sk.dreamcatcher-第58部分

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　　　　For　one　moment。　Then　he　felt　something　leap　from　Mr　Gray's　mind　and　the　stuff　growing　on　Pete　did　not　just　twitch　but　clenched。　There　was　a　tenebrous　creaking　sound　as　Pete's　skull　cracked　in　a　dozen　places。　His　face　…　what　remained　of　it　…　pulled　inward　in　a　kind　of　yank；　making　him　old　at　a　stroke。　Then　he　fell　forward　and　snow　began　to　fleck　the　back　of　his　parka。
　　　　You　bastard。
　　　　Mr　Gray；　indifferent　to　Jonesy's　curse　and　Jonesy's　anger；　made　no　reply。　He　faced　forward　again。　The　building　wind　dropped　momentarily　when　he　did；　and　a　hole　opened　in　the　curtain　of　snow。　About　five　miles　northwest　of　their　current　position；　Jonesy　saw　moving　lights　…　not　flashlights　but　headlights。　Lots　of　them。　Trucks　moving　in　convoy　along　the　turnpike。　Trucks　and　nothing　else；　he　supposed。　This　part　of　Maine　belonged　to　the　military　now。
　　　　And　they're　all　looking　for　you；　asshole；　he　spat　as　the　snowmobile　began　to　roll　again。　The　snow　closed　back　around　them；　cutting　off　their　momentary　view　of　the　trucks；　but　Jonesy　knew　that　Mr　Gray　would　have　no　trouble　finding　the　turnpike。　Pete　had　gotten　him　this　far；　to　a　part　of　the　quarantine　zone　where　Jonesy　supposed　little　trouble　was　expected。　He　was　counting　on　Jonesy　to　take　him　the　rest　of　the　way；　because　Jonesy　was　different。　For　one　thing；　he　was　clear　of　the　byrus。　The　byrus　didn't　like　him　for　some　reason。
　　　　You'll　never　get　out　of　here；　Jonesy　said。
　　　　I　will；　Mr　Gray　said。　We　always　die　and　we　always　live。　We　always　lose　and　we　always　win；　Like　it　or　not；　Jonesy；　we're　the　future。
　　　　If　　that's　true；　it's　the　best　reason　I　ever　heard　for　living　in　the　past；　Jonesy　replied；　but　from　Mr　Gray　there　was　no　answer；　Mr　Gray　as　an　entity；　a　consciousness；　was　gone；　merged　back　into　the　cloud。　There　was　only　enough　of　him　left　to　run　Jonesy's　motor　skills　and　keep　the　snowmobile　pointed　toward　the　turnpike。　And　Jonesy；　carried　helplessly　forward　on　whatever　mission　this　thing　had；　took　slender　fort　from　two　things。　One　was　that　Mr　Gray　didn't　know　how　to　get　at　the　last　piece　of　him；　the　tiny　part　that　existed　in　his　memory　of　the　Tracker　Brothers　office。　The　other　was　that　Mr　Gray　didn't　know　about　Duddits　…　about　no　bounce；　no　play。
　　　　Jonesy　intended　to　make　sure　Mr　Gray　didn't　find　out。
　　　　At　least　not　yet。

