sk.everythingseventual-第58部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


ow。'
　　'Go　on；　get　going；'　she　said；　pushing　at　his　shoulder　but　clearly　pleased。　'If　I　were　you；　I'd　want　to　get　home　quick。　I　wouldn't　want　that　nasty　guy　riding　along　behind　me　in　the　dark；　even　in　the　trunk。　I　mean；　did　you　see　his　teeth？　Ag！'
　　
　　He　got　on　the　turnpike；　trading　scenery　for　speed；　and　made　it　as　far　as　the　Gray　service　area　before　deciding　to　have　another　look　at　the　picture。　Some　of　his　aunt's　unease　had　transmitted　itself　to　him　like　a　germ；　but　he　didn't　think　that　was　really　the　problem。　The　problem　was　his　perception　that　the　picture　had　changed。
　　The　service　area　featured　the　usual　gourmet　chow…burgers　by　Roy　Rogers；　cones　by　TCBY…and　had　a　small；　littered　picnic　and　dog…walking　area　at　the　rear。　Kinnell　parked　next　to　a　van　with　Missouri　plates；　drew　in　a　deep　breath；　let　it　out。　He'd　driven　to　Boston　in　order　to　kill　some　plot　gremlins　in　the　new　book；　which　was　pretty　ironic。　He'd　spent　the　ride　down　working　out　what　he'd　say　on　the　panel　if　certain　tough　questions　were　tossed　at　him；　but　none　had　been…once　they'd　found　out　he　didn't　know　where　he　got　his　ideas；　and　yes；　he　did　sometimes　scare　himself；　they'd　only　wanted　to　know　how　you　got　an　agent。
　　And　now；　heading　back；　he　couldn't　think　of　anything　but　the　damned　picture。
　　Had　it　changed？　If　it　had；　if　the　blond　kid's　arm　had　moved　enough　so　he；　Kinnell；　could　read　a　tattoo　which　had　been　partly　hidden　before；　then　he　could　write　a　column　for　one　of　Sally's　magazines。　Hell；　a　four…part　series。　If；　on　the　other　hand；　it　wasn't　changing；　then　。　。　。　what？　He　was　suffering　a　hallucination？　Having　a　breakdown？　That　was　crap。　His　life　was　pretty　much　in　order；　and　he　felt　good。　Had；　anyway；　until　his　fascination　with　the　picture　had　begun　to　waver　into　something　else；　something　darker。
　　'Ah；　fuck；　you　just　saw　it　wrong　the　first　time；'　he　said　out　loud　as　he　got　out　of　the　car。　Well；　maybe。　Maybe。　It　wouldn't　be　the　first　time　his　head　had　screwed　with　his　perceptions。　That　was　also　a　part　of　what　he　did。　Sometimes　his　imagination　got　a　little　。　。　。　well　。　。　。
　　'Feisty；'　Kinnell　said；　and　opened　the　trunk。　He　took　the　picture　out　of　the　trunk　and　looked　at　it；　and　it　was　during　the　space　of　the　ten　seconds　when　he　looked　at　it　without　remembering　to　breathe　that　he　became　authentically　afraid　of　the　thing；　afraid　the　way　you　were　afraid　of　a　sudden　dry　rattle　in　the　bushes；　afraid　the　way　you　were　when　you　saw　an　insect　that　would　probably　sting　if　you　provoked　it。
　　The　blond　driver　was　grinning　insanely　at　him　now…yes；　at　him；　Kinnell　was　sure　of　it…with　those　filed　cannibal…teeth　exposed　all　the　way　to　the　gumlines。　His　eyes　simultaneously　glared　and　laughed。　And　the　Tobin　Bridge　was　gone。　So　was　the　Boston　skyline。　So　was　the　sunset。　It　was　almost　dark　in　the　painting　now；　the　car　and　its　wild　rider　illuminated　by　a　single　streetlamp　that　ran　a　buttery　glow　across　the　road　and　the　car's　chrome。　It　looked　to　Kinnell　as　if　the　car　（he　was　pretty　sure　it　was　a　Grand　Am）　was　on　the　edge　of　a　small　town　on　Route　1；　and　he　was　pretty　sure　he　knew　what　town　it　washe　had　driven　through　it　himself　only　a　few　hours　ago。
　　'Rosewood；'　he　muttered。　'That's　Rosewood。　I'm　pretty　sure。'
