p&c.thunderhead-第83节

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threw　out　a　pale　corona；　suffused　by　dust。　
　From　time　to　time；　growing　up；　Black　had　been　tortured　by　a　recurring　nightmare：　he　found　himself　paralyzed；　unable　to　move。　Now；　he　felt　that　he　was　living　that　nightmare。　His　limbs　seemed　to　have　grown　frozen；　unwilling　or　unable　to　respond　to　his　mands。　
　〃I　can't　move！〃　he　cried。　And　then；　with　a　sudden　terror；　he　realized　he　hadn't　been　able　to　articulate　the　words。　Air　had　e　out　of　his　mouth；　yes…an　ugly　splutter；　and　he　felt　saliva　dribbling　down　his　chin…but　no　words　came。　He　tried　again　and　heard　once　more　the　ugly　choking　rush　of　air；　felt　the　refusal　of　his　tongue　and　lips　to　form　words。　The　terror　increased。　In　a　spasm　of　panic；　he　struggled　unsuccessfully　to　rise。　Weird　shapes　and　writhing　figures　began　crowding　the　darkness　beyond　his　eyes；　he　turned　to　look　away；　but　his　neck　refused　to　move。　Closing　his　eyes　now　only　caused　the　shapes　to　spring　to　greater　definition。　
　〃Sloane！〃　he　tried　to　call；　staring　up　into　the　cloudy　dimness；　afraid　even　to　blink。　But　not　even　the　splutter　of　air　came　now。　And　then　the　lantern　flickered　again；　and　went　black。　
　He　tried　to　scream；　but　nothing　happened。　Sloane　was　supposed　to　be　bringing　medicine。　Where　was　she？　In　the　close　darkness；　the　hallucinations　were　all　around　him；　babbling；　whispering：　twisted　creatures；　grinning　skulls；　teeth　inlaid　with　bloody　carnelians；　the　clinking　of　skeletons　moving　restlessly　around　the　kiva；　the　flickering　of　fires　and　the　smell　of　roasting　human　meat；　the　screams；　the　victims　gargling　their　own　blood。　
　It　was　too　terrible。　He　could　not　close　his　eyes；　and　they　burned　with　an　internal　pressure。　His　mouth　was　locked　open　in　a　scream　that　never　came。　At　least　he　still　recognized　the　shapes　around　him　as　hallucinations。　That　meant　he　wasn't　too　far　gone　to　tell　reality　from　unreality　。　。　。　but　how　unspeakably　dreadful　it　was　to　not　feel　anything；　not　to　know　any　longer　where　his　limbs　were　lying；　whether　or　not　he　had　fouled　himself；　to　lose　some　profound　internal　sense　of　where　his　body　was。　The　panic　of　paralysis；　that　dream…fear　out　of　his　worst　nightmares；　washed　over　him　yet　again。　
　He　couldn't　understand　what　had　gone　wrong。　Was　Nora　really　dead？　Was　he　himself　also　dying；　in　the　horrible　darkness　of　this　kiva？　Had　Sloane　and　Bonarotti　really　been　inside　the　kiva　with　him？　Perhaps　they　were　going　to　Aragon　for　help。　But　no…Aragon　was　dead；　like　Nora。　
　Aragon；　Smithback；　Nora　。　。　。　and　he　had　been　as　guilty　of　their　deaths　as　if　he　had　pulled　the　trigger。　He　hadn't　spoken　up；　down　there　in　the　valley。　He'd　let　his　own　desire　for　immortal　fame；　for　that　ultimate　discovery；　get　the　better　of　him。　He　groaned　inwardly：　clearly；　nobody　would　e　to　help；　after　all。　He　was　alone　in　the　darkness。　
　Then　he　saw　another　light；　very　faint；　almost　indivisible　from　the　darkness。　It　was　acpanied　by　a　rustling　sound。　His　heart　surged　with　fresh　hope。　Sloane　was　returning　at　last。　
