sk.dreamcatcher-第26部分

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　　　　Except　she　hadn't　been　pretty；　not　pretty　at　all。　One　heavyset　smelly　mama　was　what　she'd　been；　and　now　she　was　in　Pete　Moore's　less　than　reliable　care。
　　　　Six。　Six。　Six　more　miles　to　Banbury　Cross。
　　　　Jogging　steadily　…　as　steadily　as　was　possible；　given　the　footing　…　and　hearing　strange　voices　in　his　head。　Except　only　one　of　them　was　really　strange；　and　that　one　wasn't　a　voice　at　all　but　a　kind　of　hum　with　a　rhythmic　beat
　　　　（whose　little　girl；　whose　little　girl；　pretty　Becky　Shue）
　　　　caught　in　it。　The　rest　were　voices　he　knew；　or　voices　his　friends　knew。　One　was　a　voice　Jonesy　had　told　him　about；　a　voice　he'd　heard　after　his　accident　and　associated　with　all　his　pain：　Please　stop；　I　can't　stand　it；　give　me　a　shot；　where's　Marcy。
　　　　He　heard　Beaver's　voice：　Go　look　in　the　chamber　pot。
　　　　Jonesy；　answering：　Why　don't　we　just　knock　on　the　bathroom　door　and　ask　him　how　he　is？
　　　　A　stranger's　voice　saying　that　if　he　could　just　do　a　number　two　he'd　be　okay　。　。　。
　　　　。。。　only　he　was　no　stranger；　he　was　Rick；　pretty　Becky's　friend　Rick。　Rick　what？　McCarthy？　McKinley？　McKeen？　Henry　wasn't　sure；　but　he　leaned　toward　McCarthy；　like　Kevin　McCarthy　in　that　old　horror　movie　about　the　pods　from　space　that　made　themselves　look　like　people。　One　of　Jonesy's　raves。　Get　a　few　drinks　in　him　and　mention　that　movie　and　Jonesy　would　respond　with　the　key　line　at　once：　'They're　here！　They're　here！'
　　　　The　woman；　looking　up　at　the　sky　and　screaming　They're　back；　they're　back。
　　　　Dear　Christ；　there'd　been　nothing　like　this　since　they　were　kids　and　this　was　worse；　like　picking　up　a　power…line　filled　with　voices　instead　of　electricity。
　　　　All　those　patients　over　the　years；　plaining　of　voices　in　their　heads。　And　Henry；　the　big　psychiatrist　（Young　Mr　God；　one　state　hospital　patient　called　him　back　in　the　early　days）；　had　nodded　as　if　he　knew　what　they　were　talking　about。　Had　in　fact　believed　he　did　know　what　they　were　talking　about。　But　maybe　only　now　did　he　really　know。
　　　　Voices。　Listening　to　them　so　hard　he　missed　the　whup…whup…whup　of　the　helicopter　passing　overhead；　a　dark　rushing　shark…shape　barely　obscured　by　the　bottoms　of　the　clouds。　Then　the　voices　began　to　fade　as　radio　signals　from　faraway　places　do　when　daylight　es　and　the　atmosphere　once　more　begins　to　thicken。　At　last　there　was　only　the　voice　of　his　own　thoughts；　insisting　that　something　terrible　had　happened　or　was　about　to　happen　at　Hole　in　the　Wall；　that　something　equally　terrible　was　about　to　happen　or　had　happened　back　there　at　the　Scout　or　the　loggers'　shelter。
　　　　Five　more　miles。　Five　more　miles。
　　　　　In　an　effort　to　turn　his　mind　away　from　his　friend　behind　and　his　friends　ahead；　or　what　might　be　happening　all　around　him；　he　let　his　mind　go　to　where　he　knew　Pete's　mind　had　already　gone：　to　1978；　and　Tracker　Brothers；　and　to　Duddits。　How　Duddits　Cavell　could　have　anything　to　do　with　this　fuckarow　Henry　didn't　understand；　but　they　had　all　been　thinking　about　him；　and　Henry　didn't　even　need　that　old　mental　connection　to　know　it。　Pete　had　mentioned　Duds　while　they　were　dragging　the　woman　to　the　loggers'　shelter　on　that　piece　of　tarp；　Beaver　had　been　talking　about　Duddits　Just　the　other　day　when　Henry　and　the　Beav　had　been　in　the　woods　together　…　the　day　Henry　had　tagged　his　deer；　that　had　been；　The　Beav　reminiscing　about　how　the　four　of　them　had　taken　Duddits　Christmas　shopping　in　Bangor　one　year。　