　　The　Road　Virus　was　heading　north；　all　right；　ing　up　Route　1　just　as　he　had。　The　blond's　left　arm　was　still　cocked　out　the　window；　but　it　had　rotated　enough　back　toward　its　original　position　so　that　Kinnell　could　no　longer　see　the　tattoo。　But　he　knew　it　was　there；　didn't　he？　Yes；　you　bet。
　　The　blond　kid　looked　like　a　Metallica　fan　who　had　escaped　from　a　mental　asylum　for　the　criminally　insane。
　　'Jesus；'　Kinnell　whispered；　and　the　word　seemed　to　e　from　someplace　else；　not　from　him。　The　strength　suddenly　ran　out　of　his　body；　ran　out　like　water　from　a　bucket　with　a　hole　in　the　bottom；　and　he　sat　down　heavily　on　the　curb　separating　the　parking　lot　from　the　dog…walking　zone。　He　suddenly　understood　that　this　was　the　truth　he'd　missed　in　all　his　fiction；　this　was　how　people　really　reacted　when　they　came　face…to…face　with　something　which　made　no　rational　sense。　You　felt　as　if　you　were　bleeding　to　death；　only　inside　your　head。
　　'No　wonder　the　guy　who　painted　it　killed　himself；'　he　croaked；　still　staring　at　the　picture；　at　the　ferocious　grin；　at　the　eyes　that　were　both　shrewd　and　stupid。
　　There　was　a　note　pinned　to　his　shirt；　Mrs。　Diment　had　said。　'I　can't　stand　what's　happening　to　me。'　Isn't　that　awful；　Mr。　Kinnell？
　　Yes；　it　was　awful；　all　right。
　　Really　awful。
　　He　got　up；　gripping　the　picture　by　its　top；　and　strode　across　the　dog…walking　area。　He　kept　his　eyes　trained　strictly　in　front　of　him；　looking　for　canine　land　mines。　He　did　not　look　down　at　the　picture。　His　legs　felt　trembly　and　untrustworthy；　but　they　seemed　to　support　him　all　right。　Just　ahead；　close　to　the　belt　of　trees　at　the　rear　of　the　service　area；　was　a　pretty　young　thing　in　white　shorts　and　a　red　halter。　She　was　walking　a　cocker　spaniel。　She　began　to　smile　at　Kinnell；　then　saw　something　in　his　face　that　straightened　her　lips　out　in　a　hurry。　She　headed　left；　and　fast。　The　cocker　didn't　want　to　go　that　fast；　so　she　dragged　it；　coughing；　in　her　wake。
　　The　scrubby　pines　behind　the　service　area　sloped　down　to　a　boggy　acre　that　stank　of　plant　and　animal　deposition。　The　carpet　of　pine…needles　was　a　road…litter　fallout　zone：　burger　wrappers；　paper　soft…drink　cups；　TCBY　napkins；　beer　cans；　empty　wine…cooler　bottles；　cigarette　butts。　He　saw　a　used　condom　lying　like　a　dead　snail　next　to　a　torn　pair　of　panties　with　the　word　TUESDAY　stitched　on　them　in　cursive　girly…girl　script。
　　Now　that　he　was　here；　he　chanced　another　look　down　at　the　picture。　He　steeled　himself　for　further　changes…even　for　the　possibility　that　the　painting　would　be　in　motion；　like　a　movie　in　a　frame…but　there　was　none。　There　didn't　have　to　be；　Kinnell　realized；　the　blond　kid's　face　was　enough。　That　stone…crazy　grin。　Those　pointed　teeth。　The　face　said；　Hey；　old　man；　guess　what？　I'm　done　fucking　with　civilization。　I'm　a　representative　of　the　real　generation　X；　the　next　millennium　is　right　here　behind　the　wheel　of　this　fine；　high…steppin'　mo…sheen。
　　Aunt　Trudy's　initial　reaction　to　the　painting　had　been　to　advise　Kinnell　that　he　should　throw　it　into　the　Saco　River。　Auntie　had　been　right。　The　Saco　was　now　almost　twenty　miles　behind　him；　but　。　。　。
　　'This'll　do；'　he　said。　'I　think　this'll　do　just　fine。'
　　He　raised　the　picture　over　his　head　like　a　guy　holding　up　some　kind　of　sports　trophy　for　the　postgame　photographers　and　then　heaved　it　down　the　slope。　It　flipped　over　twice；　the　frame　catching　winks　of　hazy　late…day　sun；　then　struck　a　tree。　The　glass　facing　shattered。　The　picture　fell　to　the　ground　and　then　slid　down　the　dry；　needle…carpeted　slope；　as　if　down　a　chute。　It　landed　in　the　bog；　one　corner　of　the　frame　protruding　from　a　thick　stand　of　reeds。　Otherwise；　there　was　nothing　visible　but　the　strew　of　broken　glass；　and　Kinnell　thought　that　went　very　well　with　the　rest　of　the　litter。
