cb.damnationgame-第35部分

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itated　a　moment…unsure　of　whether　or　not　to　go　in…then　slipped　down　the　stairs　again；　leaving　him　unwoken。　It　was　too　convenient　to　slide　into　bed　beside　him；　to　weep　into　the　crook　of　his　neck　where　his　pulse　ticked；　to　unburden　herself　of　all　her　fretting　and　beg　him　to　be　strong　for　her。　Convenient　and　dangerous。　It　wasn't　real　safety；　there　in　his　bed。　She'd　find　that　by　herself　and　in　herself；　nowhere　else。
　　Halfway　down　the　second　flight　of　stairs　she　stopped。　There　was　a　curious　tingle　in　the　darkened　hallway。　A　chill　of　night　air：　and　more。　She　waited；　shadow…thin；　on　the　stairs；　until　her　eyes　accustomed　themselves　to　the　dark。　Perhaps　she　should　just　go　back　upstairs；　lock　her　bedroom　door　behind　her；　and　find　a　few　pills　to　while　away　the　hours　until　the　sun　came　up。　It　would　be　so　much　easier　than　living　as　she　was；　with　every　nerve　electric。　Along　the　hall　toward　the　kitchen　she　caught　a　movement。　A　black　bulk　was　framed　against　the　doorway；　and　then　gone。
　　It's　just　the　dark；　she　told　herself；　playing　tricks。　She　smoothed　her　hand　over　the　wall；　feeling　the　design　of　the　wallpaper　ripple　under　her　fingertips　until　she　found　the　light　switch。　She　flipped　it　on。　The　corridor　was　empty。　The　stairway　at　her　back　was　empty。　The　landing　was　empty。　She　muttered　〃Stupid〃　to　herself；　and　padded　down　the　last　three　stairs　and　along　the　corridor　to　the　kitchen。
　　Before　she　got　there；　her　suspicions　about　the　chill　were　confirmed。　The　back　door　was　in　direct　line　with　the　kitchen　door；　and　both　were　open。　It　was　odd；　almost　shocking　in　fact；　to　see　the　house；　which　was　usually　hermetically　sealed；　exposed　to　the　night。　The　open　door　was　like　a　wound　in　its　flank。
　　She　stepped　through　from　the　carpeted　hallway　onto　the　cool　linoleum　of　the　kitchen　and　was　halfway　to　closing　the　door　when　she　caught　the　glass　glinting　on　the　floor。　The　door　had　not　been　left　open　accidentally；　somebody　had　forced　his　way　in。　A　smell…sandalwood…was　pricking　her　nostrils。　It　was　sickly；　but　what　it　covered　was　sicklier　still。
　　She　had　to　inform　Marty；　that　was　the　first　priority。　No　need　to　go　back　upstairs。　There　was　a　phone　on　the　kitchen　wall。
　　Her　mind　divided。　Part　of　her　coolly　assessed　the　problem　and　its　solutions：　where　the　phone　was；　what　she　must　say　to　Marty　when　he　answered　it。　Another　part；　the　part　that　embraced　H；　that　was　always　frightened；　dissolved　in　panic。　There's　somebody　close　（sandalwood）；　it　said；　somebody　lethal　in　the　dark；　rotting　in　the　dark。
　　The　cooler　self　kept　control。　She　walked…glad　now　to　be　barefoot　because　she　made　scarcely　a　sound…across　to　the　phone。　She　picked　up　the　receiver　and　dialed　nineteen；　the　number　of　Marty's　bedroom。　It　rang　once；　then　again。　She　willed　him　to　wake　quickly。　Her　reserves　of　control　were；　she　knew；　strictly　limited。
　　〃e　on；　e　on　。　。　。〃　she　breathed。
　　Then　there　was　a　sound　behind　her；　heavy　feet　crunched　the　glass　into　smaller　pieces。　She　turned　to　see　who　it　was；　and　there　was　a　nightmare　standing　in　the　doorway　with　a　knife　in　his　hand　and　a　dogskin　slung　over　one　shoulder。　The　phone　slipped　from　her　fingers；　and　the　part　of　her　that　had　advised　panic　all　along　took　the　reins。
　　Told　you　so；　it　shouted。　Told　you　so！