　The　light　grew　stronger。　And　then　he　saw　it；　through　the　film　of　his　sickness：　fire；　strangely　disembodied；　moving　through　the　darkness　of　the　kiva；　dropping　sparks　as　it　went。　And　carrying　this　burning　brand　was　a　hideous　apparition：　a　single　figure；　half…man；　half…animal。　
　Black　fell　into　renewed　despair。　Not　a　rescue。　Just　another　hallucination。　He　wept　inwardly；　he　wailed　in　his　mind；　but　his　eyes　remained　dry；　his　body　flexed　and　immobile。　
　Now　the　apparition　was　ing　toward　him。　He　smelled　juniper　smoke；　mixed　with　the　ripe；　sweet　scent　of　morning　glories；　he　saw　in　the　flickering　light　the　glittering　black　of　an　obsidian　blade。　
　Distantly；　he　wondered　where　such　an　image；　where　such　an　unexpected　scent；　could　have　e　from。　Some　grotesque　recess　of　his　mind；　no　doubt；　some　dreadful　ceremony　that　perhaps　he'd　read　about　in　graduate　school；　long　forgotten　and　now；　in　the　extremity　of　his　delirium；　resurrected　to　haunt　him。　
　The　figure　bent　closer；　and　he　saw　its　blood…stiffened　buckskin　mask；　eyes　fiery　behind　the　ragged　slits。　Surprisingly　real。　The　coldness　of　the　blade　on　his　throat　was　astonishingly　real；　as　well。　Only　a　person　who　was　as　gravely　ill　as　he　was；　he　knew；　could　hallucinate　something　so　。　。　。　
　And　then　he　felt　the　unyielding　knife　blade　trace　a　hard　cold　line　across　his　neck；　felt　the　abrupt　wheeze　of　his　own　air；　the　gush　of　hot　blood　filling　his　windpipe；　and　he　realized；　with　transcendent　astonishment；　that　it　was　not　a　hallucination；　after　all。　
　
　
64
　
　SLOANE　WAITED；　EVERY　MUSCLE　TENSED；　LISTENING　with　rapt　concentration。　There　was　a　break　in　the　storm；　and　the　rain　had　slowed　to　an　occasional　patter。　Cupping　her　watch　to　shield　the　glow；　she　briefly　illuminated　it：　almost　ten　thirty。　The　sky　had　broken　into　patches　of　light　as　tattered　clouds　swept　past　a　gibbous　moon。　Still；　it　was　mostly　dark…dark　enough　for　a　person　to　think　she　could　creep　into　camp　unobserved。　
　She　shifted；　rubbing　her　elbows。　Once　again；　she　found　herself　wondering　what　had　happened　to　Swire　and　Bonarotti。　No　one　had　appeared　at　the　mouth　of　the　city。　And　they　obviously　weren't　in　camp。　Perhaps　they'd　never　left　Quivira　in　the　first　place；　and　were　even　now　back　in　the　kiva；　watching　over　Black。　In　any　case；　it　was　best　they　were　not　around。　Nora　couldn't　hide　forever。　Soon；　she　would　be　ing　for　Smithback。　
　Sloane　returned　her　gaze　to　the　tent　and　its　thin；　small　glow；　like　a　canvas　lampshade　in　the　center　of　the　dark　landscape。　The　camp　remained　still。　Concentrating　on　dismissing　all　irrelevant　noise；　she　waited；　ready　to　distinguish　the　sound　of　Nora's　approach　from　the　distant　rush　of　the　swollen　creek。　Ten　minutes　went　by；　then　fifteen。　The　moon　fell　once　more　behind　ragged　clouds。　The　rain　came　on　again；　acpanied　by　distant　thunder。　It　was　more　difficult　than　she　could　have　imagined；　waiting　here　like　this；　gun　in　hand。　She　felt　an　undercurrent　of　rage：　partly　at　Nora；　but　partly　at　her　father。　If　he　had　trusted　her；　put　her　in　charge　of　the　expedition；　none　of　this　would　have　happened。　She　suppressed　the　sweep　of　dread　that　came　over　her　as　she　contemplated　what　was　about　to　happen…what　she　was　being　forced　to　do。　
