sk.dreamcatcher-第71节

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he　pack　out。　'Two　left。　Join　me？'
　　　　Owen　shook　his　head。　'Not　this　time；　boss。'
　　　　'Then　get　on　out　of　here。　If　necessary；　shag　ass　over　to　the　infirmary　and　get　some　Sonata。'
　　　　'I　don't　think　I'll　need　that；'　Owen　said。　He　would；　of　course　he　needed　it　already　…　but　he　wouldn't　take　it。　Better　to　be　awake。
　　　　'All　right；　then。　Off　you　go。'　Kurtz　let　him　get　as　far　as　the　door。　'And　Owen？'
　　　　Owen　turned　back；　zipping　his　parka。　He　could　hear　the　wind　out　there　now。　Building；　starting　to　blow　seriously；　as　it　had　not　during　the　relatively　harmless　Alberta　Clipper　that　had　e　through　that　morning。
　　　　'Thanks；'　Kurtz　said。　One　large　and　absurd　tear　overspilled　his　left　eye　and　ran　down　his　cheek。　Kurtz　seemed　unaware。　In　that　moment　Owen　loved　and　pitied　him。　In　spite　of　everything；　which　included　knowing　better。　'Thank　you；　buck。'


7

Henry　stood　in　the　thickening　snow；　turned　away　from　the　worst　of　the　wind　and　looking　over　his　left　shoulder　at　the　Winnebago；　waiting　for　Underhill　to　e　back　out。　He　was　alone　now　…　the　storm　had　driven　the　rest　of　them　back　into　the　barn；　where　there　was　a　heater。　Rumors　would　already　be　growing　tall　in　the　warmth；　Henry　supposed。　Better　the　rumors　than　the　truth　that　was　right　in　front　of　them。
　　　　He　scratched　at　his　leg；　realized　what　he　was　doing；　and　looked　around；　turning　in　a　plete　circle。　No　prisoners；　no　guards。　Even　in　the　thickening　snow　the　pound　was　almost　as　bright　as　noonday；　and　he　could　see　well　in　every　direction。　For　the　time　being；　at　least；　he　was　alone。
　　　　Henry　bent　and　untied　the　shirt　knotted　around　the　place　where　the　turnsignal　stalk　had　cut　his　skin。　He　then　spread　the　slit　in　his　bluejeans。　The　men　who　had　taken　him　into　custody　had　made　this　same　examination　in　the　back　of　the　truck　where　they　had　already　stored　five　other　refugees　（on　the　way　back　to　Gosselin's　they　had　picked　up　three　more）。　At　that　point　he　had　been　clean。
　　　　He　wasn't　clean　now。　A　delicate　thread　of　red　lace　grew　down　the　scabbed　center　of　the　wound。　If　he　hadn't　known　what　he　was　looking　for；　he　might　have　mistaken　it　for　a　fresh　seep　of　blood。
　　　　Byrus；　he　thought。　Ah；　fuck。　Goodnight；　Mrs　Calabash；　wherever　you　are。
　　　　A　flash　of　light　winked　at　the　top　of　his　vision。　Henry　straightened　and　saw　Underhill　just　pulling　the　door　of　the　Winnebago　shut。　Quickly；　Henry　retied　the　shirt　around　the　hole　in　his　jeans　and　then　approached　the　fence。　A　voice　in　his　head　asked　what　he'd　do　if　he　called　to　Underhill　and　the　man　just　kept　on　going。　That　voice　also　wanted　to　know　if　Henry　really　intended　to　give　Jonesy　up。
　　　　He　watched　Underhill　trudge　toward　him　in　the　glare　of　the　security　lights；　his　head　bent　against　the　snow　and　the　intensifying　wind。


