sk.dreamcatcher-第67部分

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ly。
　　　　What　he　needed　had　to　do　with　a　place　called　Derry；　and　when　Mr　Gray　went　into　the　big　storeroom　again；　he　discovered　an　amazing　thing：　his　unwilling　host　had　either　known　that　or　sensed　it；　because　it　was　the　Derry　files　Jonesy　had　been　moving　when　Mr　Gray　had　returned　and　almost　caught　him。
　　　　Mr　Gray　searched　the　boxes　that　were　left　with　sudden　anxiety；　and　then　relaxed。
　　　　What　he　needed　was　still　here。
　　　　Lying　on　its　side　near　the　box　which　contained　the　most　important　information　was　another　box；　very　small　and　very　dusty。　Written　on　the　side　in　black　pencil　was　the　word　DUDDITS。　If　there　were　other　Duddits…boxes；　they　had　been　removed。　Only　this　one　had　been　overlooked。
　　　　More　out　of　curiosity　than　anything　else　（his　curiosity　also　borrowed　from　Jonesy's　store　of　emotions）；　Mr　Gray　opened　it。　Inside　was　a　bright　yellow　container　made　of　plastic。　Outlandish　figures　capered　upon　it；　figures　Jonesy's　files　identified　as　both　cartoons　and　the　Scooby…Doos。　On　one　end　was　a　sticker　reading　I　BELONG　TO　DUDDITS　CAVELL；　19　MAPLE　LANE；　DERRY；　MAINE。　IF　THE　BOY　I　BELONG　TO　IS　LOST；　CALL
　　　　This　was　followed　by　numbers　too　faint　and　illegible　to　read；　probably　a　munication…code　Jonesy　no　longer　remembered。　Mr　Gray　tossed　the　yellow　plastic　container；　probably　meant　for　carrying　food；　aside。　It　could　mean　nothing　。　。　。　although　if　that　was　really　the　case；　why　had　Jonesy　risked　his　existence　getting　the　other　DUDDITS…boxes　（as　well　as　some　of　those　marked　DERRY）　to　safety？
　　　　DUDDITS=CHILDHOOD　FRIEND。　Mr　Gray　knew　this　from　his　initial　encounter　with　Jonesy　in　'the　hospital'　。　。　。　and　if　he　had　known　what　an　annoyance　Jonesy　would　turn　out　to　be；　he　would　have　erased　his　host's　consciousness　right　then。　Neither　the　term　CHILDHOOD　nor　the　term　FRIEND　had　any　emotional　resonance　for　Mr　Gray；　but　he　understood　what　they　meant。　What　he　didn't　understand　was　how　Jonesy's　childhood　friend　could　have　anything　to　do　with　what　was　happening　tonight。
　　　　One　possibility　occurred　to　him：　his　host　had　gone　mad。　Being　turned　out　of　his　own　body　had　driven　him　insane；　and　he'd　simply　taken　the　boxes　closest　to　the　door　of　his　perplexing　stronghold；　assigning　them　in　his　madness　an　importance　they　did　not　actually　have。
　　　　'Jonesy；'　Mr　Gray　said；　speaking　the　name　with　Jonesy's　vocal　cords。　These　creatures　were　mechanical　geniuses　（of　course　they　would　have　to　be；　to　survive　in　such　a　cold　world）；　but　their　thought…processes　were　odd　and　crippled：　rusty　mentation　sunk　in　corrosive　pools　of　emotion。　Their　telepathic　abilities　were　minus；　the　transient　telepathy　they　were　now　experiencing　thanks　to　the　byrus　and　the　kim　（'flashlights'；　they　called　them）　bewildered　and　frightened　them。　It　was　difficult　for　Mr　Gray　to　believe　they　hadn't　murdered　their　entire　species　yet。　Creatures　incapable　of　real　thought　were　maniacs　…　this　was　surely　beyond　argument。
　　　　Meanwhile；　no　answer　from　the　creature　in　that　strange；　impregnable　room。
　　　　'Jonesy。'
　　　　Nothing。　But　Jonesy　was　listening。　Mr　Gray　was　sure　of　it。
　　　　'There　is　no　necessity　for　this　suffering；　Jonesy。　See　us　for　what　we　are　…　not　invaders　but　saviors。　Buddies。'