　She　forced　her　thoughts　back　toward　the　limitless　wonders　that　awaited　in　the　secret　city。　She　reminded　herself　once　again　there　was　no　other　way。　Even　if　she　managed　to　beat　Nora's　accusations　somehow；　they　would　ruin　her　forever。　And　in　his　heart；　her　father　would　know　。　。　。　
　It　came　at　last：　the　crackle　of　a　twig。　The　soft　chuff　of　a　foot；　placed　carefully　in　wet　sand。　And　then　another；　at　least；　she　thought　she　heard　another；　against　the　distant　call　of　the　river　and　the　soft　patter　of　rain。　
　Someone　was　sneaking　up　to　the　tent；　someone　exercising　exceptional　care。　
　Sloane　hesitated　momentarily；　she　didn't　know　Nora　had　such　capacity　for　stealth。　But　nobody　else；　she　knew；　would　be　approaching　the　tent　so　cautiously。　
　She　took　a　breath；　opening　her　mouth　as　if　to　speak。　For　a　moment；　she　considered　calling　out　to　Nora：　to　give　her　one　more　chance；　to　forget　Aragon；　the　weather　report；　everything。　But　then　she　remembered　the　look　on　Nora's　face…the　word　murderer；　uttered　between　clenched　teeth…and　she　remained　silent。　
　With　a　slight　pressure　of　her　thumbs　and　middle　fingers；　she　raised　the　muzzle　of　the　。38；　relaxing　her　hands　to　absorb　the　recoil。　She　was　a　decent　shot；　at　this　range；　there　was　no　chance　of　missing。　It　would　be　quick；　and　probably　painless。　Within　two　minutes；　both　Nora　and　Smithback　would　be　in　the　river；　moving　inexorably　toward　the　narrow　slot　at　its　far　end。　If　there　was　ever　any　question；　she　could　always　tell　the　others　she　had　been　shooting　at　a　snake。　
　She　waited；　barrel　leveled　steadily。　The　steps　were　so　quiet；　and　spaced　so　far　apart；　Sloane　could　not　tell　if　they　were　approaching　or　receding。　And　then　at　last　a　shadow　interposed　itself　between　her　and　the　tent。　
　Sloane　breathed　out　slowly　through　her　nostrils。　The　shadow　was　too　tall　to　be　bandy…legged　Swire；　and　too　short　to　be　Aaron　or　Bonarotti。　It　could　only　be　Nora。　The　shadow　deepened　slightly　as　it　glided　around　the　side　of　the　tent；　hovering　outside　the　door。　
　Carefully；　Sloane　aimed　the　gun；　centering　on　the　shadow。　This　was　it；　then。　She　suspended　her　breathing；　timed　the　shot　to　the　interval　between　heartbeats；　and　squeezed　the　trigger。　
　The　short…barreled　weapon　jerked　back　violently　in　her　hands　as　the　shot　reverberated　down　the　canyon。　There　was　a　gasp；　the　sound　of　spasmodic　kicking；　a　brief；　retreating　scrabble。　When　her　eyes　cleared；　the　silhouette　had　disappeared　from　the　dim　light　of　the　tent　and　all　was　silent。　
　She　crept　out　of　the　chamisa　and　rose　to　her　feet。　It　was　done。　She　realized　she　was　shaking　violently　but　made　no　attempt　to　control　it。　Snapping　on　her　light；　keeping　the　gun　drawn；　she　came　forward。　She　hesitated　at　the　side　of　the　tent；　momentarily　unwilling　to　see　the　destruction　her　gun　had　wrought。　Then；　with　a　deep　breath；　she　stepped　forward。　
　Instead　of　Nora's　body　lying　before　the　tent；　broken　and　bleeding；　there　was　nothing。　
　Sloane's　hands　went　slack　in　consternation；　and　she　fought　to　maintain　her　grip　on　the　gun。　She　looked　down　at　the　sand　before　her；　horrified。　How　could　she　possibly　have　missed？　It　was　practi