sk.dreamcatcher-第87部分

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　　　　She　snapped　her　pad　closed　and　started　away。　Mr　Gray　was　back　at　the　locked　door　of　Jonesy's　office　at　once；　and　furious　all　over　again。
　　　　How　could　you　do　that？　he　asked。　How　could　you　do　that　from　in　there？　An　ill…natured　thump　as　Mr　Gray　hit　the　door。　And　he　was　more　than　angry；　Jonesy　realized。　He　was　frightened；　as　well。　Because　if　Jonesy　could　interfere；　everything　was　in　jeopardy。
　　　　I　don't　know；　Jonesy　said；　and　truthfully　enough。　But　don't　take　it　so　hard。　Enjoy　your　breakfast。　I　was　just　fucking　with　you　a　little。
　　　　Why？　Still　furious。　Still　drinking　from　the　well　of　Jonesy's　emotions；　and　liking　it　in　spite　of　himself。　Why　would　you　do　that？
　　　　Call　it　payback　for　trying　to　roast　me　in　my　office　while　I　was　sleeping；　Jonesy　said。
　　　　With　the　restaurant　section　of　the　truck　stop　almost　deserted；　Darlene　was　back　with　the　food　in　no　time。　Jonesy　considered　seeing　if　he　could　gain　control　of　his　mouth　long　enough　to　say　something　outrageous　（Darlene；　can　I　bite　your　hair？　was　what　came　to　mind）；　and　thought　better　of　it。
　　　　She　set　his　plate　down；　gave　him　a　dubious　look；　then　started　away。　Mr　Gray；　looking　at　the　bright　yellow　lump　of　eggs　and　the　dark　twigs　of　bacon　（not　just　crispy　but　almost　incinerated；　in　the　great　Dysart's　tradition）　through　Jonesy's　eyes；　was　feeling　the　same　dubiety。
　　　　Go　on；　Jonesy　said。　He　was　standing　at　his　office　window；　watching　and　waiting　with　amusement　and　curiosity。　Was　it　possible　that　the　bacon　and　eggs　would　kill　Mr　Gray？　Probably　not；　but　it　might　at　least　make　the　hijacking　motherfucker　good　and　sick。　Go　on；　Mr　Gray；　eat　up。　Bon…fuckin…appétit。
　　　　Mr　Gray　consulted　Jonesy's　files　on　the　proper　use　of　the　silverware；　then　picked　up　a　tiny　clot　of　scrambled　eggs　on　the　tines　of　his　fork；　and　put　them　in　Jonesy's　mouth。
　　　　What　followed　was　both　amazing　and　hilarious。　Mr　Gray　gobbled　everything　in　huge　bites；　pausing　only　to　drown　the　pancakes　in　fake　maple　syrup。　He　loved　it　all；　but　most　particularly　the　bacon。
　　　　Flesh！　Jonesy　heard　him　exulting　…　it　was　almost　the　voice　of　the　creature　in　one　of　those　corny　old　monster　movies　from　the　thirties。　Flesh！　Flesh！　This　is　the　taste　of　flesh！
　　　　Funny　。　。　。　but　maybe　not　all　that　funny；　either。　Maybe　sort　of　horrible。　The　cry　of　a　new…made　vampire。
　　　　Mr　Gray　looked　around；　ascertained　that　he　wasn't　being　watched　（the　State　Bear　was　now　addressing　a　large　piece　of　cherry　pie）；　then　picked　up　the　plate　and　licked　the　grease　from　it　with　big　swipes　of　Jonesy's　tongue。　He　finished　by　licking　the　sticky　syrup　from　the　ends　of　his　fingers。
　　　　Darlene　returned；　poured　more　coffee；　looked　at　the　empty　dishes。　'Why；　you　get　a　gold　star；'　she　said。　'Anything　else？'
　　　　'More　bacon；'　Mr　Gray　said。　He　consulted　Jonesy's　files　for　the　correct　terminology；　and　added：　'A　double　order。'
　　　　And　may　you　choke　on　it；　Jonesy　thought；　but　now　without　much　hope。
　　　　'Gotta　stoke　the　stove；'　Darlene　said；　a　ment　Mr　Gray　didn't　understand　and　didn't　bother　hunting　down　in　Jonesy's　files。　He　put　two　sugars　in　his　coffee；　looked　around　to　make　sure　he　wasn't　observed；　then　poured　the　contents　of　a　third　packet　down　his　throat。　Jonesy's　eyes　half…closed　for　a　few　seconds　as　Mr　Gray　drowned　happily　in　the　bliss　of　sweet。
　　　　You　can　have　that　any　time　you　want　it；　Jonesy　said　through　the　door。　Now　he　supposed　he　knew　how　Satan　felt　when　he　took　Jesus　up　on　the　mountaintop　and　tempted　him　with　all　the　cities　of　the　earth。　Not　good；　not　really　bad；　just　doing　the　job；　selling　the　product。
　　　　Except　。　。　。　check　that。　It　did　feel　good；　because　he　knew　he　was　getting　through。　He　wasn't　opening　stab…wounds　exactly；　but　he　was　at　least　pricking　Mr　Gray。　Making　him　sweat　little　blood…beads　of　desire。
　　　　Give　it　up；　Jonesy　coaxed。　Go　native。　You　can　spend　years　exploring　my　senses。　They're　pretty　sharp；　I'm　still　under　forty。
　　　　No　reply　from　Mr　Gray。　He　looked　around；　saw　no　one　looking　his　way；　poured　fake　maple　syrup　into　his　coffee；　slurped　it；　and　looked　around　again　for　his　supplemental　bacon。　Jonesy　sighed。　This　was　like　being　with　a　strict　Muslim　who　has　somehow　wound　up　on　a　Las　Vegas　holiday。
　　　　On　the　far　side　of　the　restaurant　was　an　arch　with　a　sign　reading　TRUCKERS'　LOUNGE　&　SHOWERS　above　it。　In　the　short　hallway　beyond；　there　was　a　bank　of　pay　telephones。　Several　drivers　stood　there；　no　doubt　explaining　to　spouses　and　bosses　that　they　wouldn't　be　back　on　time；　they'd　been　shut　down　by　a　surprise　storm　in　Maine；　they　were　at　Dysart's　Truck　Stop　（known　to　the　cognoscenti　as　Dry　Farts；　Jonesy　thought）　south　of　Derry　and　here　they　would　likely　remain　until　at　least　noon　tomorrow。
　　　　Jonesy　turned　from　the　office　window　with　its　view　of　the　truck　stop　and　looked　at　his　desk；　now　covered　with　all　his　old　and　forting　clutter。　There　was　his　phone；　the　blue　Trimline。　Would　it　be　possible　to　call　Henry　on　it？　Was　Henry　even　still　alive？　Jonesy　thought　he　was。　He　thought　that　if　Henry　were　dead；　he　would　have　felt　the　moment　of　his　passing　…　more　shadows　in　the　room；　perhaps。　Elvis　has　left　the　building；　Beaver　had　often　said　when　he　spotted　a　name　he　knew　in　the　obits。　What　a　fuckitt　pisser。　Jonesy　didn't　think　Henry　had　left　the　building　just　yet。　It　was　even　possible　that　Henry　had　an　encore　in　mind。


