cb.damnationgame-第50节

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was　nothing　left　to　vomit。
　　His　stomach　muscles　aching　from　the　contractions；　he　uprooted　some　ferns　and　wiped　his　mouth　and　chin；　then　washed　his　hands　in　the　damp　soil　and　stood　up。　The　rough　treatment　had　done　its　job；　there　was　a　marked　improvement　in　his　condition。
　　He　turned　his　back　on　his　spilled　stomach　and　wandered　further　away　from　the　house。　Though　the　thatch　of　leaves　and　branches　was　heavy　above；　some　starlight　trickled　down；　enough　illumination　to　give　a　tenuous　solidity　to　trunk　and　brush。　Walking　in　the　ghost…wood　enchanted　him。　He　let　the　gentle　spectacle　of　light　and　leafshade　heal　his　wounded　vanity。　He　saw　how　all　his　dreams　of　finding　a　permanent　and　trusted　place　in　Whitehead's　world　had　been　pretension。　He　was；　and　always　would　be；　a　marked　man。
　　He　walked　quietly　here；　where　the　trees　thickened　and　the　undergrowth；　light…starved；　thinned。　Small　animals　scuttled　ahead　of　him；　night　insects　whirred　in　the　grass。　He　stood　still　to　hear　the　nocturne　better。　As　he　did　so　he　caught　a　movement　out　of　the　corner　of　his　eye。　He　looked　toward　it；　seeking　focus　through　the　receding　corridor　of　trunks。　It　was　no　trick。　There　was　somebody；　gray　as　the　trees；　standing　thirty　or　so　yards　from　him…now　still；　now　moving　again。　Concentrating；　he　fixed　the　figure　in　the　matrix　of　shadow　and　deeper　shadow。
　　It　was　a　ghost　surely。　So　quiet；　so　casual。　He　watched　it　as　a　deer　might　watch　a　hunter；　not　certain　if　he　had　been　seen　but　unwilling　to　break　cover。　Fear　ran　in　his　scalp。　Not　of　an　open　blade；　he'd　long　ago　faced　those　terrors　and　mastered　them。　This　was　the　prickly　heat　fear　of　child…hood；　the　essential　fear。　And　paradoxically；　it　made　him　whole。　It　didn't　matter　if　he　were　four　or　thirty…four；　he　was　the　same　creature　at　heart。
　　He'd　dreamed　of　such　woods；　of　such　enpassing　night。　He　touched　his　terror　reverently；　frozen　to　the　spot；　while　the　gray　figure…too　taken　with　its　own　business　to　notice　him…watched　the　earth　between　the　trees。
　　They　stood　in　that　relation；　ghost　and　he；　for　what　seemed　like　several　minutes。　Certainly　a　good　time　passed　before　he　heard　a　noise　that　was　neither　owl；　nor　rodent；　filtering　between　the　trees。　It　had　been　there　all　along；　he　had　just　failed　to　interpret　it　for　what　it　was：　the　sound　of　digging。　The　rattle　of　tiny　stones；　the　fall　of　earth。　The　child　in　him　said　bad：　leave　it　be；　leave　it　all　be。　But　he　was　too　curious　to　ignore　it。　He　took　two　experimental　steps　toward　the　ghost。　It　made　no　sign　of　seeing　or　hearing　him。　Taking　courage；　he　advanced　a　few　more　steps；　attempting　to　keep　as　close　to　a　tree　as　possible；　so　that　should　the　ghost　look　his　way　he　could　find　cover　quickly。　In　this　way　he　advanced　ten　yards　toward　his　quarry。　Close　enough　to　see　the　host　in　enough　detail　for　recognition。
　　It　was　Mamoulian。
　　The　European　was　still　staring　down　at　the　earth　at　his　feet。　Marty　slid　into　hiding　behind　a　trunk　and　flattened　himself　there；　his　back　to　the　scene。　There　was　obviously　somebody　digging；　at　Mamoulian's　feet；　he　conceivably　had　other　cohorts　in　the　vicinity。　The　only　safety　was　in　lying　doggo　and　hoping　to　God　no　one　had　been　spying　on　him　as　he　had　spied　on　the　European。
