sk.dreamcatcher-第49部分

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ears　or　more）；　scooped　up　a　double　handful　of　snow；　and　took　a　big　mouthful。　He　let　it　melt　and　trickle　down　his　throat。　The　feeling　was　heavenly。　Henry　Devlin；　psychiatrist　and　onetime　author　of　a　paper　about　the　Hemingway　Solution；　a　man　who　had　once　been　a　virgin　boy　and　who　was　now　a　tall　and　geeky　fellow　whose　glasses　always　slid　down　to　the　tip　of　his　nose；　whose　hair　was　going　gray；　whose　friends　were　either　dead；　fled；　or　changed；　this　man　stood　in　the　open　gate　of　a　place　to　which　he　would　never　e　again；　stood　on　skis；　stood　eating　snow　like　a　kid　eating　a　Sno…Cone　at　the　Shrine　Circus；　stood　and　watched　the　last　really　good　place　in　his　life　bum。　The　flames　came　through　the　cedar　shingles。　Melting　snow　turned　to　steaming　water　and　ran　hissing　down　the　rusting　gutters。　Arms　of　fire　popped　in　and　out　of　the　open　door　like　enthusiastic　hosts　encouraging　the　newly　arrived　guests　to　hurry　up；　hurry　up；　dammit；　get　your　asses　in　here　before　the　whole　place　bums　down。　The　mat　of　red…gold　fuzz　growing　on　the　granite　slab　had　crisped；　lost　its　color；　turned　gray。　'Good；'　Henry　muttered　under　his　breath。　He　was　clenching　his　fists　rhythmically　on　the　grips　of　his　ski…poles　without　being　aware　of　it。　'Good；　that's　good。'
　　　　He　stood　that　way　for　another　fifteen　minutes；　and　when　he　could　bear　it　no　more；　he　set　his　back　to　the　flames　and　started　back　the　way　he　had　e。


7

There　was　no　hustle　left　in　him。　He　had　twenty　miles　to　go　（22。2　to　be　exact；　he　told　himself）；　and　if　he　didn't　pace　himself　he'd　never　make　it。　He　stayed　in　the　packed　track　of　the　snowmobile；　and　stopped　to　rest　more　frequently　than　he　had　going　the　other　way。
　　　　Ah；　but　I　was　younger　then；　he　thought　with　only　slight　irony。
　　　　Twice　he　checked　his　watch；　forgetting　that　it　was　now　Eastern　Standard　No　Time　At　All　in　the　Jefferson　Tract。　With　the　mat　of　clouds　firmly　in　place　overhead；　all　he　knew　for　sure　was　that　it　was　daytime。　Afternoon；　of　course；　but　whether　mid　or　late　he　couldn't　tell。　On　another　afternoon　his　appetite　might　have　served　as　a　gauge；　but　not　today。　Not　after　the　thing　on　Jonesy's　bed；　and　the　eggs；　and　the　hairs　with　their　protuberant　black　eyes。　Not　after　the　foot　sticking　out　of　the　bathtub。　He　felt　that　he　would　never　eat　again　。　。　。　and　if　he　did；　he　would　never　eat　anything　with　even　a　slight　tinge　of　red。　And　mushrooms？　No　thanks。
