sk.cujo-第59部分

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'No。　I　sent　Sheriff　Bannerman　up　there　with　instructions　to　call　in　immediately　if　Mrs　Trenton　had　been　there　or　if　her　car　was　there。　And　since　he　didn't　call　back　in　…'
'That's　hardly　definitive；　is　it？'　Vic　asked　sharply。
'Mr。　Trenton；　I　really　must　go。　If　we　hear　any　…　'
Vic　slammed　the　telephone　down　and　stood　breathing　rapidly　in　the　hot　silence　of　the　living　room。　Then　he　went　slowly　to　the　stairs　and　mounted　them。　He　stood　in　the　upstairs　hall　for　a　moment　and　then　went　into　his　son's　room。　Tad's　trucks　were　lined　up　neatly　against　the　wall；　slant…parking　style。　Looking　at　them　hurt　his　heart。　Tad's　yellow　slicker　was　hung　on　the　brass　hook　by　his　bed；　and　his　coloring　books　were　piled　neatly　on　his　desk。　His　closet　door　was　open。　Vic　shut　it　absently　and；　barely　thinking　about　what　he　was　doing；　put　Tad's　chair　in　front　of　it。
He　sat　on　Tad's　bed；　hands　dangling　between　his　legs；　and　looked　out　into　the　hot；　bright　day。
Dead　ends。　Nothing　but　dead　ends；　and　where　were　they？
（dead　ends）
Now　there　was　an　ominous　phrase　if　ever　one　had　been　coined。　Dead　ends。　As　a　boy　Tad's　age　he　had　been　fascinated　with　dead…end　roads；　his　mother　had　told　him　once。　He　wondered　if　that　sort　of　thing　was　inherited；　if　Tad　was　interested　in　dead…end　roads。　He　wondered　if　Tad　was　still　alive。
And　it　suddenly　occurred　to　him　that　Town　Road　No。　3；　where　Joe　Camber's　Garage　stood；　was　a　dead…end　road。
He　suddenly　looked　around　and　saw　that　the　wall　over　the　head　of　Tad's　bed　was　bare。　The　Monster　Words　were　gone。　Now　why　had　he　taken　those？　Or　had　Kemp　taken　them　for　some　weird　reason　of　his　own？　But　if　Kemp　had　been　in　here；　why　hadn't　he　trashed　Tad's　room　as　he　had　those　downstairs？
（dead　ends　and　Monster　Words）
Had　she　taken　the　Pinto　up　to　Camber's？　He　remembered　the　conversation　they'd　had　about　the　balky　needle　valve　only　vaguely。　She　was　a　little　scared　of　Joe　Camber；　hadn't　she　said　that？
No。　Not　Camber。　Camber　only　wanted　to　mentally　undress　her。　No；　it　was　the　dog　she　was　a　little　scared　of。　What　was　his　name？
They　had　joked　about　it。　Tad。　Tad　calling　the　dog。
And　again　he　heard　Tad's　phantom；　ghostly　voice；　so　hopeless　and　lost　in　this　too…empty；　suddenly　creepy　room：　Cujo　。。。　heere；　Cujo　。。。　Coooojo　。。。
And　then　something　happened　which　Vic　never　spoke　of　to　anyone　in　the　rest　of　his　life。　Instead　of　hearing　Tad's　voice　in　his　mind　he　was　actually　hearing　it；　high　and　lonely　and　terrified；　a　going…away　voice　that　was　ing　from　inside　the　closet。
A　cry　escaped　Vic's　throat　and　he　pushed　himself　up　on　Tad's　bed；　his　eyes　widening。　The　closet　door　was　swinging　open；　pushing　the　chair　in　front　of　it；　and　his　son　was　crying　'Coooooooooo　。。
And　then　he　realized　it　wasn't　Tad's　voice；　it　was　his　own　tired；　overwrought　mind　making　Tad's　voice　from　the　thin　scraping　sound　of　the　chair　legs　on　the　painted　plank　floor。　That　was　all　it　was　and　…　and　there　were　eyes　in　the　closet；　he　saw　eyes；　red　and　sunken　and　terrible　A　little　scream　escaped　his　throat。　The　chair　tipped　over　for　no　earthly　reason。　And　he　saw　Tad's　teddybear　inside　the　closet；　perched　on　a　stack　of　sheets　and　blankets。　It　was　the　bear's　glass　eyes　he　had　seen。　No　more。
Heart　thumping　heavily　in　his　throat；　Vic　got　up　and　went　to　the　closet。　He　could　smell　something　in　there；　something　heavy　and　unpleasant。　Perhaps　it　was　only　mothballs　…　that　smell　was　certainly　part　of　it　…　but　it　smelled　。。。　savage。
