sk.dreamcatcher-第65部分

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　　　　His　head　was　qff。　。　。　his　eyes　were　full　of　mud。
　　　　Something　had　happened　to　them　then；　something　that　had　to　do　with　what　was　happening　to　him　now。
　　　　If　only　I　knew　what　it　was；　Jonesy　thought。　If　I　only　knew。


2

Andy　Janas　had　lost　the　other　three　trucks　in　his　little　squadron　had　gotten　ahead　of　them　because　they　weren't　used　to　driving　in　shit　like　this　and　he　was。　He　had　grown　up　in　northern　Minnesota；　and　you　better　believe　he　was　used　to　it。　He　was　by　himself　in　one　of　Chevrolet's　finer　Army　vehicles；　a　modified　four…wheel…drive　pickup；　and　he　had　the　four…wheel　drive　engaged　tonight。　His　father　hadn't　raised　any　fools。
　　　　Still；　the　turnpike　was　mostly　clear；　a　couple　of　Army　plows　had　gone　by　an　hour　or　so　ago　（he　would　be　catching　up　to　them　soon；　he　guessed；　and　when　he　did　he　would　cut　speed　and　fall　in　behind　them　like　a　good　boy）；　and　no　more　than　two　or　three　inches　had　piled　up　on　the　concrete　since　then。　The　real　problem　was　the　wind；　which　lifted　the　fluff　and　turned　the　road　into　a　ghost。　You　had　the　reflectors　to　guide　you；　though。　Keeping　the　reflectors　in　sight　was　the　trick　those　other　gomers　didn't　understand　。　。　。　or　maybe　with　the　convoy　trucks　and　the　Humvees；　the　headlights　were　set　too　high　to　pick　the　reflectors　up　properly。　And　when　the　wind　really　gusted；　even　the　reflectors　disappeared；　the　goddam　world　went　totally　white　and　you　had　to　take　your　foot　off　the　go…pedal　until　the　air　stilled　again　and　just　try　to　stay　on　course　in　the　meantime。　He　would　be　all　right；　and　if　anything　happened；　he　was　in　radio　contact　and　more　plows　would　be　ing　up　behind；　keeping　the　southbound　barrel　of　the　turnpike　open　all　the　way　from　Presque　Isle　to　Millinocket。
　　　　In　the　back　of　his　truck　were　two　triple…wrapped　packages。　In　one　were　the　bodies　of　two　deer　which　had　been　killed　by　the　Ripley。　In　the　other　…　this　Janas　found　moderately　to　seriously　gruesome　was　the　body　of　a　grayboy　turning　slowly　to　a　kind　of　reddish…orange　soup。　Both　were　bound　for　the　docs　at　Blue　Base；　which　had　been　set　up　at　a　place　called　。　。　。
　　　　Janas　looked　up　at　the　driver's　visor。　There；　held　in　place　by　a　rubber　band；　was　a　piece　of　notepaper　and　a　ballpoint　pen。　Scrawled　on　the　paper　was　GOSSELIN'S　STO；　TAKE　EX　16；　TURN　L。
　　　　He'd　be　there　in　an　hour。　Maybe　less。　The　docs　would　undoubtedly　tell　him　they　had　all　the　animal　samples　they　needed　and　the　deer…carcasses　would　be　burned；　but　they　might　want　the　grayboy；　if　the　little　fella　hadn't　turned　entirely　to　mush。　The　cold　might　retard　that　process　a　little　bit；　but　whether　it　did　or　didn't　was　really　none　of　Andy　Janas's　nevermind。　His　concern　was　to　get　there；　turn　over　his　samples；　and　then　await　debriefing　from　whoever　was　in　charge　of　asking　questions　about　the　q…zone's　northern　…　and　most　quiet　perimeter。　While　he　was　awaiting；　he　would　grab　some　hot　coffee　and　a　great　big　plate　of　scrambled　eggs。　If　the　right　someone　was　around；　he　might　even　be　able　to　promote　something　to　spike　his　coffee　with。　That　would　be　good。　Get　a　little　buzz　going；　then　just　hunker　down　and

