sk.dreamcatcher-第127节

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rom　beneath　his　tall。
　　　　Mr　Gray　looked　balefully　at　the　crowbar　jutting　from　the　slot　in　the　iron　cover。　In　Jonesy's　imagination；　the　Russian　woman　had　been　a　slim　beauty　with　dark　hair　and　dark　tragic　eyes。　In　reality；　Mr　Gray　thought；　she　must　have　been　broad…shouldered　and　muscular。　How　else　could　she　have…
　　　　There　was　a　blast　of　gunfire；　alarmingly　close。　Mr　Gray　gasped　and　looked　around。　Thanks　to　Jonesy；　the　human　corrosion　of　doubt　was　also　part　of　his　makeup　now；　and　for　the　first　time　he　realized　that　he　might　be　balked　…　yes；　even　here；　so　close　to　his　goal　that　he　could　hear　it；　the　sound　of　rushing　water　starting　on　its　sixty…mile　underground　journey。　And　all　that　stood　between　the　byrum　and　this　whole　world　was　a　circular　iron　plate　weighing　a　hundred　and　twenty　pounds。
　　　　Screaming　a　thin　and　desperate　litany　of　Beaver…curses；　Mr　Gray　rushed　forward；　Jonesy's　failing　body　jerking　back　and　forth　on　the　defective　pivot…point　of　its　right　hip。　One　of　them　was　ing；　the　one　called　Owen；　and　Mr　Gray　dared　not　believe　he　could　make　this　Owen　turn　his　weapon　on　himself　Given　time；　given　the　element　of　surprise；　maybe。　Now　he　had　neither。　And　this　man　who　was　ing　had　been　trained　to　kill；　it　was　his　career。
　　　　Mr　Gray　leaped　into　the　air。　There　was　a　snap；　quite　audible；　as　Jonesy's　overstressed　hip　broke　free　of　the　swollen　socket　which　had　held　it。　Mr　Gray　landed　on　the　crowbar　with　Jonesy's　full　weight。　The　edge　lifted　again；　and　this　time　the　cover　slid　almost　a　foot　across　the　concrete。　The　black　crescent　through　which　the　Russian　woman　had　slipped　appeared　again。　Not　much　of　a　crescent；　really　no　more　than　a　delicate　capital　C　drawn　with　a　calligrapher's　pen　but　enough　for　the　dog。
　　　　Jonesy's　leg　would　no　longer　support　Jonesy's　weight　（and　where　was　Jonesy；　anyway？　Still　not　a　murmur　from　his　troublesome　host）；　but　that　was　all　right。　Crawling　would　do　now。
　　　　Mr　Gray　worked　his　way　in　such　fashion　across　the　cold　cement　floor　to　where　the　sleeping　border　collie　lay；　seized　Lad　by　his　collar；　and　began　to　drag　him　back　to　Shaft　12。


15

The　Hall　of　Memories　…　that　vast　repository　of　boxes　…　is　also　on　the　verge　of　shaking　itself　apart。　The　floor　shudders　as　if　in　the　grip　of　an　endless　slow　earthquake。　Overhead；　the　fluorescents　flicker　on　and　off；　giving　the　place　a　stuttery；　hallucinatory　look。　In　places　tall　stacks　of　cartons　have　fallen　over；　blocking　some　of　the　corridors。
　　　　Jonesy　runs　as　best　he　can；　He　moves　from　corridor　to　corridor；　threading　his　way　through　this　maze　purely　on　instinct。　He　tells　himself　repeatedly　to　ignore　the　goddam　hip；　he　is　nothing　but　mind　now；　anyway；　but　he　might　as　well　be　an　amputee　trying　to　convince　his　missing　limb　to　stop　throbbing。
　　　　He　runs　past　boxes　marked　AUSTRO…HUNGARIAN　WAR　and　DEPARTMENTAL　POLITICS　and　CHILDREN'S　STORIES　and　CONTENTS　OF　UPSTAIRS　CLOSET。　He　hurdles　a　pile　of　tumbled　boxes　marked　CARLA；　es　down　on　his　bad　leg；　and　screams　at　the　pain。　He　clutches　more　boxes　（these　marked　GETTYSBURG）　in　order　to　keep　from　falling；　and　at　last　sees　the　far　side　of　the　storage　room。　Thank　God；　it　seems　to　him　that　he　has　run　miles。
