sk.dreamcatcher-第99部分

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doubt　have　e　out　as　a　whine。　Can't　fall　out；　can't　see　out；　can't　go　out；　I　don't　know　where　you　are；　Henry；　but　I'm　in　a　goddam　isolation　booth。
　　　　Did　he　steal　your　brains？
　　　　'Shut　up。'　Jonesy　rubbed　at　his　temple。
　　　　Did　he　take　your　memories？
　　　　No。　Of　course　not。　Even　in　here；　with　a　double…locked　door　between　him　and　those　billions　of　labeled　cartons；　he　could　recall　wiping　a　booger　on　the　end　of　Bonnie　Deal's　braid　in　first　grade　（and　then　asking　that　same　Bonnie　to　dance　at　the　seventh…grade　Harvest　Hop　six　years　later）；　watching　carefully　as　Lamar　Clarendon　taught　them　to　play　the　game　（known　as　cribbage　to　the　low　and　the　uninitiated）；　seeing　Rick　McCarthy　e　out　of　the　woods　and　thinking　he　was　a　deer。　He　could　remember　all　those　things。　There　might　be　an　advantage　in　that；　but　Jonesy　was　damned　if　he　knew　what　it　was。　Maybe　because　it　was　too　big；　too　obvious。
　　　　To　be　stuck　like　this　after　all　the　mysteries　you've　read；　his　mind's　version　of　Henry　taunted　him。　Not　to　mention　all　those　science…fiction　movies　where　the　aliens　arrive；　everything　from　The　Day　the　Earth　Stood　Still　to　The　Attack　of　the　Killer　Tomatoes。　All　of　that　and　you　still　can't　figure　this　guy　out？　Can't　follow　his　smoke　down　from　the　sky　and　see　where　he's　camped？
　　　　Jonesy　rubbed　harder　at　his　temple。　This　wasn't　ESP；　it　was　his　own　mind；　and　why　couldn't　he　shut　it　up？　He　was　fucking　trapped；　so　what　difference　did　it　make；　anyway？　He　was　a　motor　without　a　transmission；　a　cart　without　a　horse；　he　was　Donovan's　Brain；　kept　alive　in　a　tank　of　cloudy　fluid　and　dreaming　useless　dreams。
　　　　What　does　he　want？　Start　there。
　　　　Jonesy　looked　up　at　the　dreamcatcher；　dancing　in　the　vague　currents　of　warm　air。　Felt　the　rumble　of　the　plow；　strong　enough　to　vibrate　the　pictures　on　the　walls。　Tina　Jean　Schlossinger；　that　had　been　her　name；　and　supposedly　there　had　been　a　picture　of　her　in　here；　a　picture　of　her　holding　her　skirt　up　so　you　could　see　her　pussy；　and　how　many　adolescent　boys　had　been　caught　by　such　a　dream？
　　　　Jonesy　got　up　…　almost　leaped　up　…　and　began　to　pace　around　the　office；　limping　only　a　little。　The　storm　was　over；　and　his　hip　hurt　a　bit　less　now。
　　　　Think　like　Hercule　Poirot；　he　told　himself　Exercise　those　little　gray　cells。　Never　mind　your　memories　for　the　time　being；　think　about　Mr　Gray。　Think　logically。　What　does　he　want？
　　　　Jonesy　stopped。　What　Gray　wanted　was　obvious；　really。　He　had　gone　to　the　Standpipe　…　where　the　Standpipe　had　been；　anyway　because　he　wanted　water。　Not　just　any　water；　drinking　water。　But　the　Standpipe　was　gone；　destroyed　in　the　big　blow　of　'85　…　ha；　ha；　Mr　Gray；　gotcha　last　…　and　Derry's　current　water　supply　was　north　and　east；　probably　not　reachable　because　of　the　storm；　and　not　concentrated　in　one　place；　anyway。　So　Mr　Gray　had；　after　consulting　Jonesy's　available　store　of　knowledge；　turned　south　again。　Toward…
　　　　Suddenly　it　was　all　clear。　The　strength　ran　out　of　his　legs　and　he　collapsed　to　the　carpeted　floor；　ignoring　the　flare　of　pain　in　his　hip。
　　　　The　dog。　Lad。　Did　he　still　have　the　dog？
　　　　'Of　course　he　does；'　Jonesy　whispered。　'Of　course　the　son　of　a　bitch　does；　I　can　smell　him　even　in　here。　Fartin　just　like　McCarthy。'