　　　　pull　over
　　　　
　　　　Janas　frowned；　shook　his　head；　scratched　his　ear　as　if　something　…　a　flea；　perhaps　…　had　bitten　him　there。　The　goddam　wind　gusted　hard　enough　to　shake　the　truck。　The　turnpike　disappeared　and　so　did　the　reflectors。　He　was　encased　in　total　white　again　and　he　had　no　doubt　that　this　scared　the　everloving　bejabbers　out　of　the　other　guys；　but　not　him；　he　was　Mr　Minnesota…Twins…Taking…Care…of…Business；　just　puff　the　old　foot　off　the　gas　（and　never　rm'nd　the　brake；　when　you　were　driving　in　a　snowstorm　the　brake　was　the　best　way　he　knew　to　turn　a　good　n'de　bad）；　just　coast　and　wait　for
　　　　
　　　　pull　over
　　　　
　　　　'Huh？'　He　looked　at　the　radio；　but　there　was　nothing　there；　just　static　and　dim　background　chatter。
　　　　
　　　　pull　over
　　　　
　　　　'Ow！'　Janas　cried；　and　grabbed　at　his　head；　which　suddenly　hurt　like　a　motherfucker。　The　olive…green　pickup　swerved；　skidded；　then　came　back　under　control　as　his　hands　automatically　steered　into　the　skid。　His　foot　was　still　off　the　gas　and　the　Chevy's　speedometer　needle　unwound　rapidly。
　　　　The　plows　had　made　a　narrow　path　down　the　center　of　the　two　southbound　lanes。　Now　Janas　steered　into　the　thicker　snow　to　the　right　of　this　path；　the　truck's　wheels　spurning　up　a　haze　of　snow　which　the　wind　quickly　whipped　away。　The　guardrail　reflectors　were　very　bright；　glaring　in　the　dark　like　cat's　eyes。
　　　　
　　　　pull　over　here
　　　　
　　Janas　screamed　with　pain。　From　a　great　distance　he　heard　himself　shouting；　'Okay；　okay；　I　am！　just　stop　it！　Quit　yanking　me！'　Through　watering　eyes　he　saw　a　dark　form　rear　up　on　the　far　side　of　the　guardrails　not　fifty　feet　ahead。　As　the　headlights　struck　the　shape　fully；　he　saw　it　was　a　man　wearing　a　parka。
　　　　Andy　Janas's　hands　no　longer　felt　like　his　own。　They　felt　like　gloves　with　someone　else's　hands　inside　them。　This　was　an　odd　and　entirely　unpleasant　sensation。　They　turned　the　steering　wheel　farther　to　the　left　entirely　without　his　help；　and　the　pickup　truck　coasted　to　a　stop　in　front　of　the　man　in　the　parka。