　　　　The　door　is　marked　ICU　and　QUIET　PLEASE　and　NO　VISITORS　W/O　PASS。　And　that　is　right；　this　is　where　they　took　him；　this　is　where　he　had　awakened　and　heard　crafty　old　Mr　Death　pretending　to　call　for　Marcy。
　　　　Jonesy　bangs　through　the　door　and　into　another　world；　one　he　recognizes：　the　blue…over…white　ICU　corridor　where　he　took　his　first　painful；　tentative　steps　four　days　after　his　surgery。　He　stumbles　a　dozen　feet　down　the　tiled　corridor；　sees　the　splotches　of　byrus　growing　on　the　walls；　hears　the　Muzak；　which　is　decidedly　un…hospital…like；　although　it's　turned　low；　it　appears　to　be　the　Rolling　Stones　singing　'Sympathy　for　the　Devil'。
　　　　He　has　no　more　than　identified　this　song　when　his　hip　suddenly　goes　nuclear。　Jonesy　utters　a　surprised　scream　and　falls　to　the　black…and…red　ICU　tiles；　clutching　at　himself　This　is　how　it　was　Just　after　he　was　hit：　an　explosion　of　red　agony。　He　rolls　over　and　over；　looking　up　at　the　glowing　light…panels；　at　the　circular　speakers　from　which　the　music　（'Anastasia　screamed　in　vain'）　is　ing；　music　from　another　world；　when　the　pain　is　this　bad　everything　is　in　another　world；　pain　makes　a　shadow　of　substance　and　a　mockery　even　of　love；　that　is　something　he　learned　in　March　and　must　learn　again　now。　He　rolls　and　he　rolls；　hands　clutching　at　his　swollen　hip；　eyes　bulging；　mouth　pulled　back　in　a　vast　rictus；　and　he　knows　what　has　happened；　all　right：　Mr　Gray。　That　son　of　a　bitch　Mr　Gray　has　re…broken　his　hip。
　　　　Then；　from　far　away　in　that　other　world；　he　hears　a　voice　he　knows；　a　kid's　voice。
　　　　Jonesy！
　　　　Echoing；　distorted　。　。　。　but　not　that　far　away。　Not　this　corridor；　but　one　of　the　adjacent　ones。　Whose　voice？　One　of　his　own　kids？　John；　maybe？　No…
　　　　Jonesy；　you　have　to　hurry！　He's　ing　to　kill　you！　Owen　is　ing　to　kill　you！
　　　　He　doesn't　know　who　Owen　is；　but　he　knows　who　that　voice　belongs　to：　Henry　Devlin。　But　not　as　it　is　now；　or　as　it　was　when　he　last　saw　Henry；　going　off　to　Gosselin's　Market　with　Pete；　this　is　the　voice　of　the　Henry　he　grew　up　with；　the　one　who　told　Richie　Grenadeau　that　they'd　tell　on　him　if　he　didn't　stop；　that　Richie　and　his　friends　would　never　catch　Pete　because　Pete　ran　like　the　fucking　wind。
　　　　I　can't！　he　calls　back；　still　rolling　on　the　floor。　He　is　aware　that　something　has　changed；　is　still　changing；　but　not　what；　I　can't；　he　broke　my　hip　again；　the　son　of　a　bitch　broke…
　　　　And　then　he　realizes　what　is　happening　to　him：　the　pain　is　running　backward。　It's　like　watching　a　videotape　as　it　rewinds　…　the　milk　flows　up　from　the　glass　to　the　carton；　the　flower　which　should　be　blooming　through　the　miracle　of　time…lapse　photography　closes　up；　instead。
　　　　The　reason　is　obvious　when　he　looks　down　at　himself　and　sees　the　bright　orange　jacket　he's　wearing。　It's　the　one　his　mother　bought　him　in　Sears　for　his　first　hunting　trip　to　Hole　in　the　Wall；　the　trip　when　Henry　got　his　deer　and　they　all　killed　Richie　Grenadeau　and　his　friends　…　killed　them　with　a　dream；　maybe　not　meaning　to　but　doing　it　just　the　same。