　　He　turned　and　went　back　to　his　car；　already　picking　up　his　mental　trowel。　He　would　wall　this　incident　off　in　its　own　special　niche；　he　thought　。　。　。　and　it　occurred　to　him　that　that　was　probably　what　most　people　did　when　they　ran　into　stuff　like　this。　Liars　and　wannabees　（or　maybe　in　this　case　they　were　wannasees）　wrote　up　their　fantasies　for　publications　like　Survivors　and　called　them　truth；　those　who　blundered　into　authentic　occult　phenomena　kept　their　mouths　shut　and　used　those　trowels。　Because　when　cracks　like　this　appeared　in　your　life；　you　had　to　do　something　about　them；　if　you　didn't；　they　were　apt　to　widen　and　sooner　or　later　everything　would　fall　in。
　　Kinnell　glanced　up　and　saw　the　pretty　young　thing　watching　him　apprehensively　from　what　she　probably　hoped　was　a　safe　distance。　When　she　saw　him　looking　at　her；　she　turned　around　and　started　toward　the　restaurant　building；　once　more　dragging　her　cocker　spaniel　behind　her　and　trying　to　keep　as　much　sway　out　of　her　hips　as　possible。
　　You　think　I'm　crazy；　don't　you；　pretty　girl？　Kinnell　thought。　He　saw　he　had　left　his　trunk　lid　up。　It　gaped　like　a　mouth。　He　slammed　it　shut。　But　I'm　not　crazy。　Absolutely　not。　I　just　made　a　little　mistake；　that's　all。　Stopped　at　a　yard　sale　I　should　have　passed　up。　Anyone　could　have　done　it。　You　could　have　done　it。　And　that　picture'
　　What　picture？'　Rich　Kinnell　asked　the　hot　summer　evening；　and　tried　on　a　smile。　'I　don't　see　any　picture。'
　　He　slid　behind　the　wheel　of　his　Audi　and　started　the　engine。　He　looked　at　the　fuel　gauge　and　saw　it　had　dropped　under　a　half。　He　was　going　to　need　gas　before　he　got　home；　but　he　thought　he'd　fill　the　tank　a　little　farther　up　the　line。　Right　now　all　he　wanted　to　do　was　to　put　a　belt　of　miles…as　thick　a　one　as　possible…between　him　and　the　discarded　painting。
　　
　　Once　outside　the　city　limits　of　Derry；　Kansas　Street　bees　Kansas　Road。　As　it　approaches　the　incorporated　town　limits　（an　area　that　is　actually　open　countryside）；　it　bees　Kansas　Lane。　Not　long　after；　Kansas　Lane　passes　between　two　fieldstone　posts。　Tar　gives　way　to　gravel。　What　is　one　of　Derry's　busiest　downtown　streets　eight　miles　east　of　here　has　bee　a　driveway　leading　up　a　shallow　hill；　and　on　moonlit　summer　nights　it　glimmers　like　something　out　of　an　Alfred　Noyes　poem。　At　the　top　of　the　hill　stands　an　angular；　handsome　barn…board　structure　with　reflectorized　windows；　a　stable　that　is　actually　a　garage；　and　a　satellite　dish　tilted　at　the　stars。　A　waggish　reporter　from　the　Derry　News　once　called　it　the　House　that　Gore　Built　。　。　。　not　meaning　the　vice　president　of　the　United　States。　Richard　Kinnell　simply　called　it　home；　and　he　parked　in　front　of　it　that　night　with　a　sense　of　weary　satisfaction。　He　felt　as　if　he　had　lived　through　a　week's　worth　of　time　since　getting　up　in　the　Boston　Harbor　hotel　that　morning　at　nine　o'clock。
　　No　more　yard　sales；　he　thought；　looking　up　at　the　moon。　No　more　yard　sales　ever。
　　'Amen；'　he　said；　and　started　toward　the　house。　He　probably　should　stick　the　car　in　the　garage；　but　the　hell　with　it。　What　he　wanted　right　now　was　a　drink；　a　light　meal…something　microwaveable…and　then　sleep。　Preferably　the　kind　without　dreams。　He　couldn't　wait　to　put　this　day　behind　him。
　　He　stuck