　　　　Skiing；　at　least　on　cross…country　stubs　like　these；　was　sort　of　like　riding　a　bike；　he　discovered：　you　never　forgot　how　to　do　it。　He　fell　once　going　up　the　first　hill；　the　skis　slipping　out　from　under　him；　but　glided　giddily　down　the　other　side　with　only　a　couple　of　wobbles　and　no　spills。　He　guessed　that　the　skis　hadn't　been　waxed　since　the　peanut…farmer　was　President；　but　if　he　stayed　in　the　crimped　and　flattened　track　of　the　snowmobile；　he　should　be　all　right。　He　marvelled　at　the　stippling　of　animal　tracks　on　the　Deep　Cut　Road　he　had　never　seen　a　tenth　as　many。　A　few　critters　had　gone　walking　along　it；　but　most　of　the　tracks　only　crossed　it；　west　to　east。　The　Deep　Cut　took　a　lazy　northwest　course；　and　west　was　clearly　a　point　of　the　pass　the　local　animal　population　wanted　to　avoid。
　　　　I'm　on　a　journey；　he　told　himself。　Maybe　someday　someone　will　write　an　epic　poem　about　it：　'Henry's　journey'。
　　　　'Yeah；'　he　said。　〃'Time　slowed　and　reality　bent；　on　and　on　the　eggman　went。〃'　He　laughed　at　that；　and　in　his　dry　throat　the　laughter　turned　to　hacking　coughs。　He　skied　to　the　side　of　the　snowmobile　track；　got　another　double　handful　of　snow；　and　ate　it　down。
　　　　'Tasty　and　good　for　you！'　he　proclaimed。　'Snow！　Not　just　for　breakfast　anymore！'
　　　　He　looked　up　at　the　sky；　and　that　was　a　mistake。　For　a　moment　he　was　overwhelmed　with　dizziness　and　thought　he　might　go　right　over　on　his　back。　Then　the　vertigo　retreated。　The　clouds　overhead　looked　a　little　darker。　Snow　ing？　Night　ing？　Both　ing　at　the　same　time？　His　knees　and　ankles　hurt　from　the　steady　shuffle…shuffle　of　the　skis；　and　his　arms　hurt　even　worse　from　wielding　the　poles。　The　pads　of　muscle　on　his　chest　were　the　worst。　He　had　already　accepted　as　certainty　that　he　wouldn't　make　it　to　Gosselin's　before　dark；　now；　standing　here　and　eating　more　snow；　it　occurred　to　him　that　he　might　not　make　it　at　all。
　　　　He　loosened　the　Red　Sox　tee…shirt　he'd　tied　around　his　leg；　and　terror　leaped　in　him　when　he　saw　a　brilliant　thread　of　scarlet　against　his　bluejeans。　His　heart　beat　so　hard　that　white　dots　appeared　in　his　field　of　vision；　flocking　and　pumping。　He　reached　down　to　the　red　with　shaking　fingers。
　　　　What　do　you　think　you're　going　to　do？　he　jeered　at　himself。　Pick　it　off　like　it　was　a　thread　or　a　piece　of　lint？
　　　　Which　was　exactly　what　he　did　do；　because　it　was　a　thread：　a　red　one　from　the　shirt's　printed　logo。　He　dropped　it　and　watched　it　float　down　to　the　snow。　Then　he　retied　the　shirt　around　the　tear　in　his　jeans。　For　a　man　who　had　been　considering　all　sorts　of　final　options　not　four　hours　ago　…　the　rope　and　the　noose；　the　tub　and　the　plastic　bag；　the　bridge　abutment　and　the　ever…popular　Hemingway　Solution；　known　in　some　quarters　as　The　Policeman's　Farewell　…　he　had　been　pretty　goddamned　scared　there　for　a　second　or　two。
　　　　Because　I　don't　want　to　go　like　that；　he　told　himself。　Not　eaten　alive　by　。　。　。
　　　　'By　toadstools　from　Planet　X；'　he　said。
　　　　The　eggman　got　moving　again。