3

This　was　his　chance；　with　Mr　Gray's　attention　entirely　diverted。　Jonesy　sensed　that　if　he　thought　about　it　he　would　lose　his　courage；　so　he　didn't　think。　He　simply　acted；　knocking　back　the　bolt　on　the　office　door　with　the　heel　of　his　hand　and　yanking　the　door　open。
　　　　He　had　never　been　inside　Tracker　Brothers　as　a　kid　（and　it　had　been　gone　since　the　big　storm　of　'85）；　but　he　was　pretty　sure　that　it　had　never　looked　like　what　he　saw　now。　Outside　the　dingy　office　was　a　room　so　vast　Jonesy　couldn't　see　the　end　of　it。　Overhead　were　endless　acres　of　fluorescent　bars。　Beneath　them；　stacked　in　enormous　columns；　were　millions　of　cardboard　boxes。
　　　　No；　Jonesy　thought。　Not　millions。　Trillions。
　　　　Yes；　probably　trillions　was　closer。　Thousands　of　narrow　aisles　ran　between　them。　He　was　standing　at　one　edge　of　eternity's　own　warehouse；　and　the　idea　of　finding　anything　in　it　was　ludicrous。　If　he　ventured　away　from　the　door　into　his　office　hideout；　he　would　bee　lost　in　no　time。　Mr　Gray　wouldn't　need　to　bother　with　him；　Jonesy　would　wander　until　he　died；　lost　in　a　mind…boggling　wasteland　of　stored　boxes。
　　　　That's　not　true。　I　could　no　more　get　lost　in　there　than　I　could　in　my　own　bedroom。　Nor　will　I　have　to　hunt　for　what　I　want。　7his　is　my　place。　Wele　to　your　own　head；　big　boy。
　　　　The　concept　was　so　huge　that　it　made　him　feel　weak　。　。　。　only　he　couldn't　afford　to　be　weak　right　now；　or　to　hesitate。　Mr　Gray；　everyone's　favorite　invader　from　the　Great　Beyond；　wouldn't　be　occupied　with　the　truck　driver　for　long；　If　Jonesy　meant　to　move　some　of　these　files　to　safety；　he　had　to　do　it　right　now。　The　question　was；　which　ones？
　　　　Duddits；　his　mind　whispered。　This　has　something　to　do　with　Duddits。　You　know　it　does。　He's　been　o　your　mind　a　lot　lately。　The　other　guys　were　thinking　of　him；　too。　Duddits　is　what　held　you　and　Henry　and　Pete　and　Beaver　together　…　you've　always　known　that；　but　now　you　know　something　else；　as　well。　Don't　you？
　　　　Yes。　He　knew　that　his　accident　in　March　had　been　caused　by　thinking　he'd　seen　Duddits　once　again　being　teased　by　Richie　Grenadeau　and　his　friends。　Only　'teased'　was　a　ludicrously　inapt　word　for　what　had　been　going　on　behind　Tracker　Brothers　that　day；　wasn't　it？　Tortured　was　the　word。　And　when　he'd　seen　that　torture　being　reenacted；　he　had　plunged　into　the　street　without　looking；　and…
　　　　His　head　was　off；　Beaver　suddenly　said　from　the　storeroom's　overhead　speakers；　his　voice　so　loud　and　sudden　it　made　Jonesy　cringe。　It　was　laying　in　the　ditch　and　his　eyes　were　full　of　mud；　A　d　sooner　or　later　every　murderer　pays　the　price。　What　a　fuckarow！
　　　　Richie's　head。　Richie　Grenadeau's　head。　And　Jonesy　had　no　time　for　this。　He　was　a　trespasser　in　his　own　head　now；　and　he'd　do　well　to　move　quickly。
　　　　When　he　had　first　looked　out　at　this　enormous　storeroom；　all　the　boxes　had　been　plain　and　unmarked。　Now　he　saw　that　those　at　the　head　of　the　row　closest　to　him　were　labeled　in　black　grease…pencil：　DUDDITS。　Was　that　surprising？　Fortuitous？　Not　at　all。　They　were　his　memories；　after　all；　stored　flat　and　neatly　folded　in　each　of　the　trillions　of　boxes；　and　when　it　came　to　memory；　the　healthy　mind　was　able　to　access　them　pretty　much　at　will。　　　　
　　　　Need　something　to　move　them　with；　Jonesy　thought；　and　when　he　looked　around　he　was　not　exactly　amazed　to　see　a　bright　red　hand…dolly。　This　was　a　magic　place；　a　make…it…up…as…you…go…along　place；　and　the　most　marvelous　thing　about　it；　Jonesy　supposed；　was　that　everybody　had　one。
　　　　Moving　quickly；　he　stacked　some　of　the　boxes　marked　DUDDITS　on　the　dolly　and　ran　them　into　the　Tracker　Brothers　office　at　a　trot。　He　dumped　them　by　tipping　the　dolly　forward；　spilling　them　across　the　floor。　Untidy；　but　he　could　worry　about　the　Good　Housekeeping　Seal　of　Approval　later。　　　　
　　　　He　ran　back　out；　feeling　for　Mr　Gray；　but　Mr　Gray　was　still　with　the　truck…driver　。　。　。　Janas；　his　name　was。　There　was　the　cloud；　but　the　cloud　didn't　sense　him。　It　was　as　dumb　as　。　。　。　well；　as　dumb　as　fungus。
　　　　Jonesy　got　the　rest　of　the　DUDDITS　boxes；　and　saw　that　the　next　stack　had　also　acquired　scribbled　grease…pencil　labels。　These　latter　said　DERRY；　and　there　were　too　many　to　take。　The　question　was　whether　or　not　he　needed　to　take　any　of　them。
　　　　He　pondered　this　as　he　pushed　the　second　load　of　memory…boxes　into　the　office。　Of　course　the　Derry　boxes　would　be　stacked　near　the　Duddits　boxes；　memory　was　both　the　act　and　the　art　of　association。　The　question　remained　whether　or　not　his　Derry　memories　mattered。　How　was　he　supposed　to　know　that　when　he　didn't　know　what　Mr　Gray　wanted？
　　　　But　he　did　know。
　　　　Mr　Gray　wanna　go　south。
　　　　Derry　was　south。
　　　　Jonesy　sprinted　back　into　the　memory　storehouse；　pushing　the　dolly　ahead　of　him。　He'd　take　as　many　of　the　boxes　marked　DERRY　as　he　could；　and　hope　they　were　the　right　ones。　He　would　also　hope　that　he　sensed　Mr　Gray's　return　in　time。　Because　if　he　was　caught　out　here；　he　would　be　swatted　like　a　fly。


4

Janas　watched；　horrified；　as　his　left　hand　reached　out　and　opened　the　driver's…side　door　of　his　truck；　letting　in　the　cold；　the　snow；　and　the　relentless　wind。　'Don't　hurt　me　anymore；　mister；　please　don't；　you