　　　　This　world　was　inimical　to　the　byrus；　and　this　world's　inhabitants　fought　with　a　surprising　vigor　which　arose　from　deep　wells　of　emotion。　Bad　luck。　But　now　the　last　surviving　grayboy　had　had　an　unbroken　chain　of　good　luck；　he　was　like　some　daffy　in…the…zone　Vegas　crapshooter　rolling　a　string　of　sevens：　four；　six；　eight；　oh　goddam；　a　dozen　in　a　row。　He　had　found　Jonesy；　his　Typhoid　Mary；　had　invaded　him　and　conquered　him。　He　had　found　Pete；　who　had　gotten　him　where　he　wanted　to　go　after　the　flashlight　the　kim　…　had　given　out。　Next；　Andy　Janas；　the　Minnesota　boy。　He　had　been　hauling　the　corpses　of　two　deer　killed　by　the　Ripley。　The　deer　had　been　useless　to　Mr　Gray　。　。　。　but　Janas　had　also　been　hauling　the　deposing　body　of　one　of　the　aliens。
　　　　Fruiting　bodies；　Jonesy　thought　randomly。　Fruiting　bodies；　what's　that　from？
　　　　No　matter。　Because　Mr　Gray's　next　seven　had　been　the　Dodge　Ram；　old　Mr　I　？　MY　BORDER　COLLIE。　What　had　Gray　done？　Fed　some　of　the　gray's　dead　body　to　the　dog？　Put　the　dog's　nose　to　the　corpse　and　forced　him　to　inhale　of　that　fruiting　body？　No；　eating　was　much　more　likely；　c'mon；　boy；　chow　time。　Whatever　process　started　the　weasels；　it　began　in　the　gut；　not　the　lungs。　Jonesy　had　a　momentary　image　of　McCarthy　lost　in　the　woods。　Beaver　had　asked　What　the　hell　have　you　been　eating？　Woodchuck　turds？　And　what　had　McCarthy　replied？　Bushes　and　things。　。　。　I　don't　know　just　what　。　。　。　I　was　just　so　hungry；　you　know。　。　。
　　　　Sure。　Hungry。　Lost；　scared；　and　hungry。　Not　noticing　the　red　splotches　of　byrus　on　the　leaves　of　some　of　the　bushes；　the　red　speckles　on　the　green　moss　he　crammed　into　his　mouth；　gagging　it　down　because　somewhere　back　there　in　his　tame　oh…gosh　oh…dear　lawyer's　life；　he　had　read　that　you　could　eat　moss　if　you　were　lost　in　the　woods；　that　moss　wouldn't　hurt　you。　Did　everyone　who　swallowed　some　of　the　byrus　（grains　of　it；　almost　too　small　to　be　seen；　floating　in　the　air）　incubate　one　of　the　vicious　little　monsters　that　had　torn　McCarthy　apart　and　then　killed　the　Beav？　Probably　not；　no　more　than　every　woman　who　had　unprotected　sex　got　pregnant。　But　McCarthy　had　caught　and　so　had　Lad。
　　　　'He　knows　about　the　cottage；'　Jonesy　said。
　　　　Of　course。　The　cottage　in　Ware；　some　sixty　miles　west　of　Boston。　And　he'd　know　the　story　of　the　Russian　woman；　everyone　knew　it；　Jonesy　had　passed　it　on　himself。　It　was　too　gruesomely　good　not　to　pass　on。　They　knew　it　in　Ware；　in　New　Salem；　in　Cooleyville　and　Belchertown；　Hardwick　and　Packardsville　and　Pelham。　All　the　surrounding　towns。　And　what；　pray　tell；　did　those　towns　surround？
　　　　Why；　the　Quabbin；　that　was　what　they　surrounded。　Quabbin　Reservoir。　The　water　supply　for　Boston　and　the　adjacent　metropolitan　area。　How　many　people　drank　their　daily　water　from　the　Quabbin？　Two　million？　Three？　Jonesy　didn't　know　for　sure；　but　a　lot　more　than　had　ever　drunk　from　the　supply　stored　in　the　Derry　Standpipe。　Mr　Gray；　rolling　seven　after　seven；　a　run　for　the　ages　and　now　only　one　away　from　breaking　the　bank。
　　　　Two　or　three　million　people。　Mr　Gray　wanted　to　introduce　them　to　Lad　the　border　collie；　and　to　Lad's　new　friend。
　　　　And　delivered　in　this　new　medium；　the　byrus　would　take。