Don't　be　ridiculous。　It's　just　a　closet。　Not　a　cave。　Not　a　monster　lair。
He　looked　at　Tad's　bear。　Tad's　bear　looked　back　at　him；　unblinking。　Behind　the　bear；　behind　the　hanging　clothes；　all　was　darkness。　Anything　could　be　back　there。　Anything。　But；　of　course；　nothing　was。
You　gave　me　a　scare；　bear；　he　said。
Monsters；　stay　out　of　this　room；　the　bear　said。　Its　eyes　sparkled。　They　were　dead　glass；　but　they　sparkled。
The　door's　out　of　true；　that's　all；　Vic　said。　He　was　sweating；　huge　salty　drops　ran　slowly　down　his　face　like　tears。
You　have　no　business　here；　the　bear　replied。
What's　the　matter　with　me？　Vic　asked　the　bear。　Am　I　going　crazy？　Is　this　what　going　crazy　is　like？
To　which　Tad's　bear　replied：　Monsters；　leave　Tad　alone。
He　closed　the　closet　door　and　watched；　as　wide…eyed　as　a　child；　as　the　latch　lifted　and　popped　free　of　its　notch。　The　door　began　to　swing　open　again。
I　didn't　see　that。　I　won't　believe　I　saw　that。
He　slammed　the　door　and　put　the　chair　against　it　again。　Then　he　took　a　large　stack　of　Tad's　picturebooks　and　put　them　on　the　chair's　seat　to　weight　it　down。　This　time　the　door　stayed　closed。　Vic　stood　there　looking　at　the　closed　door；　thinking　about　dead…end　roads。　Not　much　traffic　on　dead…end　roads。　All　monsters　should　five　under　bridges　or　in　closets　or　at　the　ends　of　dead…end　roads。　It　should　be　a　national　law。
He　was　very　uneasy　now。
He　left　Tad's　room；　went　downstairs；　and　sat　on　the　back　steps。　He　lit　a　cigarette　with　a　hand　that　shook　slightly　and　looked　at　the　gunmetal　sky；　feeling　the　sense　of　unease　grow。　Something　had　happened　in　Tad's　room。　He　wasn't　sure　what　it　had　been；　but　it　had　been　something。　Yeah。　Something。
Monsters　and　dogs　and　closets　and　garages　and　dead…end　roads。
Do　we　add　these　up；　teacher？　Subtract　them？　Divide？　Fractionate？
He　threw　his　cigarette　away。
He　did　believe　it　was　Kemp；　didn't　he？　Kemp　had　been　responsible　for　everything。　Kemp　had　wrecked　the　house。　Kemp　had　damn　near　wrecked　his　marriage。　Kemp　had　gone　upstairs　and　shot　his　semen　onto　the　bed　Vic　and　his　wife　had　slept　in　for　the　last　three　years。　Kemp　had　tom　a　great　big　hole　in　the　mostly　fortable　fabric　of　Vic　Trenton's　life。
Kemp。　Kemp。　All　Steve　Kemp's　fault。　Let's　blame　the　Cold　War　and　the　hostage　situation　in　Iran　and　the　depletion　of　the　ozone　layer　on　Kemp。
Stupid。　Because　not　everything　was　Kemp's　fault；　now；　was　it？　The　Zinger's　business；　for　instance；　Kemp　had　had　nothing　to　do　with　that。　And　Kemp　could　hardly　be　blamed　for　the　bad　needle　valve　on　Donna's　Pinto。
He　looked　at　his　old　jag。　He　was　going　to　go　somewhere　in　it。　He　couldn't　stay　here；　he　would　go　crazy　if　he　stayed　here。　He　should　get　in　the　car　and　beat　it　down　to　Scarborough。　Grab　hold　of　Kemp　and　shake　him　until　it　came　out；　until　he　told　what　he　had　done　with　Donna　and　Tad。　Except　by　then　his　lawyer　would　have　arrived；　and；　incredible　as　it　seemed；　the　lawyer　might　even　have　sprung　him。
Spring。　It　was　a　spring　that　held　the　needle　valve　in　place。　If　the　spring　was　bad；　the　valve　could　freeze　and　choke　off　the　flow　of　gasoline　to　the　carb。
Vic　went　down　to　the　jag　and　got　in；　wincing　at　the　hot　leather　seat。　Get　rolling　quick。　Get　some　cool　in　here。
Get　rolling　where？
Camber's　Garage；　his　mind　answered　immediately。
But　that　was　stupid；　wasn't　it？　Masen　had　sent　Sheriff　Bannerman　up　there　with　instructions　to　report　immediately　if　anything　was　wrong　and　the　cop　hadn't　reported　back　so　that　meant　
