sk.dreamcatcher-第50部分

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ttle　better　…　it　had　had　warmth；　and　ground　to　grow　on　which　had　been　melted　clear　of　snow　…　but　the　tips　of　the　tendrils　were　turning　the　powdery　gray　of　volcanic　ash。
　　　　Henry　was　pretty　sure　it　was　dying。
　　　　So　was　the　daylight　…　no　question　of　that　now。　Henry　dropped　the　rusty　piece　of　corrugated　tin　back　on　the　body　of　Becky　Shue　and　on　the　embery　remains　of　the　fire。　Then　he　looked　at　the　track　of　the　Cat　again；　wishing　as　he　had　back　at　the　cabin　that　he　had　Natty　Bumppo　with　him　to　explain　what　he　was　seeing。　Or　maybe　Jonesy's　good　friend　Hercule　Poirot；　he　of　the　little　gray　cells。
　　　　The　track　swerved　in　toward　the　collapsed　roof　of　the　lean…to　before　continuing　on　northwest　toward　Gosselin's。　There　was　a　pressed…down　area　in　the　snow　that　almost　made　the　shape　of　a　human　body。　To　either　side；　there　were　round　divots　in　the　snow。
　　　　'What　do　you　say；　Hercule？'　Henry　asked。　'What　means　this；　mon　ami？'　But　Hercule　said　nothing。
　　　　Henry　began　to　sing　under　his　breath　again　and　leaned　closer　to　one　of　the　round　divots；　unaware　that　he　had　left　the　Pointer　Sisters　behind　and　switched　back　to　the　Rolling　Stones。
　　　　There　was　enough　light　for　him　to　see　a　pattern　in　the　three　dimples　to　the　left　of　the　body　shape；　and　he　recalled　the　patch　on　the　right　elbow　of　Pete's　duffel　coat。　Pete　had　told　him　with　an　odd　sort　of　pride　that　his　girlfriend　had　sewed　that　on　there；　declaring　he　had　no　business　going　off　hunting　with　a　ripped　jacket。　Henry　remembered　thinking　it　was　sad　and　funny　at　the　same　time；　how　Pete　had　built　up　a　wistful　fantasy　of　a　happy　future　from　that　single　act　of　kindness　。　。　。　an　act　which　probably　had　more　to　do；　in　the　end；　with　how　the　lady　in　question　had　been　raised　than　with　any　feelings　she　might　have　for　her　beer…soaked　boyfriend。
　　　　Not　that　it　mattered。　What　mattered　was　that　Henry　felt　he　could　draw　a　bona　fide　deduction　at　last。　Pete　had　crawled　out　from　under　the　collapsed　roof　Jonesy　…　or　whatever　was　now　running　Jonesy；　the　cloud　…　had　e　along；　swerved　over　to　the　remains　of　the　lean…to；　and　picked　Pete　up。
　　　　Why？
　　　　Henry　didn't　know。
　　　　Not　all　of　the　splotches　in　the　flattened　shape　of　his　thrashing　friend；　who　had　crawled　out　from　under　the　piece　of　tin　by　hooking　himself　along　on　his　elbows；　were　that　mold　stuff。　Some　of　it　was　dried　blood。　Pete　had　been　hurt。　Cut　when　the　roof　fell　in？　Was　that　all？
　　　　Henry　spotted　a　wavering　trail　leading　away　from　the　depression　which　had　held　Pete's　body。　At　the　end　of　it　was　what　he　first　took　to　be　a　fire…charred　stick。　Closer　examination　changed　his　mind。　It　was　another　of　the　weasel　things；　this　one　burned　and　dead；　now　turning　gray　where　it　wasn't　seared。　Henry　flipped　it　aside　with　the　toe　of　his　boot。　Beneath　it　was　a　small　frozen　mass。　More　eggs。　It　must　have　been　laying　them　even　as　it　died。
　　　　Henry　kicked　snow　over　both　the　eggs　and　the　little　monster's　corpse；　shuddering。　He　unwrapped　the　makeshift　bandage　for　another　look　at　the　wound　on　his　leg；　and　as　he　did　it　he　realized　what　song　was　ing　out　of　his　mouth。　He　quit　singing。　New　snow；　just　a　scattering　of　light　flakes；　began　to　skirt　down。