CHAPTER　TWENTY

THE　CHASE　ENDS


1

South　and　south　and　south。
　　　　By　the　time　Mr　Gray　passed　the　Gardiner　exit；　the　first　one　below　Augusta；　the　snow…cover　on　the　ground　was　considerably　less　and　the　turnpike　was　slushy　but　two　lanes　wide　again。　It　was　time　to　trade　the　plow　for　something　less　conspicuous；　partly　because　he　no　longer　needed　it；　but　also　because　Jonesy's　arms　were　aching　with　the　unaccustomed　strain　of　controlling　the　oversized　vehicle。　Mr　Gray　didn't　care　much　for　Jonesy's　body　（or　so　he　told　himself；　in　truth　it　was　hard　not　to　feel　at　least　some　affection　for　something　capable　of　providing　such　unexpected　pleasures　as　'bacon'　and　'murder'）；　but　it　did　have　to　take　him　another　couple　of　hundred　miles。　He　suspected　that　Jonesy　wasn't　in　very　good　shape　for　a　man　in　the　middle　of　his　life。　Part　of　that　was　the　accident　he'd　been　in；　but　it　also　had　to　do　with　his　job；　He　was　an　'academic'。　As　a　result；　he　had　pretty　much　ignored　the　more　physical　aspects　of　his　life；　which　stunned　Mr　Gray。　These　creatures　were　sixty　per　cent　emotion；　thirty　per　cent　sensation；　ten　per　cent　thought　（and　ten　per　cent；　Mr　Gray　reflected；　was　probably　on　the　generous　side）。　To　ignore　the　body　the　way　Jonesy　had　seemed　both　willful　and　stupid　to　Mr　Gray。　But；　of　course；　that　was　not　his　problem。　Nor　Jonesy's；　either。　Not　anymore。　Now　Jonesy　was　what　he　had　apparently　always　wanted　to　be：　nothing　but　mind。　Judging　from　the　way　he'd　reacted；　he　didn't　actually　care　for　that　state　much　once　he　had　attained　it。
　　　　On　the　floor　of　the　plow；　where　Lad　lay　in　a　litter　of　cigarette　butts；　cardboard　coffee　cups；　and　balled…up　snack…wrappers；　the　dog　whined　in　pain。　Its　body　was　grotesquely　bloated；　the　torso　the　size　of　a　water…barrel。　Soon　the　dog　would　pass　gas　and　its　midsection　would　deflate　again。。　Mr　Gray　had　established　contact　with　the　byrum　growing　inside　the　dog；　and　would　hence　regulate　its　gestation。
　　　　The　dog　would　be　his　version　of　what　his　host　thought　of　as　'the　Russian　woman'。　And　once　the　dog　had　been　placed；　his　job　would　be　done。
　　　　He　reached　behind　him　with　his　mind；　feeling　for　the　others。　Henry　and　his　friend　Owen　were　entirely　gone；　like　a　radio　station　that　has　ceased　to　broadcast；　and　that　was　troubling。　Farther　behind　（they　were　just　passing　the　Newport　exits；　sixty　or　so　miles　north　of　Mr　Gray's　current　position）；　was　a　group　of　three　with　one　clear　contact：　'Pearly'。　This　Pearly；　like　the　dog；　was　incubating　a　byrum；　and　Mr　Gray　could　receive　him　clearly。　He　had　also　been　receiving　another　of　that　group　…　'Freddy'　…　but　now　'Freddy'　was　gone。　The　byrus　on　him　had　died；　'Pearly'　said　so。
　　　　Here　was　one　of　the　green　turnpike　signs：　REST　AREA。　There　was　a　Burger　King　here；　which　Jonesy's　files　identified　as　both　a　'restaurant'　and　a　'fast…food　joint'。　There　would　be　bacon　there；　and　his　stomach　gurgled　at　the　thought。　Yes；　it　would　be　hard　in　many　ways　to　give　this　body　up。　It　had　its　pleasures；　definitely　had　its　pleasures。　No　time　for　bacon　now；　however；　now　it　was　time　to　change　vehicles。　And　he　had　to　be　fairly　unobtrusive　about　it。
　　　　This　exit　into　the　rest　area　split　in　two；　with　one　road　for　PASSENGER　VEHICLES　and　one　for　TRUCKS　AND　BUSES。　Mr　Gray　drove　the　big　orange　plow　into　the　parking　lot　for　trucks　（Jonesy's　muscles　trembling　with　the　strain　of　turning　the　big　steering　wheel）；　and　was　delighted　to　see　four　other　plows；　practically　identical　to　his　own；　all　parked　together。　He　nosed　into　a　space　at　the　end　of　the　line　and　killed　the　engine。
　　　　He　felt　for　Jonesy。　Jonesy　was　there；　hunkered　in　his　perplexing　safety　zone。　'What　you　up　to；　partner？'　Mr　Gray　murmured。
　　　　No　answer　。　。　。　but　he　sensed　Jonesy　listening。
　　　　'What　you　doing？'
　　　　No　answer　still。　And　really；　what　could　he　be　doing？　He　was　locked　in　and　blind。　Still；　it　would　behoove　him　not　to　forget　Jonesy　。　。　。　Jonesy　with　his