just　after　Jonesy　had　gotten　his　license　that　was；　Jonesy　would　have　driven　anyone　anywhere　that　winter。　The　Beav　laughing　about　how　Duddits　had　worried　Santa　Claus　wasn't　real；　and　all　four　of　them　…　big　high…school　galoots　by　then；　thinking　they　had　the　world　by　the　tail　…　working　to　reconvince　Duddits　that　Santa　was　a　true　thing；　the　real　deal。　Which　of　course　they'd　done。　And　Jonesy　had　called　Henry　from　Brookline　Just　last　month；　drunk　（drunkenness　was　much　rarer　for　Jonesy；　especially　since　his　accident；　than　it　was　for　Pete；　and　it　was　the　only　maudlin　call　Henry　had　ever　gotten　from　the　man）；　saying　that　he'd　never　done　anything　in　his　life　that　was　as　good；　as　plain　and　simple　baldass　fine；　as　what　they　had　done　for　poor　old　Duddits　Cavell　back　in　1978。　That　was　our　finest　hour；　Jonesy　had　said　on　the　phone；　and　with　a　nasty　jolt；　Henry　realized　he　had　told　Pete　exactly　the　same　thing。　Duddits；　man。　Fucking　Duds。
　　　　Five　more　miles　。　。　。　or　maybe　four。　Five　more　miles　。　。　。　or　maybe　four。
　　　　They　had　been　going　to　see　a　picture　of　a　girl's　pussy；　the　picture　supposedly　tacked　up　on　the　bulletin　board　of　some　deserted　office。　Henry　couldn't　remember　the　girl's　name；　not　after　all　these　years；　only　that　she'd　been　that　prick　Grenadeau's　girlfriend　and　the　1978　Homeing　Queen　at　Derry　High。　Those　things　had　made　the　prospect　of　seeing　her　pussy　especially　interesting。　And　then；　just　as　they　got　to　the　driveway；　they　had　seen　a　discarded　red…and…white　Derry　Tigers　shirt。　And　a　little　way　down　the　driveway　there　had　been　something　else。
　　　　I　hate　that　fuckin　show；　they　never　change　their　clothes；　Pete　had　said；　and　Henry　opened　his　mouth　to　reply；　only　before　he　could　。　。　。
　　　　'The　kiddo　screamed；'　Henry　said。　He　slipped　in　the　snow；　tottered　for　a　moment；　then　ran　on　again；　remembering　that　October　day　under　that　white　sky。　He　ran　on　remembering　Duddits。　How　Duddits　had　screamed　and　changed　all　their　lives。　For　the　better；　they　had　always　assumed；　but　now　Henry　wondered。
　　　　Right　now　he　wondered　very　much。


3

When　they　get　to　the　driveway　…　not　much　of　a　driveway；　weeds　are　growing　even　in　the　gravelly　wheelruts　now　…　Beaver　is　in　the　lead。　Beaver　is；　indeed；　almost　foaming　at　the　jaws。　Henry　guesses　that　Pete　is　nearly　as　wrought…up；　but　Pete　is　holding　it　in　better；　even　though　he's　a　year　younger。　Beaver　is　。　。　。　what's　the　word？　Agog。　Henry　almost　laughs　at　the　aptness　of　it；　and　then　the　Beav　stops　so　suddenly　Pete　almost　runs　into　him。
　　　　'Hey！'　Beaver　says。　'Fuck　me　Freddy！　Some　kid's　shirt！'
　　　　It　is　indeed。　Red　and　white；　and　not　old　and　dirty；　as　if　it　had　been　there　a　thousand　years。　In　fact；　it　looks　almost　new。　　　
　　　　'Shirt；　schmirt；　who　gives　a　shit？'　Jonesy　wants　to　know。
　　　　'Let's　just…'
　　　　'Hold　your　horses；'　the　Beav　says。　'This　is　a　good　shirt。'　Except　when　he　picks　it　up；　they　see　that　it　isn't。　New；　yes　a　brand…new　Derry　Tigers　shirt；　with　19　on　the　back。　Pete　doesn't　give　a　shit　for　football；　but　the　rest　of　them　recognize　it　as　Richie　Grenadeau's　number。　Good；　no　…　not　anymore。　It's　ripped　deeply　at　the　back　collar；　as　if　the　person　wearing　it　had　tried　to　run　away；　then　been　grabbed　and　hauled　back。
　　　　'Guess　I　was　wrong；'　the　Beav　says　sadly；　and　drops　it　again。　'e　on。'
