what　to　fucking　expect；'　Beaver　replied　in　a　vehement　whisper。　He　patted　his　chest；　then　spit　out　the　ragged　remains　of　his　latest　toothpick。　'Man；　my　ticker's　goin　nuts。'
　　　　Jonesy's　own　heart　was　racing；　and　he　could　feel　sweat　running　down　his　face。　Nevertheless　he　stepped　into　the　room。　The　cold　fresh　air　ing　in　the　back　door　had　cleaned　out　the　main　room　pretty　well；　but　the　stench　in　here　was　foul　…　shit　and　mine…gas　and　ether。　Jonesy　felt　the　little　bit　of　food　he'd　eaten　take　an　uneasy　lurch　in　his　stomach　and　willed　it　to　stay　where　it　was。　He　approached　the　chamber　pot　and　at　first　couldn't　make　himself　look　in。　Half　a　dozen　horror…movie　images　of　what　he　might　see　danced　in　his　head。　Organs　floating　in　blood　soup。　Teeth。　A　severed　head。
　　　　'Go　on！'　Beaver　whispered。
　　　　Jonesy　squeezed　his　eyes　shut；　bent　his　head；　held　his　breath；　then　opened　his　eyes　again。　There　was　nothing　but　clean　china　gleaming　in　the　glow　thrown　by　the　overhead　light。　The　chamber　pot　was　empty。　He　released　his　breath　in　a　sigh　through　his　clenched　teeth；　then　walked　back　to　the　Beav；　avoiding　the　splashes　of　blood　on　the　floor。
　　　　Nothing；'　he　said。　'Now　e　on；　let's　stop　screwing　around。'　They　walked　past　the　closed　door　of　the　linen　closet　and　regarded　the　closed　pine…paneled　door　to　the　john。　Beaver　looked　at　Jonesy。　Jonesy　shook　his　head。　'It's　your　turn；'　he　whispered。　'I　looked　in　the　thunderjug。'
　　　　'You　found　him；'　Beaver　whispered　back。　His　jaw　was　set　stubbornly。　'You　do　it。'
　　　　Now　Jonesy　was　hearing　something　else　…　hearing　it　without　hearing　it；　exactly；　partly　because　this　sound　was　more　familiar；　mostly　because　he　was　so　fiercely　fixed　on　McCarthy；　the　man　he　had　almost　shot。　A　whup…whup…whup　sound；　faint　but　growing　louder。　ing　this　way。
　　　　'Well　fuck　this；'　Jonesy　said；　and　although　he　only　spoke　in　a　normal　tone　of　voice；　it　was　loud　enough　to　make　them　both　jump　a　little。　He　rapped　a　knuckle　on　the　door。　'Mr　McCarthy！　Pick！　Are　you　all　right　in　there？'
　　　　He　won't　answer；　Jonesy　thought。　He　won't　answer　because　he's　dead。　Dead　and　sitting　on　the　throne；　just　like　Elvis。
　　　　But　McCarthy　wasn't　dead。　He　groaned；　then　said：　'I'm　a　little　sick；　fellows。　I　need　to　move　my　bowels。　If　I　can　move　my　bowels；　I'll　be…'　There　was　another　groan；　then　another　fart。　This　one　was　low；　almost　liquid。　The　sound　made　Jonesy　grimace。　'…I'll　be　all　right；'　McCarthy　finished。　To　Jonesy；　the　man　didn't　sound　on　the　same　continent　with　all　right。　He　sounded　out　of　breath　and　in　pain。　As　if　to　underline　this；　McCarthy　groaned　again；　louder。　There　was　another　of　those　liquid　ripping　sounds；　and　then　McCarthy　cried　out。
　　　　'McCarthy！'　Beaver　tried　the　doorknob　but　it　wouldn't　turn。　McCarthy；　their　little　gift　from　the　woods；　had　locked　it　from　the　inside。　'Rick！'　The　Beav　rattled　the　knob。　'Open　up；　man！'　Beaver　was　trying　to　sound　lighthearted；　as　if　the　whole　thing　was　a　big　joke；　a　camp　prank；　which　only　made　him　sound　more　scared。
　　　　'I'm　okay；'　McCarthy　said。　He　was　panting　now。　'I　just　。　。　。　fellows；　I　just　need　to　make　a　little　room。'　There　came　the　sound　of　more　flatulence。　It　was　ridiculous　to　think　of　what　they　were　hearing　as　'passing　gas'　or　'breaking　wind'　…　those　were　airy　phrases；　light　as　meringue。　The　sounds　ing　from　behind　the　closed　door　were　brutal　and　meaty；　like　ripping　flesh。
　　　　'McCarthy！'　Jonesy　said。　He　knocked。　'Let　us　in！'　But　did　he　want　to　go　in？　He　did　not。　He　wished　McCarthy　had　stayed　lost　or　been　found　by　someone　else。　Worse；　the　amygdala　in　the　base　of　his　brain；　that　unapologetic　reptile；　wished　he　had　shot　McCarthy　to　begin　with。　'Keep　it　simple；　stupid；'　as　they　said　in　Carla's　N。A。　program。　'McCarthy！'
　　　　'Go　away！'　McCarthy　called　with　weak　vehemence。　'Can't　you　go　away　and　let　a　fellow　let　a　fellow　。　。　。　make　a　little　number　two？　Gosh！'
　　　　Whup…whup…whup：　louder　and　closer　now。
