p&c.brimstone-第24节

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e　was　it　ing　from？　One　of　his　crazy　rap　clients；　being　an　asshole？　Or；　more　likely；　former　client？　There　was　one　Haitian　rapper　in　particular　who　had　threatened　revenge。　This　was　probably　him　or　his　boys；　trying　to　goad　him　into　a　premature　heart　attack　with　some　voodoo　nonsense。　
　〃All　right！〃　he　called　out。　〃That's　enough　with　the　bullshit。〃　
　Silence。　
　His　skin　crawled；　unnaturally　hot　and　dry。　Suddenly；　it　didn't　feel　like　nonsense　anymore。　It　felt　real。　
　It　was　happening　to　him。　Itwas　happening；　like　Grove　had　said。　
　He　raised　the　shaking　glass　to　his　lips；　swallowing；　tasting　nothing。　
　But　it　couldn't　really　be　happening；　could　it？　This　was　the　twenty…first　century。　Grove　must　have　been　crazy；　hemust　have。　But；　oh　dear　Jesus；　those　things　the　newspapers　had　hinted　at　。　。　。　The　cops　weren't　really　saying　much　about　how　Grove　had　died；　but　the　tabloids　had　been　full　of　gossip　about　the　body；　burned　from　the　inside；　the　marks　of　Lucifer　on　the　walls。　
　Was　it　really　possible；　after　all　this　time？　
　He　let　the　half…finished　drink　fall　to　the　floor　and　began　casting　desperately　about。　His　late　mother　had　given　him　a　crucifix；　which　he'd　kept　around　more　as　a　memento　than　anything　else。　He'd　seen　it　just　last　month。　Where？　He　rushed　back　into　his　bedroom；　to　the　walk…in　closet；　drew　out　a　drawer　with　savage　tugs；　felt　in　the　back。　Cuff　links；　buttons；　tiepins；　coins　rained　to　the　floor。　
　No　crucifix。　Where　was　it？　
　He　jerked　open　another　drawer；　then　another；　pawing　roughly　through　watches；　jewelry；　gold。　A　sob　escaped　him。　
　The　crucifix！He　grasped　it　tightly；　sobbing　with　relief；　held　it　to　his　breast；　crossing　himself。　
　The　sensation　of　being　covered　with　crawling　bees　began　to　grow　worse。　Now　it　felt　as　if　the　bees　were　really　stinging　him；　billions　of　agonizing　little　pricks。　
　〃Go　away！　Get　away！〃　He　sobbed。〃Our　Father；　who　art　in　heaven…〃　God；　how　did　it　go？　
　The　crucifix　felt　hot　in　his　hands。　Now　his　ears　were　buzzing。　His　throat　felt　as　if　it　was　caked　with　ash；　as　if　he　was　choking　on　the　hot　air。　
　I　am　ing　now。　
　He　held　out　the　crucifix　in　his　shaking　arms；　this　way　and　that；　as　if　warding　off　something　invisible。　〃Get　thee　behind　me；　Satan！〃　he　shrieked。　
　The　crucifix　felt　very　hot　now。　It　was　burning　his　fingers。　Everything　was　hot：　his　nightclothes；　even　his　eyebrows　and　the　hairs　on　his　arms；　felt　as　if　they　were　crisping。　
　〃Get　away！〃　
　He　dropped　the　crucifix　with　a　cry。　To　his　utter　terror；　smoke　began　curling　from　it；　burning　a　mark　into　the　rug。　He　gasped　for　breath；　hands　scrabbling　at　his　throat；　gagging　in　the　sulfurous　air。　
　He　had　to　get　out。　He　had　to　find　sanctuary。　If　he　could　get　to　a　chapel；　a　church；　anything；　maybe　he'd　be　safe　。　。　。　
　He　rushed　for　the　door；　but　just　before　he　put　his　hand　on　the　doorknob；　there　came　a　knocking。　
　Cutforth　froze；　suspended　between　relief　and　fear。　Who　was　it？　
　Maybe　there　was　a　fire？　Yes；　of　course；　that　was　it：　the　building　was　on　fire；　and　an　evacuation　was　under　way。　Something　must　have　gone　wrong　with　the　sprinkler　system。　〃I'm　in　here！〃　He　sobbed；　half　in　pain　and　half　in　relief。　〃In　here！〃　
