sk.dreamcatcher-第61部分

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nce　came　the　middle　manager；　his　clipboard　once　more　tucked　firmly　beneath　his　arm。
　　　　'I'd　say　you　got　that　right。'　Henry　and　the　portly　man　watched　as　the　stretcher…bearers　burned　up　the　steps　of　the　Winnebago。　As　Mr　Middle　Management　made　his　closest　approach　to　the　fence；　Henry　called　out　to　him；　'How's　it　going；　shitheels？　Having　any　fun　yet？'　The　portly　man　winced。　The　guy　with　the　clipboard　gave　Henry　a　single　dour　look　and　then　trudged　on　toward　the　Winnebago。
　　　　'This　is　just　。　。　。　it's　just　some　sort　of　emergency　situation；'　the　portly　man　said。　'It'll　be　straightened　out　by　tomorrow　morning；　I'm　sure。'
　　　　'Not　for　your　brother…in…law；'　Henry　said。
　　　　The　portly　man　looked　at　him；　mouth　tucked　in　and　trembling　slightly。　Then　he　returned　to　the　other　men；　whose　views　no　doubt　more　closely　corresponded　to　his　own。　Henry　turned　back　to　the　Winnebago　and　resumed　waiting　for　Underhill　to　e　out。　He　had　an　idea　that　Underhill　was　his　only　hope　。　。　。　but　whatever　Underhill's　doubts　about　this　operation　might　be；　the　hope　was　a　thin　one。　And　Henry　had　only　one　card　to　play。　The　card　was　Jonesy。　They　didn't　know　about　Jonesy。
　　　　The　question　was　whether　or　not　he　should　tell　Underhill。　Henry　was　terribly　afraid　that　telling　the　man　would　do　no　good。


5

About　five　minutes　after　Mr　Middle　Management　followed　the　stretcher…bearers　into　the　'Bago；　the　three　of　them　came　out　again；　this　time　with　a　fourth　on　the　stretcher。　Under　the　brilliant　overhead　lights；　the　wounded　man's　face　was　so　pale　it　looked　purple。　Henry　was　relieved　to　see　that　it　wasn't　Underhill；　because　Underhill　was　different　from　the　rest　of　these　maniacs。
　　　　Ten　minutes　passed。　Underhill　still　hadn't　e　out　of　the　mand　post。　Henry　waited　in　the　thickening　snow。　There　were　soldiers　watching　the　inmates　（that　was　what　they　were；　inmates；　and　it　was　best　not　to　gild　the　lily）；　and　eventually　one　of　them　strolled　over。　The　men　who　had　been　stationed　at　the　T…junction　of　the　Deep　Cut　and　Swanny　Pond　Roads　had　pretty　well　blinded　Henry　with　their　lights；　and　he　didn't　recognize　this　man　by　his　face。　Henry　was　both　delighted　and　deeply　unsettled　to　realize　that　minds　also　had　features；　every　bit　as　distinctive　as　a　pretty　mouth；　a　broken　nose；　or　a　crooked　eye。　This　was　one　of　the　guys　who　had　been　out　there；　the　one　who　had　hit　him　in　the　ass　with　the　stock　of　his　rifle　when　he　decided　Henry　wasn't　moving　toward　the　truck　fast　enough。　Whatever　had　happened　to　Henry's　mind　was　skitzy；　he　couldn't　pick　out　this　guy's　name；　but　he　knew　that　the　man's　brother's　name　was　Frankie；　and　that　in　high　school　Frankie　had　been　tried　and　acquitted　on　a　rape　charge。　There　was　more；　as　well　…　unconnected　jumbles　of　stuff；　like　the　contents　of　a　wastebasket。　Henry　realized　that　he　was　looking　at　an　actual　river　of　consciousness；　and　at　the　flotsam　and　jetsam　the　river　was　carrying　along。　The　humbling　thing　was　how　prosaic　most　of　it　was。
　　　　'Hey　there；'　the　soldier　said；　amiably　enough。　'It's　the　smartass。　Want　a　hot　dog；　smartass？'　He　laughed。
　　　　'Already　got　one；'　Henry　said；　smiling　himself　And　Beaver　popped　out　of　his　mouth；　as　Beaver　had　a　way　of　doing。　'Fuck　off　Freddy。'
　　　　The　soldier　stopped　laughing。　'Let's　see　how　smart　your　ass　is　twelve　hours　from　now；'　he　said。　The　image　that　went　floating　by；　home　on　the　river　between　this　man's　ears；　was　of　a　truck　filled　with　bodies；　white　limbs　all　tangled　together。　'You　growing　the　Ripley　yet；　smartass？'