CHAPTER　THIRTEEN

AT　GOSSELIN'S


1

To　Archie　Perlmutter；　high…school　valedictorian　（speech　topic：　'The　Joys　and　the　Responsibilities　of　Democracy'）；　onetime　Eagle　Scout；　faithful　Presbyterian；　and　West　Point　grad；　Gosselin's　Country　Market　no　longer　looked　real。　Now　spotlighted　by　enough　candlepower　to　illuminate　a　small　city；　it　looked　like　a　set　in　a　movie。　Not　just　any　movie；　either；　but　the　sort　of　James　Cameron　extravaganza　where　the　catering　costs　alone　would　amount　to　enough　to　feed　the　people　of　Haiti　for　two　years。　Even　the　steadily　increasing　snow　did　not　cut　into　the　glare　of　the　lights　very　much；　or　change　the　illusion　that　the　whole　works；　from　the　crappy　siding　to　the　pair　of　tin　woodstove　stacks　sticking　acrooked　out　of　the　roof　to　the　single　rusty　gas…pump　out　front；　was　simply　set…dressing。
　　　　This　would　be　Act　One；　Pearly　thought　as　he　strode　briskly　along　with　his　clipboard　tucked　under　his　arm　（Archie　Perlmutter　had　always　felt　he　was　a　man　of　considerable　artistic　nature　。　。　。　mercial；　too）。　We　fade　in　on　an　isolated　country　store。　The　oldtimers　are　sitting　around　the　woodstove　…　not　the　little　one　in　Gosselin's　office　but　the　big　one　in　the　store　itself　…　while　the　snow　pelts　down　outside。　They're　talking　about　lights　in　the　sky　。　。　。　missing　hunters　。　。　。　sightings　of　little　gray　men　skulking　around　in　the　woods。　The　store　owner　…　call　him　Old　Man　Rossiter　…　scoffs。　'Oh　gosh　fishes；　you're　all　a　buncha　old　wimmin！'　he　says；　and　just　then　the　whole　place　is　bathed　in　these　brilliant　lights　（think　Close　Encounters　of　the　Third　Kind）　as　a　UFO　settles　down　to　the　ground！　Bloodthirsty　aliens　e　piling　out；　firing　their　deathrays！　It's　like　Independence　Day；　only；　here's　the　hook；　in　the　woods！
　　　　Beside　him；　Melrose；　the　cook's　third　（which　was　about　as　close　as　anyone　got　to　an　official　rating　on　this　little　adventure）；　struggled　to　keep　up。　He　was　wearing　sneakers　on　his　feet　instead　of　shoes　or　boots　…　Perlmutter　had　dragged　him　out　of　Spago's；　which　was　what　the　men　called　the　cook…tent　…　and　he　kept　slipping。　Men　（and　a　few　women）　passed　everywhere　around　them；　mostly　at　the　double。　Many　were　talking　into　lavalier　mikes　or　walkie…talkies。　The　sense　that　this　was　a　movie…set　instead　of　a　real　place　was　enhanced　by　the　trailers；　the　semis；　the　idling　helicopters　（the　worsening　weather　had　brought　them　all　back　in）；　and　the　endless　conflicting　roar　of　motors　and　generators。
　　　　'Why　does　he　want　to　see　me？'　Melrose　asked　again。　Out　of　breath　and　whinier　than　ever。　They　were　passing　the　paddock　and　corral　to　one　side　of　Gosselin's　barn；　now。　The　old　and　dilapidated　fence　（it　had　been　ten　years　or　more　since　there'd　been　an　actual　horse　in　the　corral　or　exercised　in　the　paddock）　had　been　reinforced　by　alternating　strands　of　barbwire　and　smoothwire。　There　was　an　electrical　charge　running　through　the　smoothwire；　probably　not　lethal　but　high　enough　to　lay　you　out　on　the　ground；　convulsing　。　。　。　and　the　charge　could　be　jacked　up　to　lethal　levels　if　the　natives　became　restless。　Behind　this　wire；　watching　them；　were　twenty　or　thirty　men；　Old　Man　Gosselin　among　them　（in　the　James　Cameron　version；　Gosselin　would　be　played　by　some　craggy　oldtimer　like　Bruce　Dern）。　Earlier；　the　men　behind　the　wire　would　have　called　out；　issuing　threats　and　angry　demands；　but　since　they'd　seen　what　happened　to　that　banker　from　Massachusetts　who　tried　to　run；　their　peckers　had　wilted　considerably；　poor　fellows。　Seeing　someone　shot　in　the　head　took　a　lot　of　the　fuck…you　out　of　a　man。　And　then　there　was　the　fact　that　all　the　cps　guys　were　now　wearing　nose…and…mouth　masks。　That　had　to　take　whatever　fuck…you　was　left。
　　　　'Boss？'　Almost　whining　had　given　way　to　actual　whining。　The　sight　of　American　citizens　standing　behind　barbed　wire　had　apparently　added　to　Melrose's　unease。　'Boss；　e　on　…　why　does　the　big　boy　want　to　see　me？　Big　boy　shouldn't　know　a　cook's　third　even　exists。'
　　　　'I　don't　know；'　Pearly　replied。　It　was　the　truth。
　　　　Up　ahead；　standing　at　the　head　of　what　had　been　dubbed　Eggbeater　Alley；　was　Owen　Underhill　and　some　guy　from　the　motorpool。　The　motor…pool　guy　was　almost　shouting　into　Underhill's　ear　in　order　to　make　himself　heard　over　the　racket　of　the　idling　helicopters。　Surely；　Perlmutter　thought；　they'd　shut　the　choppers　down　soon；　nothing　was　going　to　fly　in　this　shit；　an　early…season　blizzard　that　Kurtz　called　'our　gift　from　God'。　When　he　said　stuff　like　that；　you　couldn't　tell　if　Kurtz　really　meant　it　or　was　just　being　ironic。　He　always　sounded　like　he　meant　it　。　。　。　but　then　sometimes　he　would　laugh。　The　kind　of　laugh　that　made　Archie　Perlmutter　nervous。　In　the　movie；　Kurtz　would　be　played　by　James　Woods。　Or　maybe　Christopher　Walken。　Neither　one　of　them　looked　like　Kurtz；　but　had　George　C。　Scott　looked　like　Patton？　Case　closed。
　　　　Perlmutter　abruptly　detoured　toward　Underhill。　Melrose　tried　to　follow　and　went　on　his　ass；　cursing。　Perlmutter　tapped　Underhill　on　his　shoulder；　then　hoped　his　mask　would　at　least　partially　conceal　his　expression　of　surprise　when　the　other　man　turned。　Owen　Underhill　looked　as　if　he　had　aged　ten　years　since　stepping　off　the　Millinocket　School　Department　bus。
　　　　Leaning　forward；　Pearly　shouted　over　the　wind：　'Kurtz　in　fifteen！　Don't　forget！'
　　　　Underhill　gave　him　an　impatient　wave　to　say　he　wouldn't；　and　turned　back　to　the　motor…pool　guy。　Perlmutter　had　him　placed　now；　Brodsky；　his　name　was。　The　men　called　him　Dawg。
　　　　Kurtz's　mand　post；　a　humongous　Winnebago　（if　this　were　a　movie…set；　it　would　be　the　star's　home　away　from　home；　or　perhaps　Jimmy　Cameron's）；　was　just　ahead。　Pearly　picked　up　the　pace；　facing　boldly　forward　into　the　flick…flick…flick　of　the　snow。　Melrose　scurried　to　catch　up；　brushing　snow　off　his　coverall。
　　　　'C'mon；　Skipper；'　he　pleaded。　'Don'tcha　have　any　idea？'
　　　　'No；'　Perlmutter　said。　He　had　no　clue　as　to　why　Kurtz　would　want　to　see　a　cook's　third　with　everything　up　and　running　in　high　gear。　But　he　thought　both　of　them　knew　it　couldn't　be　anything　good。


