sk.dreamcatcher-第8部分

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　　　　Jonesy　screwed　the　red　stopper　into　the　Thermos　of　coffee　and　put　it　aside。　Then　he　pushed　the　sleeping　bag　off　his　lower　body　like　a　big　quilted　sock　（wincing　at　the　stiffness　in　his　hip　as　he　did　it）　and　grabbed　his　gun。　There　was　no　need　to　chamber　a　round；　producing　that　loud；　deer…frightening　click；　old　habits　died　hard；　and　the　gun　was　ready　to　fire　as　soon　as　he　thumbed　off　the　safety。　This　he　did　when　he　was　solidly　on　his　feet。　The　old　wild　excitement　was　gone；　but　there　was　a　residue　…　his　pulse　was　up　and　he　weled　the　rise。　In　the　wake　of　his　accident；　he　weled　all　such　reactions　…　it　was　as　if　there　were　two　of　him　now；　the　one　before　he　had　been　knocked　flat　in　the　street　and　the　warier；　older　fellow　who　had　awakened　in　Mass　General　。　。　。　if　you　could　call　that　slow；　drugged　awareness　being　awake。　Sometimes　he　still　heard　a　voice　…　whose　he　didn't　know；　but　not　his　…　calling　out　Please　stop；　I　can't　stand　it；　give　me　a　shot；　where's　Marcy；　I　want　Marcy。　He　thought　of　it　as　death's　voice　…　death　had　passed　him　in　the　street　and　had　then　e　to　the　hospital　to　finish　the　job；　death　masquerading　as　a　man　（or　perhaps　it　had　been　a　woman；　it　was　hard　to　tell）　in　pain；　someone　who　said　Marcy　but　meant　Jonesy。
　　　　The　idea　passed　…　all　of　the　funny　ideas　he'd　had　in　the　hospital　eventually　passed　…　but　it　left　a　residue。　Caution　was　the　residue。　He　had　no　memory　of　Henry　calling　and　telling　him　to　watch　himself　for　the　next　little　while　（and　Henry　hadn't　reminded　him）；　but　since　then　Jonesy　had　watched　himself。　He　was　careful。　Because　maybe　death　was　out　there；　and　maybe　sometimes　it　called　your　name。
　　　　But　the　past　was　the　past。　He　had　survived　his　brush　with　death；　and　nothing　was　dying　here　this　morning　but　a　deer　（a　buck；　he　hoped）　who　had　strolled　in　the　wrong　direction。
　　　　The　sound　of　the　rustling　brush　and　snapping　twigs　was　conu'ng　toward　him　from　the　southwest；　which　meant　he　wouldn't　have　to　shoot　around　the　trunk　of　the　maple　…　good　…　and　put　him　upwind。　Even　better。　Most　of　the　maple's　leaves　had　fallen；　and　he　had　a　good；　if　not　perfect；　sightline　through　the　interlacing　branches。　Jonesy　raised　the　Garand；　settled　the　buttplate　into　the　hollow　of　his　shoulder；　and　prepared　to　shoot　himself　a　conversation…piece。
　　　　What　saved　McCarthy　…　at　least　temporarily　…　was　Jonesy's　disenchantment　with　hunting。　What　almost　got　McCarthy　killed　was　a　phenomenon　George　Kilroy；　a　friend　of　his　father's；　had　called　'eye…fever'。　Eye…fever；　Kilroy　claimed；　was　a　form　of　buck　fever；　and　was　probably　the　second　most　mon　cause　of　hunting　accidents。　'First　is　drink；'　said　George　Kilroy　。　。　。　and　like　Jonesy's　father；　Kilroy　knew　a　bit　on　that　subject；　as　well。　'First　is　always　drink。'
　　　　Kilroy　said　that　victims　of　eye…fever　were　uniformly　astounded　to　discover　they　had　shot　a　fencepost；　or　a　passing　car；　or　the　broad　side　of　a　barn；　or　their　own　hunting　partner　（in　many　cases　the　partner　was　a　spouse；　a　sib；　or　a　child）。　'But　I　saw　it；'　they　would　protest；　and　most　of　them　according　to　Kilroy；　could　pass　a　lie…detector　test　on　the　subject。　They　had　seen　the　deer　or　the　bear　or　the　wolf；　or　just　the　grouse　flip…flapping　through　the　high　autumn　grass。　They　had　seen　it。