　He　grasped　the　doorknob；　felt　the　searing　pain　of　red…hot　metal；　jerked　his　hand　away。〃Fuck！〃　
　He　looked　at　his　hand　in　disbelief。　His　palm　was　burned；　smoking；　and　it　cracked　as　he　opened　it；　blood　and　clear　matter　welling　from　the　fissure　and　running　down　his　wrist。　Left　on　the　doorknob　was　a　large　piece　of　his　skin；　curling　and　frying　in　the　heat　like　pork　cracklings。　
　The　knock　came　again：　slow；　steady；　like　the　tolling　of　a　bell。　
　〃Help　me！〃　Cutforth　cried　at　the　door。　〃There's　a　fire！Fire！　〃　
　He　felt　a　sudden　wave　of　pain　along　his　skin；　as　if　it　was　being　peeled　away；　and　then　a　grotesque　feeling　deep　in　his　belly；　as　if　someone　had　just　stirred　his　guts　for　him。　He　lurched　back。He　was　at　the　door。　The　feeling　came　again；　a　strange　internal　pressure；　a　terrible　writhing　of　the　intestines。　He　screamed；　gripping　his　stomach；　doubling　over。　He　managed　to　stagger　back　into　the　bedroom。　As　he　moved；　little　darts　of　pain　raced　across　his　skin　and　his　eyes　clouded　with　red　mist。　He　could　feel　the　terrible　pressure　mounting　within　him；　and　then　all　went　black　and　the　pressure　became　unbearable；　and　there　was　a　sound　like　frying　eggs　and　suddenly　the　pressure　was　gone　and　a　hot　wetness　was　running　down　his　face。　
　He　screamed；　writhing　on　the　floor；　his　legs　beating　a　frenzied　tattoo　on　the　rug；　his　hands　tearing　at　his　nightclothes；　his　hair；　trying　to　claw　the　skin　from　his　own　body　because　it　was　searingly　hot；　so　unbearably　hot　。　。　。　
　Here　I　am　here　I　am　here。　
　　　
　20　
　
　Letitia　Dallbridge　lay　awake；　motionless；　rigid　in　her　bed。　Atlast；　she　arose　in　cool　fury；　slipped　into　a　satin　robe；　flicked　open　her　glasses；　and　put　them　on。　Then　she　checked　the　time：　11：15。　She　pressed　her　lips。　This　was　intolerable。　Intolerable。　
　She　picked　up　the　building　telephone　and　buzzed　the　desk；　instantly　a　voice　was　on　the　line。　
　〃May　I　help　you；　Mrs。　Dallbridge？〃　
　〃You　certainly　may；　Jason。　The　gentleman　in　the　apartment　directly　above　me；　number　17B；　has　been　thumping　incessantly　on　the　floor。　Shouting　as　well。　It's　been　going　on　and　on；　and　I　don't　mind　telling　you；　this　is　the　second　time　this　month　I've　had　to　plain。　I　am　an　old　woman；　and　I　simplycannot　tolerate　this　kind　of　noise　in　the　middle　of　the　night。〃　
　〃Yes；　Mrs。　Dallbridge；　we'll　take　care　of　it　immediately。〃　
　〃I　shall　speak　to　the　condominium　board　about　this　at　the　next　meeting。〃　
　〃I　don't　blame　you；　Mrs。　Dallbridge。〃　
　〃Thank　you；　Jason。〃　
　She　laid　down　the　phone　and　listened。　True；　the　thumping　was　fainter　now；　more　irregular。　In　fact；　it　seemed　to　have　stopped；　along　with　the　shouting。　But　it　would　pick　up　again　soon…it　always　did。　That　dreadfully　coarse　music　producer　was　having　another　party；　no　doubt。　With　drinking；　dancing；　drugs；　all　kinds　of　carrying…on。　And　on　a　weeknight；　no　less。　She　pulled　her　robe　tighter　around　her　narrow　frame。　There　was　no　point　trying　to　go　back　to　sleep　now…at　her　age；　it　would　be　an　exercise　in　futility。　