　　　　'Why　do　I　keep　singing　that？'　he　asked。　'Why　does　that　fucking　song　keep　ing　back？'
　　　　He　expected　no　answer；　these　were　questions　uttered　aloud　mostly　for　the　fort　of　hearing　his　own　voice　（this　was　a　death　place；　perhaps　even　a　haunted　place）；　but　one　came　anyway。
　　　　'Because　it's　our　song。　It's　the　Squad　Anthem；　the　one　we　play　when　we　go　in　hot。　We're　Cruise's　boys。'　Cruise？　Was　that　right？　As　in　Tom　Cruise？　Maybe　not　quite。
　　　　The　gunfire　from　the　east　was　much　lighter　now。　The　slaughter　of　the　animals　was　almost　done。　But　there　were　men；　a　long　skirmish　line　of　hunters　who　were　wearing　green　or　black　instead　of　orange；　and　they　were　listening　to　that　song　over　and　over　again　as　they　did　their　work；　adding　up　the　numbers　of　an　incredible　butcher's　bill：　I　rode　a　tank；　held　a　general's　rank；　when　the　blitzkrieg　raged　and　the　bodies　stank　。　。　。　Pleased　to　meet　you；　hope　you　guess　my　name。
　　　　What　exactly　was　going　on　here？　Not　in　the　wild；　wonderful；　wacky　Outside　World；　but　inside　his　own　head？　He'd　had　flashes　of　understanding　his　whole　life　…　his　life　since　Duddits；　anyway　…　but　nothing　like　this。　What　was　this？　Was　it　time　to　examine　this　new　and　powerful　way　of　seeing　the　line？
　　　　No。　No；　no；　no。
　　　　And；　as　if　mocking　him；　the　song　in　his　head：　general's　rank；　bodies　stank。
　　　　'Duddits！'　he　exclaimed　in　the　graying；　dying　afternoon；　lazy　flakes　falling　like　feathers　from　a　split　pillow。　Some　thought　struggled　to　be　born　but　it　was　too　big；　too　big。
　　　　'Duddits！'　he　cried　again　in　his　hortatory　eggman's　voice；　and　one　thing　he　did　understand：　the　luxury　of　suicide　had　been　denied　him。　Which　was　the　most　horrible　thing　of　all；　because　these　weird　thoughts　…　I　shouted　out　who　killed　the　Kennedys　…　were　tearing　him　apart。　He　began　to　weep　again；　bewildered　and　afraid；　alone　in　the　woods。　All　his　friends　except　Jonesy　were　dead；　and　Jonesy　was　in　the　hospital。　A　movie　star　in　the　hospital　with　Mr　Gray。
　　　　'What　does　that　mean？'　Henry　groaned。　He　clapped　his　hands　to　his　temples　（he　felt　as　though　his　head　were　bulging；　bulging）　and　his　rusty　old　ski…poles　flapped　aimlessly　at　the　ends　of　their　wrist…loops　like　broken　propeller　blades。　'Oh　Christ；　what　does　that　MEAN？'
　　　　Only　the　song　came　in　answer：　Pleased　to　meet　you！　Hope　you　guess　my　name！
　　　　Only　the　snow：　red　with　the　blood　of　slaughtered　animals　and　they　lay　everywhere；　a　Dachau　of　deer　and　raccoon　and　rabbit　and　weasel　and　bear　and　groundhog　and…
　　　　Henry　screamed；　held　his　head　and　screamed　so　loud　and　so　hard　that　he　felt　sure　for　a　moment　that　he　was　going　to　pass　out。　Then　his　lightheartedness　passed　and　his　rm'nd　seemed　to　clear；　at　least　for　the　time　being。　He　was　left　with　a　brilliant　image　of　Duddits　as　he　had　been　when　they　first　met　him；　Duddits　not　under　the　light　of　a　blitzkrieg　winter　as　in　that　Stones　song　but　under　the　sane　light　of　a　cloudy　October　afternoon；　Duddits　looking　up　at　them　with　his　tilted；　somehow　wise　Chinese　eyes。　Duddits　was　our　finest　hour；　he　had　told　Pete。
　　　　'Fit　wha？'　Henry　said　now。　'Fit　neek？'
　　　　Yeah；　fit　neek。　Turn　it　around；　put　it　on　the　right　way；　fit　neek。
　　　　Smiling　a　little　now　（although　his　cheeks　were　still　wet　with　tears　that　were　beginning　to　freeze）；　Henry　began　to　ski　along　the　crimped　track　of　the　snowmobile　again。