　　　　Mr　Gray　considered　the　various　boxes。　For　a　creature　that　couldn't　actually　think　much；　Jonesy　had　an　enormous　amount　of　storage　capacity。　Question　for　another　day：　why　would　beings　who　thought　so　poorly　have　so　much　retrieval　capability？　Did　it　have　to　do　with　their　overblown　emotional　makeup？　And　the　emotions　were　disturbing。　He　found　Jonesy's　emotions　very　disturbing。　Always　there。　Always　on　call。　And　so　much　of　them。
　　　　'War。　。　。　famine　。　。　。　ethnic　cleansing　。　。　。　killing　for　peace　。　。　。　massacring　the　heathen　for　Jesus　。　。　。　homosexual　people　beaten　to　death　。　。　。　bugs　in　bottles；　the　bottles　sitting　on　top　of　missiles　aimed　at　every　city　in　the　world　。　。　。　e　on；　Jonesy；　pared　to　type…four　anthrax；　what's　a　little　byrus　between　friends？　Jesus…Christ…bananas；　you'll　all　be　dead　in　fifty　years；　anyway！　This　is　good！　Relax　and　enjoy　it！'
　　　　'You　made　that　guy　stick　a　pen　in　his　eye。'
　　　　Grumpy；　but　better　than　nothing。　The　wind　gusted；　the　pickup　skidded；　and　Mr　Gray　rode　with　it；　using　Jonesy's　skills。　The　visibility　was　almost　nil；　he　had　dropped　to　twenty　miles　an　hour　and　might　do　well　to　pull　over　pletely　for　awhile　once　he　cleared　Kurtz's　net。　Meanwhile；　he　could　chat　with　his　host。　Mr　Gray　doubted　that　he　could　talk　Jonesy　out　of　his　room；　but　chatting　at　least　passed　the　time。
　　　　'I　had　to；　buddy。　I　needed　the　truck。　I'm　the　last　one。'
　　　　'And　you　never　lose。'
　　　　'Right；'　Mr　Gray　agreed。
　　　　'But　you've　never　had　a　situation　like　this；　have　you？　You've　never　had　someone　you　can't　get　at。'
　　　　Was　Jonesy　taunting　him？　Mr　Gray　felt　a　ripple　of　anger。　And　then　he　said　something　Mr　Gray　had　already　thought　of　himself。
　　　　'Maybe　you　should　have　killed　me　in　the　hospital。　Or　was　that　only　a　dream？'
　　　　Mr　Gray；　unsure　what　a　dream　was；　didn't　bother　responding。　Having　this　barricaded　mutineer　in　what　by　now　should　have　been　Mr　Gray's　mind　and　his　alone　was　increasingly　annoying。　For　one　thing；　he　didn't　like　thinking　of　himself　as　'Mr　Gray'　…　that　was　not　his　concept　of　himself　or　the　species…mind　of　which　he　was　a　part；　he　did　not　even　like　to　think　of　himself　as　'he'；　for　he　was　both　sexes　and　neither。　Yet　now　he　was　imprisoned　by　these　concepts；　and　would　be　as　long　as　the　core　being　of　Jonesy　remained　unabsorbed。　A　terrible　thought　occurred　to　Mr　Gray：　what　if　it　was　his　concepts　that　had　no　meaning？
　　　　He　hated　being　in　this　position。
　　　　'Who's　Duddits；　Jonesy？'
　　　　No　answer。
　　　　'Who　is　Richie？　Why　was　he　a　shit？　Why　did　you　kill　him？'
　　　　'We　didn't！'
　　　　A　little　tremble　in　the　mental　voice。　Ah；　that　shot　had　gone　home。　And　something　interesting：　Mr　Gray　had　meant　'you'　in　the　singular；　but　Jonesy　had　taken　it　in　the　plural。
　　　　'You　did；　though。　Or　you　think　you　did。'
　　　　'That's　a　lie。'
　　　　'How　silly　of　you　to　say　so。　I　have　the　memories；　right　here　in　one　of　your　boxes。　There's　snow　in　the　box。　Snow　and　a　moccasin。　Brown　suede。　e　out　and　look。'
　　　　For　one　giddy　second　he　thought　Jonesy　might　do　just　that。　If　he　did；　Mr　Gray　would　sweep　him　back　to　the　hospital　at　once。　Jonesy　could　see　himself　die　on　television。　A　happy　ending　to　the　movie　they　had　been　watching。　And　then；　no　more　Mr　Gray。　just　what　Jonesy　thought　of　as　'the　cloud'。
　　　　Mr　Gray　looked　eagerly　at　the　doorknob；　willing　it　to　turn。　It　didn't。
　　　　'e　out。'
　　　　Nothing。
　　　　'You　killed　Richie；　you　coward！　You　and　your　friends。　You　。　。　。　you　dreamed　him　to　death。'　And　although　Mr　Gray　didn't　know　what　dreams　were；　he　knew　that　was　true。　Or　that　Jonesy　believed　it　was。
　　　　Nothing。