（that　the　monster　got　him）
Well；　it　wouldn't　hurt　to　go　up　there；　would　it？　And　it　was　something　to　do。
He　started　the　jag　up　and　headed　down　the　hill　toward
Route　117；　still　not　entirely　sure　if　he　was　going　to　turn　left　toward　I…95　and　Scarborough　or　right　toward　Town　Road　No。　3。
He　paused　at　the　stop　sign　until　someone　in　back　gave　him　the　horn。　Then；　abruptly；　he　turned　right。　It　wouldn't　hurt　to　take　a　quick　run　up　to　Joe　Camber's。　He　could　be　there　in　fifteen　minutes。　He　checked　his　watch　and　saw　that　it　was　twenty　past　twelve。
The　time　had　e；　and　Donna　knew　it。
The　time　might　also　have　gone；　but　she　would　have　to　live　with　that　…　and　perhaps　die　with　it。　No　one　was　going　to　e。　There　was　going　to　be　no　knight　on　a　silver　steed　riding　up　Town　Road　No。　3　…　Travis　McGee　was　apparently　otherwise　engaged。
Tad　was　dying。
She　made　herself　repeat　it　aloud　in　a　husky；　choked　whisper：　'Tad's　dying。'
She　had　not　been　able　to　create　any　breeze　through　the　car　this　morning。　Her　window　would　no　longer　go　down；　and　Tad's　window　let　in　nothing　but　more　heat。　The　one　time　she　had　tried　to　unroll　it　more　than　a　quarter　of　the　way；　Cujo　had　left　his　place　in　the　shade　of　the　garage　and　had　e　around　to　Tad's　side　as　fast　as　he　could；　growling　eagerly。
The　sweat　had　now　stopped　rolling　down　Tad's　face　and　neck。　There　was　no　more　sweat　left。　His　skin　was　dry　and　hot。　His　tongue；　swelled　and　dead…looking；　protruded　over　his　bottom　lip。　His　breathing　had　grown　so　faint　that　she　could　barely　hear　it。　Twice　she　had　had　to　put　her　head　against　his　chest　to　make　sure　that　he　still　breathed　at　all。
Her　condition　was　bad。　The　car　was　a　blast　furnace。　The　metalwork　was　now　too　hot　to　touch；　and　so　was　the　plastic　wheel。　Her　leg　was　a　steady；　throbbing　ache；　and　she　no　longer　doubted　that　the　dog's　bite　had　infected　her　with　something。　Perhaps　it　was　too　early　for　rabies　…　she　prayed　to　God　it　was　…　but　the　bites　were　red　and　inflamed。
Cujo　was　not　in　much　better　shape。　The　big　dog　seemed　to　have　shrunk　inside　his　matted　and　blood…streaked　coat。　His　eyes　were　hazy　and　nearly　vacant；　the　eyes　of　an　old　man　stricken　with　cataracts。　Like　some　old　engine　of　destruction；　now　gradually　beating　itself　to　death　but　still　terribly　dangerous；　he　kept　his　watch。　He　was　no　longer　foaming；　his　muzzle　was　a　dried　and　lacerated　horror。　It　looked　like　a　gouged　chunk　of　igneous　rock　that　had　been　coughed　out　of　the　hotbed　of　an　old　volcano。
The　old　monster；　she　thought　incoherently；　keeps　his　watch　still。
Had　this　terrible　vigil　been　only　a　matter　of　hours；　or　had　it　been　her　whole　life？　Surely　everything　that　had　gone　before　had　been　a　dream；　little　more　than　a　short　wait　in　the　wings？　The　mother　who　had　seemed　to　be　disgusted　and　repulsed　by　all　those　around　her；　the　well…meaning　but　ineffectual　father；　the　schools；　the　friends；　the　dates　and　dances　…　they　were　all　a　dream　to　her　now；　as　youth　must　seem　to　the　old。　Nothing　mattered；　nothing　was　but　this　silent　and　sunstruck　dooryard　where　death　had　been　dealt　and　yet　more　death　waited　in　the　cards；　as　sure　as　aces　and　eights。　The　old　monster　kept　his　watch　still；　and　her　son　was　slipping；　slipping；　slipping　away
The　baseball　bat。　That　was　all　that　remained　to　her　now。
The　baseball　bat　and　maybe；　if　she　could　get　there；　something　in　the　dead　man's　police　car。　Something　like　a　shotgun。
She　began　to　lift　Tad　into　the　back；　grunting　and　puffing；　fighting　the