8

Mr　Gray　didn't　choke　on　his　second　order　of　bacon；　but　when　his　lower　belly　suddenly　cramped　up；　he　let　out　a　dismayed　roar。　You　poisoned　me！
　　　　Relax；　Jonesy　said。　You　just　need　to　make　a　little　room；　my　friend。
　　　　Room？　What　do　you…
　　　　He　broke　off　as　another　cramp　gripped　his　gut。
　　　　I　mean　that　we　had　better　hurry　along　to　the　little　boys'　room；　Jonesy　said。　Good　God；　didn't　all　those　abductions　you　guys　did　in　the　sixties　teach　you　anything　about　the　human　anatomy？
　　　　Darlene　had　left　the　check；　and　Mr　Gray　picked　it　up。
　　　　Leave　her　fifteen　per　cent　on　the　table；　Jonesy　said。　It's　a　tip。
　　　　How　much　is　fifteen　per　cent？
　　　　Jonesy　sighed。　These　were　the　masters　of　the　universe　that　the　movies　had　taught　us　to　fear？　Merciless；　star…faring　conquerors　who　didn't　know　how　to　take　a　shit　or　figure　a　tip？
　　　　Another　cramp；　plus　a　fairly　silent　fart。　It　smelled；　but　not　of　ether。　Thank　God　for　small　favors；　Jonesy　thought。　Then；　to　Mr　Gray：　Show　me　the　check。
　　　　Jonesy　looked　at　the　green　slip　of　paper　through　his　office　window。
　　　　Leave　her　a　buck　and　a　half　And　when　Mr　Gray　seemed　dubious：　This　is　good　advice　I'm　giving　you；　my　friend。　More　and　she　remembers　you　as　the　night's　big　tipper。　Less；　and　she　remembers　you　as　a　chintz。
　　　　He　sensed　Mr　Gray　checking　for　the　meaning　of　chintz　in　Jonesy's　files。　Then；　without　further　argument；　he　left　a　dollar　and　two　quarters　on　the　table。　With　that　taken　care　of；　he　headed　for　the　cash　register；　which　was　on　the　way　to　the　men's　room。
　　　　The　cop　was　working　his　pie　…　with　slightly　suspicious　slowness；　Jonesy　thought　…　and　as　they　passed　him；　Jonesy　felt　Mr　Gray　as　an　entity　（an　ever　more　human　entity）　dissolve；　going　out　to　peek　inside　the　cop's　head。　Nothing　out　there　now　but　the　redblack　cloud；　running　Jonesy's　various　maintenance　systems。
　　　　Quick　as　a　flash；　Jonesy　grabbed　the　phone　on　his　desk。　For　a　moment　he　hesitated；　unsure。
　　　　just　dial　1…800…HENRY；　Jonesy　thought。
　　　　For　a　moment　there　was　nothing　。　。　。　and　then；　in　some　other　somewhere；　a　phone　began　to　ring。