　　　　He　has　bee　a　child　again；　a　kid　of　fourteen；　and　there　is　no　pain。　Why　would　there　be？　His　hip　will　not　be　broken　for　another　twenty…three　years。　And　then　it　all　es　together　with　a　crash　in　his　mind：　there　was　never　any　Mr　Gray；　not　really；　Mr　Gray　lives　in　the　dreamcatcher　and　nowhere　else。　He　is　no　more　real　than　the　pain　in　his　hip。　I　was　immune；　he　thinks；　getting　up。　I　never　got　so　much　as　a　speck　of　the　byrus。　What's　in　my　head　isn't　quite　a　memory；　not　that；　but　a　true　ghost　in　the　machine。　He's　me。　Dear　God；　Mr　Gray　is　me。
　　　　Jonesy　scrambles　to　his　feet　and　begins　to　run；　almost　losing　his　feet　as　he　swerves　around　a　corner。　He　stays　up；　though；　he　is　agile　and　quick　as　only　a　fourteen…year…old　can　be；　and　there　is　no　pain；　no　pain。
　　　　The　next　corridor　is　one　he　knows。　There　is　a　parked　gurney　with　a　bedpan　on　it。　Walking　past　it；　moving　delicately　on　tiny　feet；　is　the　deer　he　saw　that　day　in　Cambridge　just　before　he　was　struck。　There　is　a　collar　around　its　velvety　neck　and　swinging　from　it　like　an　oversized　amulet　is　his　Magic　8…Ball。　Jonesy　sprints　past　the　deer；　which　looks　at　him　with　mild；　surprised　eyes。
　　　　Jonesy！
　　　　Close　now。　Very　close。
　　　　Jonesy；　hurry！
　　　　Jonesy　redoubles　his　speed；　feet　flying；　young　lungs　breathing　easily；　there　is　no　byrus　because　he　is　immune；　there　is　no　Mr　Gray；　not　in　him；　at　least；　Mr　Gray　is　in　the　hospital　and　always　was；　Mr　Gray　is　the　phantom　limb　you　still　feel；　the　one　you　could　swear　is　still　there；　Mr　Gray　is　the　ghost　in　the　machine；　the　ghost　on　life　support；　and　the　life　support　is　him。
　　　　He　turns　another　er。　Here　are　three　doors　which　are　standing　open。　Beyond　them；　by　the　fourth　door；　the　only　one　that　is　closed；　Henry　is　standing。　Henry　is　fourteen；　as　Jonesy　is；　Henry　is　wearing　an　orange　coat；　as　Jonesy　is。　His　glasses　have　slid　down　on　his　nose　just　as　they　always　did；　and　he　is　beckoning　urgently。
　　　　Hurry　up！　Hurry　up；　Jonesy！　Duddits　can't　hold　on　much　longer！　If　he　dies　before　we　kill　Mr　Gray…
　　　　Jonesy　joins　Henry　at　the　door。　He　wants　to　throw　his　arms　around　him；　embrace　him；　but　there's　no　time。
　　　This　is　all　my　fault；　he　tells　Henry；　and　his　voice　is　higher　in　pitch　than　it　has　been　in　years。
　　　　Not　true；　Henry　says。　He's　looking　at　Jonesy　with　the　old　impatience　that　awed　Jonesy　and　Pete　and　Beaver　as　children　Henry　always　seemed　farther　ahead；　always　on　the　verge　of　sprinting　into　the　future　and　leaving　the　rest　of　them　behind。　They　always　seemed　to　be　holding　him　back。
　　　　But…
　　　　You　might　as　well　say　that　Duddits　murdered　Richie　Grenadeau　and　that　we　were　his　acplices。　He　was　what　he　was；　Jonesy；　and　he　made　us　what　we　are　。　。　。　but　not　on　purpose。　It　was　all　he　could　do　to　tie　his　shoes　on　purpose；　don't　you　know　that？
　　　　And　Jonesy　thinks：　Fit　wha？　Fit　neek？
　　　　Henry　。　。　。　is　Duddits…
　　　　He's　holding　on　for　us；　Jonesy；　I　told　you。　Holding　us　together。
　　　　In　the　dreamcatcher。
　　　　That's　tight。　So　are　we　going　to　stand　out　here　arguing　in　the　hall　while　the　world　goes　down　the　chute；　or　are　we　going　to…
　　　　We're　going　to　kill　the　son　of　a　b