　　A　phone　rang　in　Marty's　dreams。　He　dreamed　he　woke；　put　it　to　his　ear；　and　spoke　to　death　on　the　other　end　of　the　line。　But　the　ringing　went　on　even　though　he'd　picked　the　phone　up　and　he　surfaced　from　sleep　to　find　the　receiver　in　his　hand　and　no　one　on　the　line。
　　He　put　it　back　in　its　cradle。　Had　it　rung　at　all？　He　thought　not。　Still；　the　dream　wasn't　worth　going　back　to：　his　conversation　with　death　had　been　gobbledygook。　Swinging　his　legs　out　of　bed　he　pulled　on　his　jeans　and　was　at　the　door；　bleary…eyed；　when　from　downstairs　there　came　the　crash　of　breaking　glass。
　　The　butcher　had　lurched　toward　her…throwing　off　the　dog's　skin　to　make　an　embrace　easier。　She　ducked　him　once；　twice。　He　was　ponderous；　but　she　knew　if　he　once　got　his　hands　on　her；　that　was　the　end。　He　was　between　her　and　the　exit　into　the　house　now；　she　was　obliged　to　maneuver　her　way　toward　the　back　door。
　　〃I　wouldn't　go　out　there…〃　he　advised；　his　voice；　like　his　smell；　mixing　sweetness　and　rot。　〃It's　not　safe。〃　His　warning　was　the　best　remendation　she'd　heard。　She　slipped　around　the　kitchen　table　and　out　through　the　open　door；　trying　to　skip　across　the　glass　shards。　She　contrived　to　pull　the　door　closed　behind　her…more　glass　fell　and　shattered…and　then　she　was　away　from　the　house。　Behind　her；　she　heard　the　door　pulled　open　so　roughly　it　might　have　been　wrenched　off　its　hinges。　Now　she　heard　the　dog…killer's　footsteps…thunder　in　the　ground…ing　after　her。
　　The　brute　was　slow：　she　was　nimble。　He　was　heavy：　she　was　light　to　the　point　of　invisibility。　Instead　of　clinging　to　the　walls　of　the　house；　which　would　only　take　her　around　to　the　front　eventually；　where　the　lawn　was　illuminated；　she　struck　out　away　from　the　building；　and　hoped　to　God　the　beast　couldn't　see　in　the　dark。
　　Marty　stumbled　down　the　stairs；　still　shaking　sleep　from　his　head。　The　cold　in　the　hall　slapped　him　fully　awake。　He　followed　the　draft　to　the　kitchen。　He　only　had　a　few　seconds　to　take　in　the　glass　and　the　blood　on　the　floor　before　Carys　started　screaming。
　　
　　From　some　unimaginable　place；　someone　cried　out。　Whitehead　heard　the　voice；　a　girl's　voice；　but　lost　as　he　was　in　a　wilderness；　he　couldn't　fix　the　cry。　He　had　no　idea　how　long　he'd　been　weeping　here；　watching　the　damned　e　and　go：　it　seemed　an　age。　His　head　swam　with　hyperventilation；　his　throat　was　hoarse　with　sobs。
　　〃Mamoulian　。　。　。〃　he　pleaded　again；　〃don't　leave　me　here。〃　The　European　had　been　right…he　didn't　want　to　go　alone　into　this　nowhere。　Though　he　had　begged　to　be　saved　from　it　a　hundred　times　without　result；　now；　at　last；　the　illusion　began　to　relent。　The　tiles；　like　shy　white　crabs；　scuttled　back　into　place　at　his　feet；　the　smell　of　his　own　stale　sweat　reassaulted　him；　more　wele　than　any　scent　he'd　ever　smelled。　And　now　the　European　was　here　in　front　of　him；　as　if　he　had　never　moved。
　　〃Shall　we　talk；　Pilgrim？〃　he　asked。
　　Whitehead　was　shivering；　despite　the　heat。　His　teeth　chattered。
　　〃Yes；〃　he　said。
　　〃Quietly？　With　dignity　and　politeness？〃　Again：　〃Yes。〃　〃You　didn't　like　what　you　saw。〃　Whitehead　ran　his　fingers　across　his　pasty　face；　his　thumb　and　forefinger　digging　into　the　pits　at　the　bridge　of　his　nose；　as　if　to　push　the　sights　out。　〃No；　damn　you；〃　he　said。　The　images　would　not　be　dislodged。　Not　now；　not　ever。
　　〃Perhaps　we　could　talk　somewhere　else；〃　the　European　suggested。　〃Don't　you　have　a　room　we　could　retire　to？〃　〃I　heard　Carys。　She　screamed。〃　Mamoulian　closed　his　eyes　for　a　moment；　fetching　a　thought　from　the　girl。　〃She's　quite　all　right；〃　he　said。