　　　　What　happened；　according　to　Kilroy；　was　that　these　hunters　were　afflicted　by　an　anxiety　to　make　the　shot；　to　get　it　over　with；　one　way　or　the　other。　This　anxiety　became　so　strong　that　the　brain　persuaded　the　eye　that　it　saw　what　was　not　yet　visible；　in　order　to　end　the　tension。　This　was　eye…fever。　And　although　Jonesy　was　aware　of　no　particular　anxiety　…　his　fingers　had　been　perfectly　steady　as　he　screwed　the　red　stopper　back　into　the　throat　of　the　Thermos　…　he　admitted　later　to　himself　that　yes；　he　might　have　fallen　prey　to　the　malady。
　　　　For　one　moment　he　saw　the　buck　clearly　at　the　end　of　the　tunnel　made　by　the　interlocking　branches　…　as　clearly　as　he　had　seen　any　of　the　previous　sixteen　deer　（six　bucks；　ten　does）　he　had　brought　down　over　the　years　at　Hole　in　the　Wall。　He　saw　its　brown　head；　one　eye　so　dark　it　was　almost　the　black　of　jeweler's　velvet；　even　part　of　its　rack。
　　　　Shoot　now！　part　of　him　cried　…　it　was　the　Jonesy　from　the　other　side　of　the　accident；　the　whole　Jonesy。　That　one　had　spoken　more　frequently　in　the　last　month　or　so；　as　he　began　to　approach　some　mythical　state　which　people　who　had　never　been　hit　by　a　car　blithely　referred　to　as　'total　recovery'；　but　he　had　never　spoken　as　loudly　as　he　did　now。　This　was　a　mand；　almost　a　shout。
　　　　And　his　finger　did　tighten　on　the　trigger。　It　never　put　on　that　last　pound　of　pressure　（or　perhaps　it　only　would　have　taken　another　half；　a　paltry　eight　ounces）；　but　it　did　tighten。　The　voice　that　stopped　him　was　that　second　Jonesy；　the　one　who　had　awakened　in　Mass　General；　doped　and　disoriented　and　in　pain；　not　sure　of　anything　anymore　except　that　someone　wanted　something　to　stop；　someone　couldn't　stand　it　…　not　without　a　shot；　anyway　…　that　someone　wanted　Marcy。
　　　　No；　not　yet　…　wait；　watch；　this　new　cautious　Jonesy　said；　and　that　was　the　voice　he　listened　to。　He　froze　in　place；　most　of　his　weight　thrown　forward　on　his　good　left　leg；　rifle　raised；　barrel　angled　down　that　interlacing　tunnel　of　light　at　a　cool　thirty…five　degrees。
　　　　The　first　flakes　of　snow　came　skating　down　out　of　the　white　sky　just　then；　and　as　they　did；　Jonesy　saw　a　bright　vertical　line　of　orange　below　the　deer's　head　…　it　was　as　if　the　snow　had　somehow　conjured　it　up。　For　a　moment　perception　simply　gave　up　and　what　he　was　seeing　over　the　barrel　of　his　gun　became　only　an　unconnected　jumble；　like　paints　swirled　all　together　on　an　artist's　palette。　There　was　no　deer　and　no　man；　not　even　any　woods；　just　a　puzzling　and　untidy　jumble　of　black；　brown；　and　orange。
　　　　Then　there　was　more　orange；　and　in　a　shape　that　made　sense：　it　was　a　hat；　the　kind　with　flaps　you　could　fold　down　to　cover　your　ears。　The　out…of…staters　bought　them　at　L。L。　Bean's　for　forty…four　dollars；　each　with　a　little　tag　inside　that　said　PROUDLY　MADE　IN　THE　USA　BY　UNION　LABOR。　Or　you　could　pick　one　up　at　Gosselin's　for　seven　bucks。　The　tag　in　a　Gosselin's　cap　just　said　MADE　IN　BANGLADESH。
　　　　The　hat　brought　everything　into　horrible　oh…God　focus：　the　brown　he　had　mistaken　for　a　buck's　head　was　the　front　of　a　man's　wool　jacket；　the　black　jeweler's　velvet　of　the　buck's　eye　was　a　button；　and　the　antlers　were　only　more　branches　…　branches　belonging　to　the　very　tree　in　which　he　was　standing。　The　man　was　unwise　（Jonesy　could　not　quite　bring　himself　to　use　the　word　crazy）　to　be　wearing　a　brown　coat　in　the　woods；　but　Jonesy　was　still　at　a　loss　to　understand　how　he　himself　could　have　made　a　mistake　of　such　potentially　horrifying　consequence。　Because　the　man　was　also　wearing　an　orange　cap；　wasn't　he？　And　a　bright　orange　flagman's　vest　as　well；　over　the　admittedly　unwise　brown　coat。　The　man　was…