8

The　door　closed。　Kurtz　sat　looking　at　it；　smoking　and　slowly　rocking。　How　much　of　his　pitch　had　Owen　bought？　Owen　was　bright；　Owen　was　a　survivor；　Owen　was　not　without　idealism　。　。　。　and　Kurtz　thought　Owen　had　bought　it　all；　with　hardly　a　single　dicker。　Because　in　the　end　most　people　believed　what　they　wanted　to　believe。　John　Dillinger　had　also　been　a　survivor；　the　wiliest　of　the　thirties　desperadoes；　but　he　had　gone　to　the　Biograph　Theater　with　Anna　Sage　just　the　same。　Manhattan　Melodrama　had　been　the　show；　and　when　it　was　over；　the　feds　had　shot　Dillinger　down　in　the　alley　beside　the　theater　like　the　dog　he　was。　Anna　Sage　had　also　believed　what　she　wanted　to　believe；　but　they　deported　her　ass　back　to　Poland　just　the　same。
　　　　No　one　was　going　to　leave　Gosselin's　Market　tomorrow　except　for　his　picked　cadre　…　the　twelve　men　and　two　women　who　made　up　Imperial　Valley。　Owen　Underhill　would　not　be　among　them；　although　he　could　have　been。　Until　Owen　had　put　the　grayboys　on　the　mon　channel；　Kurtz　had　been　sure　he　would　be。　But　things　changed。　So　Buddha　had　said；　and　on　that　one；　at　least；　the　old　chink　heathen　had　spoken　true。
　　　　'You　let　me　down；　buck；'　Kurtz　said。　He　had　lowered　his　mask　to　smoke；　and　it　bobbed　against　his　grizzled　throat　as　he　spoke。　'You　let　me　down。'　Kurtz　had　let　Owen　Underhill　get　away　with　letting　him　down　once。　But　twice？
　　　　'Never；'　Kurtz　said。　'Never　in　life。'