　　〃Don't　hurt　her。　Please。　She's　all　I've　got。〃　〃There's　no　harm　done。　She　simply　found　a　piece　of　my　friend's　handiwork。〃
　　
　　Breer　had　not　only　skinned　the　dog；　he'd　disemboweled　it。　Carys　had　slipped　in　the　muck　of　its　innards；　and　the　scream　had　escaped　before　she　could　stop　herself。　When　its　reverberations　died　she　listened　for　the　butcher's　footsteps。　Somebody　was　running　in　her　direction。
　　〃Carys！〃　It　was　Marty's　voice。
　　〃I'm　over　here。〃　He　found　her　staring　down　at　the　dog's　skinned　head。
　　〃Who　the　fuck　did　this？〃　he　snapped。
　　〃He's　here；〃　she　said。　〃He　followed　me　out。〃　He　touched　her　face。　〃Are　you　all　right？〃　〃It's　only　a　dead　dog；〃　she　said。　〃It　was　just　a　shock。〃　As　they　returned　to　the　house；　she　remembered　the　dream　she'd　woken　from。　There'd　been　a　faceless　man　crossing　this　very　lawn…were　they　treading　in　his　footprints　now？…with　a　surf　of　shit　at　his　heels。
　　〃There's　somebody　else　here；〃　she　said；　with　absolute　certainty；　〃besides　the　dog…killer。〃　〃Sure。〃　She　nodded；　face　stony；　then　took　Marty's　arm。　〃This　one's　worse；　babe。〃　〃I've　got　a　gun。　It's　in　my　room。〃　They'd　e　to　the　kitchen　door；　the　dog's　skin　still　lay　discarded　beside　it。
　　〃Do　you　know　who　they　are？〃　he　asked　her。　She　shook　her　head。
　　〃He's　fat；〃　was　all　she　could　say。　〃Stupid…looking。〃　〃And　the　other　one。　You　know　him？〃　The　other？　Of　course　she　knew　him：　he　was　as　familiar　as　her　own　face。　She　had　thought　of　him　a　thousand　times　a　day　in　the　last　weeks；　something　told　her　she　had　always　known　him。　He　was　the　Architect　who　paraded　in　her　sleep；　who　dabbled　his　fingers　at　her　neck；　who　had　e　now　to　unleash　the　flood　of　filth　that　had　followed　him　across　the　lawn。　Was　there　ever　a　time　when　she　hadn't　lived　in　his　shadow？
　　〃What　are　you　thinking？〃　He　was　giving　her　such　a　sweet　look；　trying　to　put　a　heroic　face　on　his　confusion。
　　〃I'll　tell　you　sometime；〃　she　said。　〃Now　we　should　get　that　damn　gun。〃　They　threaded　their　way　through　the　house。　It　was　absolutely　still。　No　bloody　footsteps；　no　cries。　He　fetched　the　gun　from　his　room。
　　〃Now　for　Papa；〃　he　said。　〃Check　that　he's　all　right。〃　With　the　dog…killer　still　loose　the　search　was　stealthy；　and　therefore　slow。　Whitehead　wasn't　in　any　of　the　bedrooms；　or　his　dressing　rooms。　The　bathrooms；　the　library；　the　study　and　the　lounges　were　similarly　deserted。　It　was　Carys　who　suggested　the　sauna。
　　
　　Marty　flung　the　door　of　the　steam　room　open。　A　wall　of　humid　heat　met　his　face；　and　steam　curled　out　into　the　hallway。　The　place　had　certainly　been　used　recently。　But　the　steam　room；　the　Jacuzzi　and　solarium　were　all　empty。　When　he'd　made　a　quick　search　of　the　rooms　he　came　back　to　find　Carys　leaning　unsteadily　on　the　doorjamb。
　　〃。　。　。　I　suddenly　feel　sick；〃　she　said。　〃It　just　came　over　me。〃　Marty　supported　her　as　her　legs　gave。
　　〃Sit　down　for　a　minute。〃　He　guided　her　across　to　a　bench。　There　was　a　gun　on　it；　sweating。
　　〃I'm　all　right；〃　she　insisted。　〃You　go　and　find　Papa；　I'll　stay　here。〃　〃You　look　bloody　awful。〃　〃Thank　you；〃　she　said。　〃Now　will　you　please　go？　I'd　prefer　to　throw　up　with　nobody　watching；　if　you　don't　mind。〃　〃You　sure？〃　〃Go　on；　damn　you。　Leave　me　be。　I'll　be　fine。〃　〃Lock　the　door　after　me；〃　he　stressed。
　　〃Yes；　sir；〃　she　said；　throwing　him　a　queasy　look。　He　left　her　in　the　steam　room；　and　waited　until　he　heard　the　bolt　drawn　across。　It　didn't　pletely　reassure　him；　but　it　was　better　than　nothing。
　　He　cautiously　made　his　way　ba