　　　　…was　a　pound　of　finger…pressure　from　death。　Maybe　less。
　　　　It　came　home　to　him　in　a　visceral　way　then；　knocking　him　clean　out　of　his　own　body。　For　a　terrible；　brilliant　moment　he　never　forgot；　he　was　neither　Jonesy　Number　One；　the　confident　pre…accident　Jonesy；　or　Jonesy　Number　Two；　the　more　tentative　survivor　who　spent　so　much　of　his　time　in　a　tiresome　state　of　physical　disfort　and　mental　confusion。　For　that　moment　he　was　some　other　Jonesy；　an　invisible　presence　looking　at　a　gunman　standing　on　a　platform　in　a　tree。　The　gunman's　hair　was　short　and　already　graying；　his　face　lined　around　the　mouth；　beard…speckled　on　the　cheeks；　and　haggard。　The　gunman　was　on　the　verge　of　using　his　weapon。　Snow　had　begun　to　dance　around　his　head　and　light　on　his　untucked　brown　flannel　shirt；　and　he　was　on　the　verge　of　shooting　a　man　in　an　orange　cap　and　vest　of　the　very　sort　he　would　have　been　wearing　himself　if　he　had　elected　to　go　into　the　woods　with　the　Beaver　instead　of　up　into　this　tree。
　　　　He　fell　back　into　himself　with　a　thud；　exactly　as　one　fell　back　into　one's　seat　after　taking　a　car　over　a　bad　bump　at　a　high　speed。　To　his　horror；　he　realized　he　was　still　tracking　the　man　below　with　the　Garand；　as　if　some　stubborn　alligator　deep　in　his　brain　refused　to　let　go　of　the　idea　that　the　man　in　the　brown　coat　was　prey。　Worse；　he　couldn't　seem　to　make　his　finger　relax　on　the　rifle's　trigger。　There　was　even　an　awful　second　or　two　when　he　thought　he　was　actually　still　squeezing；　inexorably　eating　up　those　last　few　ounces　between　him　and　the　greatest　mistake　of　his　life。　He　later　came　to　accept　that　that　at　least　had　been　an　illusion；　something　akin　to　the　feeling　you　get　of　rolling　backward　in　your　stopped　car　when　you　glimpse　a　slowly　moving　car　beside　you；　out　of　the　corner　of　your　eye。
　　　　No；　he　was　just　frozen；　but　that　was　bad　enough；　that　was　hell。　Jonesy；　you　think　too　much；　Pete　liked　to　say　when　he　caught　Jonesy　staring　out　into　the　middle　distance；　no　longer　tracking　the　conversation；　and　what　he　probably　meant　was　Jonesy；　you　imagine　too　much；　and　that　was　very　likely　true。　Certainly　he　was　imagining　too　much　now　as　he　stood　up　here　in　the　middle　of　the　tree　and　the　season's　first　snow；　hair　leaping　up　in　tufts；　finger　locked　on　the　Garand's　trigger　…　not　tightening　still；　as　he　had　for　a　moment　feared；　but　not　loosening；　either；　the　man　almost　below　him　now；　the　Garand's　gunsight　on　the　top　of　the　orange　cap；　the　man's　life　on　an　invisible　wire　between　the　Garand's　muzzle　and　that　cap；　the　man　maybe　thinking　about　trading　his　car　or　cheating　on　his　wife　or　buying　his　oldest　daughter　a　pony　（Jonesy　later　had　reason　to　know　McCarthy　had　been　thinking　about　none　of　those　things；　but　of　course　not　then；　not　in　the　tree　with　his　forefinger　a　frozen　curl　around　the　trigger　of　his　rifle）　and　not　knowing　what　Jonesy　had　not　known　as　he　stood　on　the　curb　in　Cambridge　with　his　briefcase　in　one　hand　and　a　copy　of　the　Boston　Phoenix　under　his　arm；　namely　that　death　was　in　the　neighborhood；　or　perhaps　even　Death；　a　hurrying　figure　like　something　escaped　from　an　early　Ingmar　Bergman　film；　something　carrying　a　concealed　implement　in　the　coarse　folds　of　its　robe。　Scissors；　perhaps。　Or　a　scalpel。
　　　　And　the　worst　of　it　was　that　the　man　would　not　die；　or　at　least　not　at　once。　He　would　fall　down　and　lie　there　screaming；　as　Jonesy　had　lain　screaming　in　the　street。　He　couldn't　remember　screaming；　but　of　cours