2

Owen　turned　Emil　Brodsky's　head；　placed　the　bulb　of　his　mask　against　the　man's　ear；　and　said：　'Tell　me　again。　Not　all　of　it；　Just　about　the　part　you　called　the　mind…fuck。'
　　　　Brodsky　didn't　argue　but　took　ten　seconds　or　so　to　arrange　his　thoughts。　Owen　gave　it　to　him。　There　was　his　appointment　with　Kurtz；　and　debriefing　after　that　…　plenty　of　crew；　reams　of　paperwork　…　and　God　alone　knew　what　gruesome　tasks　to　follow；　but　he　sensed　this　was　important。
　　　　Whether　or　not　he　would　tell　Kurtz　remained　to　be　seen。
　　　　At　last　Brodsky　turned　Owen's　head；　placed　the　bulb　of　his　own　mask　against　Owen's　car；　and　began　to　talk。　The　story　was　a　little　more　detailed　this　time；　but　essentially　the　same；　He　had　been　walking　across　the　field　next　to　the　store；　talking　to　Cambry　beside　him　and　to　an　approaching　fuel…supply　convoy　at　the　same　time；　when　all　at　once　he　felt　as　if　his　mind　had　been　hijacked。　He　had　been　in　a　cluttery　old　shed　with　someone　he　couldn't　quite　see。　The　man　wanted　to　get　a　snowmobile　going；　and　couldn't。　He　needed　the　Dawg　to　tell　him　what　was　wrong　with　it。
　　　　'I　asked　him　to　open　the　cowling！'　Brodsky　shouted　into　Owen's　ear。　'He　did；　and　then　it　seemed　like　I　was　looking　through　his　eyes　。　。　。　but　with　my　mind；　do　you　see？'
　　　　Owen　nodded。
　　　　'I　could　see　right　away　what　was　wrong；　someone　had　taken　the　plugs　out。　So　I　told　the　guy　to　look　around；　which　he　did。　Which　we　both　did。　And　there　they　were；　in　a　jar　of　gasoline　on　the　table。　My　Dad　used　to　do　the　same　thing　with　the　plugs　from　his　Lawnboy　and　his　rototiller　when　the　cold　weather　came。'
　　　　Brodsky　paused；　clearly　embarrassed　either　by　what　he　was　saying　or　how　he　imagined　it　must　sound。　Owen；　who　was　fascinated；　gestured　for　him　to　go　on。
　　　　'There　ain't　much　more。　I　told　him　to　fish　em　out；　dry　em　off；　and　pop　em　in。　It　was　like　a　billion　times　I've　helped　some　guy　work　on　somethin　except　I　wasn't　there　…　I　was　here。　None　of　it　was　happening。'