9

'Pete's　idea；'　Henry　muttered。
　　　　Owen；　at　the　wheel　of　the　Humvee　（it　was　huge　and　it　was　loud；　but　it　was　equipped　with　oversized　snow　tires　and　rode　the　storm　like　the　QE2）；　looked　over。　Henry　was　asleep。　His　glasses　had　slid　down　to　the　end　of　his　nose。　His　eyelids；　now　delicately　fuzzed　with　byrus；　rippled　as　the　eyeballs　beneath　them　moved。　Henry　was　dreaming。　About　what？　Owen　wondered。　He　supposed　he　could　dip　into　his　new　partner's　head　and　have　a　look；　but　that　seemed　perverse。
　　　　'Pete's　idea；'　Henry　repeated。　'Pete　saw　her　first。'　And　he　sighed；　a　sound　so　tired　that　Owen　felt　bad　for　him。　No；　he　decided；　he　didn't　want　any　part　of　what　was　going　on　in　Henry's　head。　Another　hour　to　Derry；　more　if　the　wind　stayed　high。　Better　to　just　let　him　sleep。


10

Behind　Derry　High　School　is　the　football　field　where　Richie　Grenadeau　once　strutted　his　stuff；　but　Richie　is　five　years　in　his　teenage　hero's　grave；　just　another　small…town　car…crash　James　Dean。　Other　heroes　have　risen；　thrown　their　passes；　and　moved　on。　It's　not　football　season　now；　anyway。　It's　spring；　and　on　the　field　there　is　a　gathering　of　what　look　like　birds　…　huge　red　ones　with　black　heads。　These　mutant　crows　are　laughing　and　talking　as　they　sit　in　their　folding　chairs；　but　Mr　Trask；　the　principal；　has　no　problem　being　heard；　he's　at　the　podium　on　the　makeshift　stage；　and　he's　got　the　mike。
　　　　'One　last　thing　before　I　dismiss　you！'　he　booms。　'I　won't　tell　you　not　to　throw　your　mortarboards　at　the　end　of　the　ceremony；　I　know　from　years　of　experience　I　might　as　well　be　talking　to　myself　on　that　score…'
　　　　Laughter；　cheers；　applause。
　　　　'…but　I'm　telling　you　to　PICK　THEM　UP　AND　TURN　THEM　IN　OR　YOU　WILL　BE　CHARGED　FOR　THEM！'
　　　　There　are　a　few　boos　and　some　raspberries；　Beaver　Clarendon's　the　loudest。
　　　　Mr　Trask　gives　them　a　final　surveying　look。　'Young　men　and　women；　members　of　the　Class　of　'82；　1　think　I　speak　for　the　entire　faculty　when　I　say　I'm　proud　of　you。　This　concludes　rehearsal；　so　。　。　。'
　　　　The　rest　is　lost；　amplification　or　no　amplification；　the　red　crows　rise　in　a　gusty　flap　of　nylon；　and　they　fly。　Tomorrow　at　noon　they　will　fly　for　good；　although　the　three　crows　laughing　and　grabassing　their　way　toward　the　parking　lot　where　Henry's　car　is　parked　do　not　realize　it；　the　childhood　phase　of　their　friendship　is　now　only　hours　from　the　end。　They　don't　realize　it；　and　that　is　probably　just　as　well。
　　　　Jonesy　snatches　Henry's　mortarboard；　slaps　it　on　top　of　his　own；　and　books　for　the　parking　lot。
　　　　'Hey；　asshole；　give　that　back！'　Henry　yells；　and　then　he　snatches　Beaver's。　Beav　squawks　like　a　chicken　and　runs　after　Henry；　laughing。　So　the　three　of　them　swoop　across　the　grass　and　behind　the　bleachers；　graduation　robes　billowing　around　their　jeans。　Jonesy　has　two　hats　on　his　head；　the　tassels　swinging　in　opposite　directions；　Henry　has　one　（far　too　big；　it's　sitting　on　his　ears）；