　　At　length　the　digging　stopped；　and　so；　as　if　on　an　unspoken　cue；　did　the　nocturne。　It　was　bizarre。　The　whole　assembly；　insect　and　animal　alike；　seemed　to　hold　its　breath；　aghast。
　　Marty　slid　down　the　trunk　into　crawling　position；　his　ears　straining　for　every　clue　as　to　what　was　going　on。　He　chanced　a　look。　Mamoulian　was　moving　off　in　what　Marty　guessed　to　be　the　direction　of　the　house。　Undergrowth　obscured　his　view：　he　could　see　nothing　of　the　digger；　or　the　other　disciples　who　were　acpanying　the　European。　He　heard　their　passage；　however；　the　brush　of　their　dragging　steps。　Let　them　go；　he　thought。　He　was　past　protecting　Whitehead。　That　bargain　was　defunct。
　　He　sat；　knees　hugged　against　his　chest；　and　waited　until　Mamoulian　had　woven　between　the　trees　and　disappeared。　Then　he　counted　to　twenty　and　stood　up。　Pins　and　needles　pricked　at　his　lower　legs；　and　he　had　to　rub　the　circulation　back　into　them。　Only　then　did　he　start　toward　the　spot　where　Mamoulian　had　lingered。
　　Even　as　he　approached　he　recognized　the　glade；　though　he　had　previously　e　to　it　from　the　direction　of　the　house。　His　late…evening　walk　had　taken　him　in　a　semicircle。　He　was　standing　now　in　the　place　he'd　buried　the　dogs。
　　The　grave　was　open　and　empty；　the　black　plastic　shrouds　had　been　torn　apart；　their　contents　unceremoniously　removed。　Marty　stared　into　the　hole　not　quite　prehending　the　joke。　What　use　were　dead　dogs？
　　There　was　a　movement　in　the　grave；　something　shifted　beneath　the　plastic　sheets。　He　stepped　back　from　the　edge；　his　gorge　too　susceptible　for　this。　A　nest　of　maggots　presumably；　or　perhaps　a　worm　the　size　of　his　arm；　grown　fat　on　dogmeat；　who　knew　what　hid　in　the　earth？
　　Turning　his　back　on　the　hole；　he　walked　toward　the　house；　following　the　trail　Mamoulian　had　taken；　until　the　trees　thinned　and　the　starlight　brightened。　There；　on　the　borderland　between　wood　and　lawn；　he　stayed；　until　the　sounds　of　the　night　reestablished　themselves　around　him。
　　
　　47
　　Stephanie　excused　herself　from　the　table；　and　went　out　to　the　bathroom；　leaving　the　hysteria　behind　her。　As　she　closed　the　door　one　of　the　men…Ottaway；　she　thought…suggested　she　e　back　in　and　piss　in　a　bottle　for　him。　She　didn't　grace　the　remark　with　a　reply。　However　well　they　paid；　she　wasn't　going　to　get　involved　in　that　kind　of　activity；　it　wasn't　clean。
　　The　hallway　was　in　semidarkness；　the　sheen　of　vases；　the　richness　of　the　carpet　underfoot…all　of　it　spoke　wealth；　and　on　previous　visits　she'd　enjoyed　the　extravagance　of　the　place。　But　tonight　they　were　so　uneasy…Ottaway；　Dwoskin；　the　old　man　himself…there　was　an　air　of　desperation　in　their　drinking　and　their　innuendo；　and　it　took　any　pleasure　out　of　being　here。　On　the　other　nights　they'd　all　got　pleasantly　drunk　and　then　there'd　been　the　usual　performances；　sometimes　developing　into　something　more　serious　with　one　or　two　of　them。　Just　as　often　they　were　content　to　watch。　And　at　the　end　of　the　night　there'd　been　generous　payment。　But　tonight　was　different。　There　was　cruelty　in　it；　which　she　disliked。　Money　or　no　money；　she　wouldn't　e　here　again。　It　was　time　she　retired　anyway；　leave　it　to　younger　girls；　who　at　least　looked　less　raddled　than　she　did。