　　　　Henry　thought：　the　byrus。　7lat's　what　he　means。　The　byrus　is　what　it's　really　called。　Jonesy　knows。
　　　　Henry　didn't　reply　and　the　soldier　started　away；　wearing　the　fortable　look　of　a　man　who　has　won　on　points。　Curious；　Henry　summoned　all　his　concentration　and　visualized　a　rifle　…　Jonesy's　Garand；　as　a　matter　of　fact。　He　thought：　I　have　a　gun。　I'm　going　to　kill　you　with　it　the　second　you　turn　your　back　on　me；　asshole。
　　　　The　soldier　swung　around　again；　the　fortable　look　going　the　way　of　the　grin　and　the　laughter。　What　replaced　it　was　a　look　of　doubt　and　suspicion。　'What'd　you　say；　smartass？　You　say　something？'
　　　　'Just　wondering　if　you　got　your　share　of　that　girl　…　you　know；　the　one　Frankie　broke　in。　Did　he　give　you　sloppy　seconds？'
　　　　For　a　moment；　the　soldier's　face　was　idiotic　with　surprise。　Then　it　filled　in　with　black　Italian　rage。　He　raised　his　rifle。　To　Henry；　its　muzzle　looked　like　a　smile。　He　unzipped　his　jacket　and　held　it　open　in　the　thickening　snow。　'Go　on；'　he　said；　and　laughed。　'Go　on；　Rambo；　do　your　thing。'
　　　　Frankie's　brother　held　the　gun　on　Henry　a　moment　longer；　and　then　Henry　felt　the　man's　rage　pass。　It　had　been　close　…　he　had　seen　the　soldier　trying　to　think　of　what　he　would　say；　some　plausible　story　…　but　he　had　taken　a　moment　too　long　and　his　forebrain　had　pulled　the　red　beast　back　to　heel。　It　was　all　so　familiar。　The　Richie　Grenadeaus　never　died；　not　really。　They　were　the　world's　dragon's　teeth。
　　　　'Tomorrow；'　the　soldier　said。　'Tomorrow's　time　enough　for　you；　smartass。'　　　　
　　　　This　time　Henry　let　him　go　…　no　more　teasing　the　red　beast；　although　God　knew　it　would　have　been　easy　enough。　He　had　learned　something；　too　。　。　。　or　confirmed　what　he'd　already　suspected。　The　soldier　had　heard　his　thought；　but　not　clearly。　If　he'd　heard　it　clearly　he　would　have　turned　around　a　lot　faster。　Nor　had　he　asked　Henry　how　Henry　knew　about　his　brother　Frankie。　Because　on　some　level　the　soldier　knew　what　Henry　did：　they　had　been　infected　with　telepathy；　the　whole　walking　bunch　of　them　…　they　had　caught　it　like　an　annoying　low…grade　virus。
　　　　'Only　I　got　it　worse；'　he　said；　zipping　his　coat　back　up　again。　So　had　Pete　and　Beaver　and　Jonesy。　But　Pete　and　the　Beav　were　both　dead　now；　and　Jonesy　。　。　。　Jonesy　。　。　。
　　　　'Jonesy　got　it　worst　of　all；'　Henry　said。　And　where　was　Jonesy　now？
　　　　South。　Jonesy　had　hooked　back　south。　These　guys'　precious　quarantine　had　been　breached。　Henry　guessed　they　had　foreseen　that　that　might　happen。　It　didn't　worry　them。　They　thought　one　or　two　breaches　wouldn't　matter。
　　　　Henry　thought　they　were　wrong。
　
　　　　
6
　　　　
Owen　stood　with　a　mug　of　coffee　in　his　hand；　waiting　until　the　guys　from　the　infirmary　were　gone　with　their　burden；　Melrose's　sobs　mercifully　reduced　to　mutters　and　moans　by　a　shot　of　morphine。　Pearly　followed　them　out　and　then　Owen　was　alone　with　Kurtz。
　　　　Kurtz　sat　in　his　rocker；　looking　up　at　Owen　Underhill　with　curious；　head…cocked　amusement。　The　raving　crazyman　was　gone　again；　put　away　like　a　Halloween　mask。
　　　　'I'm　thinking　of　a　number；'　Kurtz　said。　'What　is　it？'
　　　　'Seventeen；'　Owen　said。　'You　see　it　in　red。　Like　on　the　side　of　a　fire　engine。'
　　　　Kurtz　nodded；　pleased。　'You　try　sending　one　to　me。'　Owen　visualized　a　speed　limit　sign：　60　MPH。
　　　　'Six；'　Kurtz　said　after　a　moment。　'Black　on　white。'
　　　　'Close　enough；　boss。'