10

Ten　minutes　later　he　came　to　the　overturned　wreck　of　the　Scout。　He　suddenly　realized　two　things：　that　he　was　ragingly　hungry　after　all　and　that　there　was　food　in　there。　He　had　seen　the　tracks　both　going　and　ing　and　hadn't　needed　Natty　Bumppo　to　know　that　Pete　had　left　the　woman　and　returned　to　the　Scout。　Nor　did　he　need　Hercule　Poirot　to　tell　him　that　the　food　they'd　bought　at　the　store　…　most　of　it；　at　least　…　would　still　be　in　there。　He　knew　what　Pete　had　e　back　for。
　　　　He　skied　around　to　the　passenger　side；　following　Pete's　tracks；　then　froze　in　the　act　of　loosening　the　ski　bindings。　This　side　was　away　from　the　wind；　and　what　Pete　had　written　in　the　snow　as　he　sat　drinking　his　two　beers　was　mostly　still　here：　DUDDITS；　printed　over　and　over　again。　As　he　looked　at　the　name　in　the　snow；　Henry　began　to　shiver。　It　was　like　ing　to　the　grave　of　a　loved　one　and　hearing　a　voice　speak　out　of　the　ground。


11

There　was　broken　glass　inside　the　Scout。　Blood；　as　well。　Because　most　of　the　blood　was　on　the　back　seat；　Henry　felt　sure　it　hadn't　been　spilled　in　the　original　accident；　Pete　had　cut　himself　on　his　return　trip。　To　Henry；　the　interesting　thing　was　that　there　was　none　of　the　red…gold　fuzz。　It　grew　rapidly；　and　so　the　logical　conclusion　was　that　Pete　hadn't　been　infected　when　he'd　e　for　the　beer。　Later；　maybe；　but　not　then。
　　　　He　grabbed　the　bread；　the　peanut　butter；　the　milk；　and　the　carton　of　orange　juice。　Then　he　backed　out　of　the　Scout　and　sat　with　his　shoulders　against　the　overturned　rear　end；　watching　the　fresh　snow　sift　down　and　gobbling　bread　and　peanut　butter　as　fast　as　he　could；　using　his　index　finger　as　a　knife　and　licking　it　clean　between　spreads。　The　peanut　butter　was　good　and　the　orange　juice　went　down　in　two　long　drafts；　but　it　wasn't　enough。
　　　　'What　you're　thinking　of；'　he　announced　to　the　darkening　afternoon；　'is　grotesque。　Not　to　mention　red。　Red　food。'
　　　　Red　or　not；　he　was　thinking　of　it；　and　surely　it　wasn't　all　that　grotesque；　he　was；　after　all；　a　man　who　had　spent　long　nights　thinking　about　guns　and　ropes　and　plastic　bags。　All　of　that　seemed　a　little　childish　just　now；　but　it　was　him；　all　right。　And　so…
　　　　'And　so　let　me　close；　ladies　and　gentlemen　of　the　American　Psychiatric　Association；　by　quoting　the　late　Joseph　〃Beaver〃　Clarendon：　〃Said　fuck　it　and　put　a　dime　in　the　Salvation　Army　bucket。　And　if　you　don't　like　it；　grab　my　cock　and　suck　it。〃　Thank　you　very　much。'
　　　　Having　thus　discoursed　to　the　American　Psychiatric　Association；　Henry　crawled　back　into　the　Scout；　once　more　successfully　avoiding　the　broken　glass；　and　got　the　package　wrapped　in　butcher's　paper　（2。79　printed　on　it　in　Old　Man　Gosselin's　shaky　hand）。　He　backed　out　again　with　the　package　in　his　pocket；　then　took　it　out　and　snapped　the　twine。　Inside　were　nine　plump　hot　dogs。　The　red　kind。
　　　　For　a　moment　his　mind　tried　to　show　him　the　legless　reptilian　thing　squirming　on　Jonesy's　bed　and　looking　at　him　with　its　empty　black　eyes；　but　he　banished　it　with　the　speed　and　ease　of　one　whose　survival　instincts　have　never　wavered。
　　　　The　hot　dogs　were　fully　cooked；　but　he　warmed　them　up　just　the　same；　running　the　flame　of　his　butane　lighter　back　and　forth　beneath　each　one　until　it　was　at　least　warm；　then　wrapping　it　in　Wonder　Bread　and　gobbling　it　down。　He　smiled　as　he　did　it；　knowing　how　ridiculous　he　would　look　to　an　observer。　Well；　didn't　they　say　that　psychiatrists　eventually　ended　up　as　loony　as　their　patients；　if　not　more　so？
　　　　The　important　thing　was　that　he　was　finally　full。　Even　more　important；　all　the　disconnected　thoughts　and　fragmented　images　had　drained　out　of　his　mind。　Also　the　song。　He　hoped　none　of　that　crap　would　e　back。　Ever；　please　God。
　　　　He　swallowed　more　milk；　belched；　then　leaned　his　head　against　the　side　of　the　Scout　and　closed　his　eyes。　No　goin