　She　crossed　the　living　room　into　the　kitchen；　put　a　kettle　of　water　on　to　boil。　She　removed　a　silver　teapot；　put　three　bags　of　chamomile　inside；　and　waited　for　the　whistle。　When　it　came；　she　removed　the　kettle　from　the　heat；　poured　the　water　into　the　teapot；　and　slipped　a　tea　cozy　over　the　pot　to　keep　it　hot。　A　silver　teaspoon　and　two　slices　of　buttered　toast　pleted　herpetit　déjeuner　。　She　lifted　the　tray　and　returned　to　the　bedroom。　She　glanced　up　darkly　at　the　ceiling。　Then　she　propped　up　her　satin　pillows　and　poured　her　tea。　
　The　flowery　aroma　and　the　warmth　of　the　liquid　soon　calmed　her。　Life　was　too　short　to　allow　oneself　to　be　disturbed　longer　than　necessary。　It　was　now　quiet　as　a　tomb　in　the　apartment　above。　No　matter：　she　would　take　strong　measures　to　ensure　she　wasn't　awakened　like　this　again。　
　She　heard　a　faint　noise　and　listened。　A　faint　pattering。　Raining　again；　it　seemed。　She　would　have　to　remember　the　Burberry　when　she　went　out　that　morning　to　。　。　。　
　The　pattering　grew　louder。　And　now　there　was　a　smell　like　frying　bacon　in　the　air；　faint　but　distinct。　Like　the　rain；　it　grew　steadily　stronger。　It　was　not　a　pleasant　smell；　either：　it　was　repellent；　like　burnt　meat。　She　sniffed；　looking　around。　Had　she　left　the　stove　on？　Impossible；　she　hadn't　even…　
　Plop！A　huge　greasy　drop　landed　in　the　middle　of　her　tea；　splashing　her。　Then　another　fat　drop；　and　another；　splattering　tea　all　over　her　face；　her　dressing　gown；　her　beautiful　satin　puff。　
　She　looked　up　in　horror　to　see　a　stain　on　her　bedroom　ceiling。　It　was　spreading　fast。　It　glistened；　oleaginous；　in　the　dim　light　of　her　reading　lamp。　
　Letitia　Dallbridge　snatched　the　phone　out　of　its　cradle；　buzzed　downstairs　again。　
　〃Yes；　Mrs。　Dallbridge？〃　
　〃Now　there's　a　leak　from　the　apartment　above！　It's　ing　right　through　the　ceiling　of　my　bedroom！〃　
　〃We're　sending　someone　up　immediately。　We'll　turn　the　water　off　in　that　apartment　now。〃　
　〃This　is　an　outrage！　My　beautiful　English　puff　is　ruined！Ruined！　〃　
　Now　the　liquid　was　pattering　down　from　the　ceiling　in　several　places；　accumulating　in　the　corners　of　the　crown　molding；　even　streaming　down　the　Venetian　chandelier　in　the　middle　of　the　ceiling。　It　was　raining　on　her　Louis　Quinze　chairs；　the　Chippendale　highboy。　Against　her　better　judgment；　she　leaned　forward　and　touched　one　of　the　brown　splatters　on　the　china　cup　with　her　finger。　It　was　warm　and　greasy；　like　tallow　or　candle　wax。　She　shrank　in　horror。　
　〃It's　not　water；〃　she　cried。　〃It's　some　kind　ofgrease　！〃　
　〃Grease？〃　
　〃Yes！　Grease！　From　the　apartment　above！〃　
　There　was　some　confused　talk　in　the　background；　then　the　voice　came　back　on；　a　little　breathless。　〃We're　getting　some　alarms　down　here。　It　seems　there　may　be　a　fire　in　the　apartment　above　you；　Mrs。　Dallbridge。　Listen　carefully。　Don't　leave　your　apartment。　If　smoke　begins　to　e　under　your　front　door；　place　a　damp　towel　against　it。　Wait　for　instructions…〃　
　The　voice　was　cut　off　by　the　unbearably　shrill　sound　of　the　fire　alarm　in　the　hall；　followed　by　the　even　louder　blare　of　the　siren　within　her　apartment。　She　dropped　the　phone；