　　　　But　before　they　get　very　far；　they　e　across　something　else　…　this　time　it's　yellow　instead　of　red；　that　bright　yellow　plastic　only　a　kid　could　love。　Henry　trots　ahead　of　the　others　and　picks　it　up。　It's　a　lunchbox　with　Scooby…Doo　and　his　friends　on　it；　all　of　them　running　from　what　appears　to　be　a　haunted　house。　Like　the　shirt　it　looks　new；　not　anything　that's　been　lying　out　here　for　any　length　of　time；　and　all　at　once　Henry　is　starting　to　have　a　bad　feeling　about　this；　starting　to　wish　they　hadn't　detoured　into　this　deserted　driveway　by　this　deserted　building　at　all　。　。　。　or　at　least　had　saved　it　for　another　day。　Which；　even　at　fourteen；　he　realizes　is　stupid。　When　it　es　to　pussy；　he　thinks；　you　either　go　or　you　don　9　t；　there's　no　such　thing　as　saving　it　for　another　day。
　　　　'I　hate　that　fuckin　show；　Pete　says；　looking　over　Henry's　shoulder　at　the　lunchbox。　'They　never　change　their　clothes；　did　you　ever　notice　that？　Wear　the　same　fuckin　thing；　show　in　and　show　out。'
　　　　Jonesy　takes　the　Scooby…Doo　lunchbox　from　Henry　and　turns　it　to　look　at　something　he's　seen　pasted　on　the　end。　The　wild　look　has　gone　out　of　Jonesy's　eyes；　he's　frowning　slightly；　and　Henry　has　an　idea　Jonesy　is　also　wishing　they'd　just　gone　on　and　played　some　two…on…two。
　　　　The　sticker　on　the　side　reads：　I　BELONG　TO　DOUGLAS　CAVELL；　19　MAPLE　LANE；　DERRY；　MAINE。　IF　THE　BOY　I　BELONG　TO　IS　LOST；　CALL　949…1864。　THANKS！
　　　　Henry　opens　his　mouth　to　say　the　lunchbox　and　the　shirt　must　belong　to　a　kid　who　goes　to　The　Retard　Academy　…　he's　sure　of　it　just　looking　at　the　sticker；　which　is　almost　like　the　tag　their　fucking　dog　wears　…　but　before　he　can；　there　is　a　scream　from　the　far　side　of　the　building；　over　where　the　big　kids　play　baseball　in　the　summer。　It's　full　of　hurt；　that　scream；　but　what　starts　Henry　running　before　he　can　even　think　about　it　is　the　surprise　in　it；　the　awful　surprise　of　someone　who　has　been　hurt　or　scared　（or　both）　for　the　very　first　time。
　　　　The　others　follow　him。　They　run　up　the　weedy　right　rut　of　the　driveway；　the　one　closest　to　the　building；　in　single　file：　Henry；　Jonesy；　the　Beav；　and　Pete。
　　　　There　is　hearty　male　laughter。　'Go　on　and　eat　it；'　someone　says。　'Eat　it　and　you　can　go。　Duncan　might　even　give　you　your　pants　back。'
　　　　'Yeah；　if　you…'　Another　boy；　probably　Duncan；　begins　and　then　he　stops；　staring　at　Henry　and　his　friends。
　　　　'Hey　you　guys；　quit　it！'　Beaver　shouts。　'Just　fucking　quit　it！'　Duncan's　friends　…　there　are　two　of　them；　both　wearing　Derry　High　School　jackets　…　realize　they　are　no　longer　unobserved　at　their　afternoon's　entertainment；　and　turn。　Kneeling　on　the　gravel　amid　them；　dressed　only　in　underpants　and　one　sneaker；　his　face　smeared　with　blood　and　dirt　and　snot　and　tears；　is　a　child　of　an　age　Henry　cannot　determine。　He's　not　a　little　kid；　not　with　that　powdering　of　hair　on　his　chest；　but　he　has　the　look　of　a　little　kid　just　the　same。　His　eyes　have　a　Chinese　tilt　and　are　bright　green；　swimming　with　tears。
　　　　On　the　red　brick　wall　behind　this　little　group；　printed　in　large　white　letters　which　are　fading　but　still　legible；　is　this　message：　NO　BOUNCE；　NO　PLAY。　Which　probably　means　keep　the　games　and　the　balls　away　from　the　building　and　out　in　the　vacant　lot　where　the　deep　ruts　of　the　basepaths　and　the　ragged　hill　of　the　pitcher's　mound　can　still　be　seen；　but　who　can　say　for　sure？　NO　BOUNCE；　NO　PLAY。　In　the　years　to　e　they　will　say　this　often；　it　will　bee　one　of　the　private　catch…phrases　of　their　youth　and　has　no　exact　meaning。　Who　knows？　perhaps　es　closest。　Or　What　can　you　do？　It　is　always　best　spoken　with　a　shrug；　a　smile；　and　hand