　　　　'e　out！　e　out　and。　。　。'He　searched　Jonesy's　memories。　Many　of　them　were　in　boxes　called　MOVIES；　Jonesy　seemed　to　love　movies　above　all　things；　and　Mr　Gray　plucked　what　he　thought　a　particularly　potent　line　from　one　of　these：　'　。　。　。　and　fight　like　a　man！'
　　　　Nothing。
　　　　You　bastard；　Mr　Gray　thought；　once　more　dipping　into　the　enticing　pool　of　his　host's　emotions。　You　son　of　a　bitch。　You　stubborn　asshole。　Kiss　my　bender；　you　stubborn　asshole。
　　　　Back　in　the　days　when　Jonesy　had　been　Jonesy；　he　had　often　expressed　anger　by　slamming　his　fist　down　on　something。　Mr　Gray　did　it　now；　bringing　Jonesy's　fist　down　on　the　center　of　the　truck's　wheel　hard　enough　to　honk　the　horn。　'Tell　me！　Not　about　Richie；　not　about　Duddits；　about　you！　Something　makes　you　different。　I　want　to　know　what　it　is。'
　　　　No　answer。
　　　　'It's　in　the　crib　…　is　that　it？'
　　　　Still　no　answer；　but　Mr　Gray　heard　Jonesy's　feet　shuffle　behind　the　door。　And　perhaps　a　low　intake　of　breath。　Mr　Gray　smiled　with　Jonesy's　mouth。
　　　　'Talk　to　me；　Jonesy　…　we'll　play　the　game；　we'll　pass　the　time。　Who　was　Richie；　besides　Number　19？　Why　were　you　angry　with　him？　Because　he　was　a　Tiger？　A　Derry　Tiger？　What　were　they？　Who's　Duddits？'
　　　　Nothing。
　　　　The　truck　crept　more　slowly　than　ever　through　the　storm；　the　headlights　almost　helpless　against　the　swirling　wall　of　white。　Mr　Gray's　voice　was　low；　coaxing。
　　　　'You　missed　one　of　the　Duddits…boxes；　buddy；　did　you　know　that？　There's　a　box　inside　the　box；　as　it　happens　…　it's　yellow。　There　are　Scooby…Doos　on　it。　What　are　Scooby…Doos？　They're　not　real　people；　are　they？　Are　they　movies？　Are　they　televisions？　Do　you　want　the　box？　e　out；　Jonesy。　e　out　and　I'll　give　you　the　box。'
　　　　Mr　Gray　removed　his　foot　from　the　gas　pedal　and　let　the　truck　coast　slowly　to　the　left；　over　into　the　thicker　snow。　Something　was　happening　here；　and　he　wanted　to　turn　all　his　attention　to　it。　Force　had　not　dislodged　Jonesy　from　his　stronghold　。　。　。　but　force　wasn't　the　only　way　to　win　a　battle；　or　a　war。
　　　　The　truck　stood　idling　by　the　guardrails　in　what　was　now　a　full…fledged　blizzard。　Mr　Gray　closed　his　eyes。　Immediately　he　was　in　Jonesy's　brightly　lit　memory　storehouse。　Behind　him　were　miles　of　stacked　boxes；　marching　away　under　the　fluorescent　tubes。　In　front　of　him　was　the　closed　door；　shabby　and　dirty　and　for　some　reason　very；　very　strong。　Mr　Gray　placed　his　three…fingered　hands　on　it　and　began　to　speak　in　a　low　voice　that　was　both　intimate　and　urgent。
　　　　'Who　is　Duddits？　Why　did　you　call　him　after　you　killed　Richie？　Let　me　in；　we　need　to　talk。　Why　did　you　take　some　of　the　Derry　boxes？　What　did　you　not　want　me　to　see？　It　doesn't　matter；　I　have　what　I　need；　let　me　in；　Jonesy；　better　now　than　later。'
　　　　It　was　going　to　work。　He　sensed　Jonesy's　blank　eyes；　could　see　Jonesy's　hand　moving　toward　the　knob　and　the　lock。
　　　　'We　always　win；'　Mr　Gray　said。　He　sat　behind　the　wheel　with　Jonesy's　eyes　closed；　and　in　another　universe　the　wind　screamed　and　rocked　the　truck　on　its　springs。　'Open　the　door；　Jonesy；　open　it　now。'
　　　　Silence。　And　then；　from　less　than　three　inches　away　and　as　surprising　as　a　basinful　of　cold　water　dashed　on　warm　skin：　'Eat　shit　and　die。'
　　　　Mr　Gray　recoiled　so　violently　that　the　back　of　Jonesy's　head　connected　with　the　truck's　rear　window。　The　pain　was　sudden　and　shocking；　a　second　unpleasant　surprise。
　　　　He　slammed　a　fist　down　again；　then　the　other；　then　the　first　once　more；　he　was　hammering　on　the　wheel；　the　horn　beating　out　a　Morse　code　of　rage。　A　largely　emotionless　creature　and　part　of　a　largely　emotio