8

The　world　shrank；　as　it　always　does　when　we　approach　exhaustion　with　our　work　not　done；　or　even　close　to　done。　Henry's　life　was　reduced　to　four　simple；　repetitive　motions：　the　pump　of　his　arms　on　the　poles　and　the　push　of　the　skis　in　the　snow。　His　aches　and　pains　faded；　at　least　for　the　time　being；　as　he　entered　some　other　zone。　He　only　remembered　anything　remotely　like　this　happening　once　before；　in　high　school；　when　he'd　been　the　starting　center　on　the　Derry　Tigers　basketball　team。　During　a　crucial　pre…playoff　game；　three　of　their　four　best　players　had　somehow　fouled　out　before　three　minutes　of　the　third　quarter　were　gone。　Coach　had　left　Henry　in　for　the　rest　of　the　game　…　he　didn't　get　a　single　blow　except　for　time…outs　and　trips　to　the　foul　line。　He　made　it；　but　by　the　time　the　final　buzzer　honked　and　put　an　end　to　the　affair　（the　Tigers　had　lost　gaudily）；　he　had　been　floating　in　a　kind　of　happy　dream。　Halfway　down　the　corridor　to　the　boys'　locker　room；　his　legs　had　given　out　and　down　he　had　gone；　with　a　silly　smile　still　on　his　face；　while　his　teammates；　clad　in　their　red　travelling　unis；　laughed　and　cheered　and　clapped　and　whistled。
　　　　No　one　to　clap　or　whistle　here；　only　the　steady　crackle…and…stutter　of　gunfire　off　to　the　east。　Slowing　a　little　bit　now；　maybe；　but　still　heavy。
　　　　More　ominous　were　the　occasional　gunshots　from　up　ahead。　Maybe　from　Gosselin's？　It　was　impossible　to　tell。
　　　　He　heard　himself　singing　his　least　favorite　Polling　Stones　song；　'Sympathy　for　the　Devil'　（Made　damn　sure　that　Pilate　washed　his　hands　and　sealed　His　fate；　thank　you　very　much；　you've　been　a　wonderful　audience；　good　night）；　and　made　himself　stop　when　lie　realized　the　song　had　gotten　all　mixed　up　with　memories　of　Jonesy　in　the　hospital；　Jonesy　as　he　had　looked　last　March；　not　just　gaunt　but　somehow　reduced；　as　if　his　essence　had　pulled　itself　in　to　form　a　protective　shield　around　his　surprised　and　outraged　body。　Jonesy　had　looked　to　Henry　like　someone　who　was　probably　going　to　die；　and　although　he　hadn't　died；　Henry　realized　now　that　it　was　around　that　time　that　his　own　thoughts　of　suicide　had　bee　really　serious。　To　the　rogues　gallery　of　images　that　haunted　him　in　the　middle　of　the　night　blue…white　milk　running　down　his　father's　chin；　Barry　Newman's　giant　economy…sized　buttocks　jiggling　as　he　flew　from　the　office；　Richie　Grenadeau　holding　out　a　dog…turd　to　the　weeping　and　nearly　naked　Duddits　Cavell；　telling　him　to　eat　it；　he　had　to　eat　it　…　there　was　now　the　image　of　Jonesy's　too…thin　face　and　addled　eyes；　Jonesy　who　had　been　swopped　into　the　street　without　a　single　rhyme　or　reason；　Jonesy　who　looked　all　too　ready　to　put　on　his　boogie　shoes　and　get　out　of　town。　They　said　he　was　in　stable　condition；　but　Henry　had　read　critical　in　his　old　fi7iend's　eyes。　Sympathy　for　the　devil？　Please。　There　was　no　god；　no　devil；　no　sympathy。　And　once　you　realized　that；　you　were　in　trouble。　Your　days　as　a　viable；　paying　customer　in　the　great　funhouse　that　was　Kulture　Amerika　were　numbered。
　　　　He　heard　himself　signing　it　again　…　But　what's　puzzling　you　is　the　nature　of　my　game　…　and　made　himself　stop　it。　What；　then？　Something　really　Undress。　Mindless　and　pointless　and　tasty；　something　just　oozing　Kulture　Amerika。　How　about　that　one　by　the　Pointer　Sisters？　That　was　a　good　one。
　　　　Looking　down　at　his　shuffling　skis　and　the　horizontal　crimps　left　by　the　snowmobile　treads；　he　began　to　sing　it。　Soon　he　was　droning　it　over　and　over　in　a　whispery；　tuneless　monotone　while　the　sweat　soaked　through　his　shirts　and　clear　mucus　ran　from　his　nose　to　freeze　on　his　upper　lip：　'I　know　we　can　make　it；　I　know　we　can；　we　can　work　it　out；　yes　we　can…can　yes　we　can　yes　we　can　。　。　。'
　　　　Better。　Much　better。　All　those　yes　we　can…cans　were　as　Amerikan　Kulture　as　a　Ford　pickup　in　a　bowling　alley　parking　lot；　a　lingerie　sale　at　JC　Penney；　or　a　dead　rock　star　in　a　bathtub。


9

And　so　he　eventually　returned　to　the　shelter　where　he　had　left　Pete　and　the　woman。　Pete　was　gone。　No　sign　of　him　at　all。
　　　　The　rusty　tin　roof　of　the　lean…to　had　fallen；　and　Henry　lifted　it；　peeking　under　it　like　a　metal　bedsheet　to　make　sure　Pete　wasn't　there。　He　wasn't；　but　the　woman　was。　She　had　crawled　or　been　moved　from　where　she'd　been　when　Henry　set　out　for　Hole　in　the　Wall；　and　somewhere　along　the　line　she'd　e　down　with　a　bad　case　of　dead。　Her　clothes　and　face　were　covered　with　the　rust…colored　mold　that　had　choked　the　cabin；　but　Henry　noticed　an　interesting　thing：　while　the　growth　on　her　was　doing　pretty　well　（especially　in　her　nostrils　and　her　visible　eye；　which　had　sprouted　a　jungle）；　the　stuff　which　had　spread　out　from　her；　outlining　her　body　in　a　ragged　sunburst；　was　in　trouble。　The　fungus　behind　her；　on　the　side　blocked　from　the　fire；　had　turned　gray　and　stopped　spreading。　The　stuff　in　front　of　her　was　doing　a　little　better　…　it　had　had　warmth；　and　ground　to　grow　on　which　had　been　melted　clear　of　snow　…　but　the