CHAPTER　FOURTEEN

GOING　SOUTH


1

Mr　Gray　ran　the　snowmobile　down　into　a　ravine　which　held　a　small　frozen　creek。　He　drove　north　along　this　for　the　remaining　mile　to　1…95。　Two　or　three　hundred　yards　from　the　lights　of　the　army　vehicles　（there　were　only　a　few　now；　moving　slowly　in　the　thickening　snow）；　he　stopped　long　enough　to　consult　the　part　of　Jonesy's　mind　that　he　…　it　…　could　get　at。　There　were　files　and　files　of　stuff　that　wouldn't　fit　into　Jonesy's　little　office　stronghold；　and　Mr　Gray　found　what　he　was　looking　for　easily　enough。　There　was　no　switch　to　turn　off　the　Arctic　Cat's　headlight。　Mr　Gray　swung　Jonesy's　legs　off　the　snowmobile；　looked　for　a　rock；　picked　it　up　with　Jonesy's　right　hand；　and　smashed　the　headlight　dark。　Then　he　remounted　and　drove　on。　The　Cat's　fuel　was　almost　gone；　but　that　was　all　right；　the　vehicle　had　served　its　purpose。
　　　　The　pipe　which　carried　the　creek　beneath　the　turnpike　was　big　enough　for　the　snowmobile；　but　not　for　the　snowmobile　and　its　rider。　Mr　Gray　dismounted　again。　Standing　beside　the　snowmobile；　he　revved　the　throttle　and　sent　the　machine　bumping　and　yawing　into　the　pipe。　It　went　no　more　than　ten　feet　before　stopping；　but　that　was　far　enough　to　keep　it　from　being　seen　from　the　air　if　the　snow　lightened；　allowing　low…level　recon。
　　　　Mr　Gray　set　Jonesy　to　climbing　up　the　turnpike　embankment。　He　stopped　just　shy　of　the　guardrails　and　lay　down　on　his　back。　Here　he　was　temporarily　protected　from　the　worst　of　the　wind。　The　climb　had　released　a　last　little　cache　of　endorphins；　and　Jonesy　felt　his　kidnapper　sampling　them；　enjoying　them　the　way　Jonesy　himself　might　have　enjoyed　a　cocktail；　or　a　hot　drink　after　watching　a　football　game　on　a　brisk　October　afternoon。
　　　　He　realized；　with　no　surprise；　that　he　hated　Mr　Gray。
　　　　Then　Mr　Gray　as　an　entity　…　something　that　could　actually　be　hated　…　was　gone　again；　replaced　by　the　cloud　Jonesy　had　first　experienced　back　in　the　cabin　when　the　creature's　head　had　exploded。　It　was　going　out；　as　it　had　gone　out　in　search　of　Emil　Brodsky。　It　had　needed　Dawg　because　the　information　about　how　to　get　the　snowmobile　started　hadn't　been　in　Jonesy's　files。　Now　it　needed　something　else。　A　ride　was　the　logical　assumption。
　　　　And　what　was　left　here？　What　was　left　guarding　the　office　where　the　last　shred　of　Jonesy　cowered　…　Jonesy　who　had　been　turned　out　of　his　own　body　like　lint　out　of　a　pocket？　The　cloud；　of　course；　the　stuff　Jonesy　had　breathed　in。　Stuff　that　should　have　killed　him　but　had　for　some　reason　not　done　so。
　　　　The　cloud　couldn't　think；　not　the　way　Mr　Gray　could。　The　man　of　the　house　（who　was　now　Mr　Gray　instead　of　Mr　Jones）　had　departed；　leaving　the　place　under　the　control　of　the　thermostats；　the　refrigerator；　the　stove。　And；　in　case　of　trouble；　the　smoke　detector　and　the　burglar　alarm；　which　automatically　dialed　the　police。
　　　　Still；　with　Mr　Gray　gone；　he　might　be　able　to　get　out　of　the　office。　Not　to　regain　control；　if　he　tried　that；　the　redblack　cloud　would　report　him　and　Mr　Gray　would　return　from　his　scouting　expedition　at　once。　Jonesy　would　almost　certainly　be　seized　before　he　could　retreat　to　the　safety　of　the　Tracker　Brothers　office　with　its　bulletin　board　and　its　dusty　floor　and　its　one　dirt…crusted　window　on　the　world　。　。　。　only　there　were　four　crescent…shaped　clean　patches　in　that　dirt；　weren't　there？　Patches　where　four　boys　had　once　leaned　their　foreheads；　hoping　to　see　the　picture　that　was　pinned　to　the　bulletin　board　now：　Tina　Jean　Schlossinger　with　her　skirt　up。
　　　　No；　seizing　control　was　far　beyond　his　ability　and　he'd　better　accept　that；　bitter　as　it　was。
　　　　But　he　might　be　able　to　get　to　his　files。
　　　　Was　there　any　reason　to　risk　it？　Any　advantage？　There　might　be；　if　he　knew　what　Mr　Gray　wanted。　Beyond　a　ride；　that　was。　And　speaking　of　that；　a　ride　where？
　　　　The　answer　was　unexpected　because　it　came　in　Duddits's　voice：　Ow。　Ih…her　Ay　onna　oh　ow。　
　　　　Mr　Gray　wanna　go　south。
　　　　Jonesy　stepped　back　from　his　dirty　window　on　the　world。　There　wasn't　much　to　be　seen　out　there　just　now；　anyway；　snow　and　dark　and　shadowy　trees。　This　morning's　snow　had　been　the　appetizer；　here　was　the　main　course。
　　　　Mr　Gray　wanna　go　south。
　　　　How　far？　And　why？　What　was　the　big　picture？
　　　　On　these　subjects　Duddits　was　silent。
　　　　Jonesy　turned　and　was　surprised　to　see　that　the　route…map　and　the　picture　of　the　girl　were　no　longer　on　the　bulletin　board。　Where　they　had　been　were　four　color　snapshots　of　four　boys。　Each　had　the　same　background；　Derryjunior　High；　and　the　same　caption　beneath：　SCHOOL　DAYS；　1978。　Jonesy　himself　on　the　far　left；　face　split　in　a　trusting　ear…to…ear　grin　that　now　broke　his　heart。　Beav　next　to　him；　the　Beav's　grin　revealing　the　missing　tooth　in　front；　victim　of　a　skating　fall；　which　had　been　replaced　by　a　false　one　a　year　or　so　later　。　。　。　before　high　school；　anyway。　Pete；　with　his　broad；　olive…tinted　face　and　his　shamefully　short　hair；　mandated　by　his　father；　who　said　he　hadn't　fought　in　Korea　so　his　kid　could　look　like　a　hippie。　And　Henry　on　the　end；　Henry　in　his　thick　glasses　that　made　Jonesy　think　of　Danny　Dun