　　She　bent　close　to　the　bathroom　mirror　and　tried　to　reapply　her　eyeliner；　but　her　hand　was　shaky　with　drink；　and　it　slipped。　She　cursed；　and　dug　in　her　purse　for　a　tissue　to　clean　off　the　error。　As　she　did　so　there　was　a　scuffling　sound　in　the　hallway。　Dwoskin；　she　guessed。　She　didn't　want　the　gargoyle　touching　her　again；　at　least　not　until　she　was　too　paralytic　with　drink　to　care。　She　tiptoed　to　the　door　and　locked　it。　The　sounds　outside　had　stopped。　She　went　back　to　the　sink　and　turned　on　the　tap；　cold　water；　to　splash　on　her　tired　face。
　　Dwoskin　had　gone　out　after　Stephanie。　He　intended　to　suggest　something　outrageous　for　her　to　perform　on　him；　something　gross　for　this　night…　of　nights。
　　〃Where　are　you　going？〃　somebody　asked　him；　as　he　traipsed　the　hall；　or　did　he　just　imagine　the　words？　He'd　taken　a　few　pills　before　the　party…that　always　loosened　him　up…but　it　tended　to　put　voices　in　his　head；　mostly　his　mother's。　Whether　somebody　had　asked　the　question　or　not；　he　chose　not　to　answer；　he　just　wandered　down　the　corridor；　calling　for　Stephanie。　The　woman　was　extraordinary；　or　so　his　drugged　libido　had　decided。　She　had　superb　buttocks。　He　wanted　to　be　smothered　by　those　cheeks；　to　die　under　them。
　　〃Stephanie；〃　he　demanded。　She　didn't　reappear。　〃e　on；〃　he　reassured　her；　〃it's　only　me。〃　There　was　a　smell　in　the　corridor：　just　a　hint　of　sewer。　He　inhaled　it。　〃Foul；〃　he　announced；　not　unappreciatively。　The　smell　was　getting　stronger；　as　though　its　source　was　close　by；　and　approaching。　〃Lights；〃　he　told　himself　and　peered　along　the　wall　looking　for　a　switch。
　　A　few　yards　down　the　corridor　something　started　to　move　toward　him。　The　light　was　too　dim　to　see　properly　by；　but　it　was　a　man；　and　the　man　was　not　alone。　There　were　other　shapes；　knee…high；　mustering　in　the　darkness。　The　smell　was　being　overpowering。　Dwoskin's　head　had　started　to　dance　with　color；　disgraceful　images　flickered　in　the　air　to　acpany　the　smell。　It　took　him　a　moment　to　grasp　that　this　air　graffiti　was　not　his　doing。　It　was　ing　from　the　man　ahead　of　him。　Dashes　and　dots　of　light　flared　and　whirled　away　into　the　air。
　　〃Who　are　you？〃　Dwoskin　demanded。　In　answer；　the　graffiti　ignited　into　a　full…blown　literature。　Not　certain　if　any　sound　was　ing　out；　the　Troll…King　began　to　screech。
　　
　　Stephanie　dropped　the　eyeliner　into　the　sink　as　the　scream　reached　her。　She　didn't　recognize　the　voice。　It　was　high　enough　to　be　a　woman's；　but　it　was　neither　Emily　nor　Oriana。
　　The　shakes　suddenly　worsened。　She　held　on　to　the　edge　of　the　sink　to　steady　herself　as　the　noises　multiplied：　howls　now；　and　running　feet。　Somebody　was　shouting；　all　but　incoherent　orders。　It　was　Ottaway；　she　thought；　but　she　wasn't　going　out　to　check。　Whatever　was　going　on　beyond　the　door…pursuit；　capture；　murder　even…she　needed　none　of　it。　She　turned　off