　　　　Kurtz　drank　some　coffee。　His　was　in　a　mug　with　I　LUV　MY　GRANDPA　printed　on　the　side。　Owen　sipped　with　honest　pleasure。　It　was　a　dirty　night　and　a　dirty　job；　and　Freddy's　coffee　wasn't　bad。
　　　　Kurtz　had　found　time　to　put　on　his　coverall。　Now　he　reached　into　the　inner　pocket　and　brought　out　a　large　bandanna。　He　regarded　it　for　a　moment；　then　got　to　his　knees　with　a　grimace　（it　was　no　secret　that　the　old　man　had　arthritis）　and　began　to　wipe　up　the　splatters　of　Melrose's　blood。　Owen；　who　thought　himself　surely　unshockable　at　this　point；　was　shocked。
　　　　'Sir　。　。　。　Oh；　fuck。　'Boss　。　。　。'
　　　　'Stow　it；'　Kurtz　said　without　looking　up。　He　moved　from　spot　to　spot；　as　assiduous　as　any　washerwoman。　'My　father　always　said　that　you　should　clean　up　your　own　messes。　Might　make　you　stop　and　think　a　little　bit　the　next　time。　What　was　my　father's　name；　buck？'
　　　　Owen　looked　for　it　and　caught　just　a　glimpse；　like　a　glimpse　of　slip　under　a　woman's　dress。　'Paul？'
　　　　'Patrick；　actually　。　。　。　but　close。　Anderson　believes　it's　a　wave；　and　it's　expending　its　force　now；　A　telepathic　wave。　Do　you　find　that　an　awesome　concept；　Owen？'
　　　　'Yes。'
　　　　Kurtz　nodded　without　looking　up；　wiping　and　cleaning。　'More　awesome　in　concept　than　in　fact；　however　…　do　you　also　find　that？'
　　　　Owen　laughed。　The　old　man　had　lost　none　of　his　capacity　to　surprise。　Not　playing　with　a　full　deck；　people　sometimes　said　of　unstable　individuals。　The　trouble　with　Kurtz；　Owen　reckoned；　was　that　he　was　playing　with　more　than　a　full　deck。　A　few　extra　aces　in　there。　Also　a　few　extra　deuces；　and　everyone　knew　that　deuces　were　wild。
　　　　'Sit　down；　Owen。　Drink　your　coffee　on　your　ass　like　a　normal　person　and　let　me　do　this；　I　need　to。'
　　　　Owen　thought　maybe　he　did。　He　sat　down　and　drank　the　coffee。　Five　minutes　passed　in　this　fashion；　then　Kurtz　got　painfully　back　to　his　feet。　Holding　the　bandanna　fastidiously　by　one　er；　he　carried　it　to　the　kitchen；　dropped　it　into　the　trash；　and　returned　to　his　rocker。　He　took　a　sip　of　his　coffee；　grimaced；　and　put　it　aside。　'Cold。'
　　　　Owen　rose。　'I'D　get　you　a　fresh…'
　　　　'No。　Sit　down。　We　need　to　talk。'　Owen　sat。
　　　　'We　had　a　little　confrontation　out　there　at　the　ship；　you　and　I；　didn't　we？'
　　　　'I　wouldn't　say…'
　　　　'No；　I　know　you　wouldn't；　but　I　know　what　went　on　and　so　do　you。　When　the　situation's　hot；　tempers　also　get　hot。　But　we're　past　that　now。　We　have　to　be　past　it　because　I'm　the　OIC　and　you're　my　second　and　we've　still　got　this　job　to　finish。　Can　we　work　together　to　do　that？'
　　　　'Yes；　sir。'　Fuck；　there　it　was　again。　'Boss；　I　mean。'
　　　　Kurtz　favored　him　with　a　wintry　smile。
　　　　'I　lost　control　just　now。'　Charming；　frank；　open…eyed　and　honest。　This　had　fooled　Owen　for　a　lot　of　years。　It　did　not　fool　him　now。　'I　was　going　along；　drawing　the　usual　caricature　…　two　parts　Patton；　one　part　Rasputin；　add　water；　stir　and　serve　…　and　I　just　。　。　。　whew！　I　just　lost　it。　You　think　I'm　crazy；　don't　you？'
　　　　Careful；　careful。　There　was　telepathy　in　this　room；　honest…to…God　telepathy；　and　Owen　had　no　idea　how　deeply　Kurtz　might　be　able　to　see　into　him。
　　　　'Yes；　sir。　A　little；　sir。'
　　　　Kurtz　nodded　matter…of…factly。　'Yes。　A　little。　That　pretty　well　describes　it。　I've　been　doing　this　for　a　long　time　…　men　like　me　are　necessary　but　hard　to　find；　and　you　have　to　be　a　little　crazy　to　do　the　job　and　not　just　high…side　it　pletely。　It's　a　thin　line；　that　famous　thin　line　the　armchair　psychologists　love　to　talk　about；　a