　　　　'Rick！'　Now　it　was　the　Beav。　Holding　onto　the　light　tone　with　a　kind　of　desperation；　like　a　climber　in　trouble　holding　onto　his　rope。　'Where　you　bleedin　from；　buddy？'
　　　　'Bleeding？'　McCarthy　sounded　honestly　puzzled。　'I'm　not　bleeding。'
　　　　Jonesy　and　Beaver　exchanged　a　scared　glance。
　　　　WHUP…WHUP…WHUP！
　　　　The　sound　had　finally　gotten　Jonesy's　full　attention；　and　what　he　felt　was　enormous　relief　'That's　a　helicopter；'　he　said。　'Bet　they're　looking　for　him。'
　　　　'You　think　so？'　Beaver　wore　the　expression　of　a　man　hearing　something　too　good　to　be　true。
　　　　'Yeah。'　Jonesy　supposed　the　people　in　the　chopper　could　be　chasing　the　footlights　in　the　sky　or　trying　to　figure　out　what　the　animals　were　up　to；　but　he　didn't　want　to　think　about　those　things；　didn't　care　about　those　things。　What　he　cared　about　was　getting　Rick　McCarthy　off　the　hopper；　off　his　hands；　and　into　a　hospital　in　Machias　or　Derry。　'Go　on　out　there　and　flag　them　down。'
　　　　'What　if…'
　　　　WHUP！　WHUP！　WHUP！　And　from　behind　the　door　there　came　more　of　those　wrenching；　liquid　sounds；　followed　by　another　cry　from　McCarthy。
　　　　'Get　out　there！'　Jonesy　shouted。　'Flag　those　fuckers　down！　I　don't　care　if　you　have　to　drop　trou　and　dance　the　hootchie…koo；　just　get　them　to　land！'
　　　　'Okay…'　Beaver　had　started　to　turn　away。　Now　he　jerked　and　screamed。
　　　　A　number　of　things　Jonesy　had　been　quite　successfully　not　thinking　about　suddenly　leaped　out　of　the　closet　and　came　running　into　the　light；　capering　and　leering。　When　he　wheeled　around　however；　all　he　saw　was　a　doe　standing　in　the　kitchen　with　its　head　extended　over　the　counter；　examining　them　with　its　mild　brown　eyes。　Jonesy　took　a　deep；　gasping　breath　and　slumped　back　against　the　wall。
　　　　'Eat　snot　and　rot；'　Beaver　breathed。　Then　he　advanced　on　the　doe；　clapping　his　hands。　'Bug　out；　Mabel！　Don't　you　know　what　time　of　year　this　is？　Go　on！　Put　an　egg　in　your　shoe　and　beat　it！　Make　like　an　amoeba　and　split！'
　　　　The　deer　stayed　where　she　was　for　a　moment；　eyes　widening　in　an　expression　of　alarm　that　was　almost　human。　Then　she　whirled　around；　her　head　skimming　the　line　of　pots　and　ladles　and　tongs　hanging　over　the　stove。　They　clanged　together　and　some　fell　from　their　hooks；　adding　to　the　clangor。　Then　she　was　out　the　door；　little　white　tail　flipping。
　　　　Beaver　followed；　pausing　long　enough　to　look　at　the　cluster　of　droppings　on　the　linoleum　with　a　jaundiced　eye。


4

The　mixed　migration　of　animals　had　pretty　well　dried　up　to　stragglers。　The　doe　Beav　had　scared　out　of　their　kitchen　leaped　over　a　limping　fox　that　had　apparently　lost　one　paw　to　a　trap　and　then　disappeared　into　the　woods。　Then；　from　above　the　low…hanging　clouds　just　beyond　the　snowmobile　shed；　a　lumbering　helicopter　the　size　of　a　city　bus　appeared。　It　was　brown；　with　the　letters　ANG　printed　on　the　side　in　white。
　　　　Ang？　Beaver　thought。　What　the　hell　is　Ang？　Then　he　realized：　Air　National　Guard；　probably　out　of　Bangor。
　　　　It　dipped；　nose…heavy。　Beaver　stepped　into　the　back　yard；　waving　his　arms　over　his　head。　'Hey！'　he　shouted。　'Hey；　little　help　here！　Little　help；　guys！'
　　　　The　helicopter　descended　until　it　was　no　more　than　seventy…five　feet　off　the　ground；　close　enough　to　raise　the　fresh　snow　in　a　cyclone。　Then　it　moved　toward　him；　carrying　the　snow　cyclone　with　it。
　　　　'Hey！　We　got　a　hurt　guy　here！　Hurt　guy！'　jumping　up　and　down　now　like　one　of　those　numbass　bootscooters　on　The　Nashville　Network；　feeling　like　a　jerk　but　doing　it　anyway。　The　chopper　drifted　toward　him；　low　but　not　ing　any　lower；　not　showing　any　sign　of　actually　landing；　and　a　horrid　idea　filled　him。　Beav　didn't　know　if　it　was　something　he　was　getting　from　the　guys　in　the　chopper　or　just　paranoia。　All　he　could　be　sure　of　was　that　he　suddenly　felt　like　something　pinned　to　the　center　ring　of　a　target　in　a　shooting　gallery：　hit　the　Beaver　and　win　a　clock…radio。
　　　　The　chopper's　side　door　slid　back。　A　man　holding　a