sk.dreamcatcher-第132章

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Street。
　　　　Suddenly　he　understood　something。
　　　　'You　could　play　all　along；　couldn't　you；　Duds？　You　used　to　peg　all　crazy　just　because　it　made　us　laugh。'　The　idea　brought　fresh　tears　to　his　eyes。　All　those　years　they'd　thought　they　were　playing　with　Duddits；　he　had　been　playing　with　them。　And　on　that　day　behind　Tracker　Brothers；　who　had　found　whom？　Who　had　saved　whom？
　　　　'Twenty…one；'　he　said。
　　　　'Thirty…one　for　two。'　From　the　dreamcatcher。　And　once　again　the　unseen　hand　lifted　the　peg　and　played　it　two　holes　farther　on。　'He's　blocked　to　me；　Jonesy。'
　　　　'I　know。'　Jonesy　played　a　three。　Duddits　called　thirteen；　and　Jonesy　played　it　out　of　Duddits's　hand。
　　　　'But　you're　not。　You　can　talk　to　him。'
　　　　Jonesy　played　his　own　deuce　and　pegged　two。　Duddits　played；　pegged　one　for　last　card；　and　Jonesy　thought：　Outpegged　by　a　retard　…　what　do　you　know。　Except　this　Duddits　wasn't　retarded。　Exhausted　and　dying；　but　not　retarded。
　　　　They　pegged　their　hands；　and　Duddits　was　far　ahead　even　though　it　had　been　Jonesy's　crib。　Jonesy　swept　the　cards　together　and　began　to　shuffle　them。
　　　　'What　does　he　want；　Jonesy？　What　does　he　want　besides　water？'
　　　　Murder；　Jonesy　thought。　He　likes　to　kill　people。　But　no　more　of　that。　Please　God；　no　more　of　that。
　　　　'Bacon；'　he　said。　'He　does　like　bacon。'
　　　　He　began　to　shuffle　the　cards　。　。　。　then　froze　as　Duddits　filled　his　mind。　The　real　Duddits；　young　and　strong　and　ready　to　fight。


16

Behind　them；　in　the　back　seat；　Duddits　groaned　loudly。　Henry　turned　and　saw　fresh　blood；　red　as　byrus；　running　from　his　nostrils。　His　face　was　twisted　in　a　terrible　cramp　of　concentration。　Beneath　their　closed　lids；　his　eyeballs　rolled　rapidly　back　and　forth。
　　　　'What's　the　matter　with　him？'　Owen　asked。　'I　don't　know。'
　　　　Duddits　began　to　cough：　deep　and　racking　bronchial　sounds。　Blood　flew　from　between　his　lips　in　a　fine　spray。
　　　　'Wake　him　up；　Henry！　For　Christ's　sake；　wake　him　up！'
　　　　Henry　gave　Owen　Underhill　a　frightened　look。　They　were　approaching　Kennebunkport　now；　no　more　than　twenty　miles　from　the　New　Hampshire　border；　a　hundred　and　ten　from　the　Quabbin　Reservoir。　Jonesy　had　a　picture　of　the　Quabbin　on　the　wall　of　his　office；　Henry　had　seen　it。　And　a　cottage　nearby；　in　Ware。
　　　　Duddits　cried　out：　a　single　word　repeated　three　times　between　bursts　of　coughing。　The　sprays　of　blood　weren't　heavy；　not　yet；　the　stuff　was　ing　from　his　mouth　and　throat；　but　if　his　lungs　began　to　rupture…
　　　　'Wake　him　up！　He　says　he's　aching！　Can't　you　hear　him…'
　　　　'He's　not　saying　aykin。'
　　　　'What；　then？　What？'
　　　　'He's　saying　bacon。'


17

The　entity　which　now　thought　of　itself　as　Mr　Gray　…　who　thought　of　himself　as　Mr　Gray　…　had　a　serious　problem；　but　at　least　it　（he）　knew　it。
　　　　Forewarned　is　forearmed　was　how　Jonesy　put　it。　There　were　hundreds　of　such　sayings　in　Jonesy's　storage　cartons；　perhaps　thousands。　Some　of　them　Mr　Gray　found　utterly　inprehensible　…　A　nod's　as　good　as　a　wink　to　a　blind　horse　was　one　such；　What　goes　around　es　around　was　another　…　but　forewarned　is　forearmed　was　a　good　one。
　　　　His　problem　could　be　best　summed　up　with　how　he　felt　about　Jonesy　。　。　。　and　of　course　that　he　felt　at　all　was　bad　enough。　He　could　think　Now　Jonesy　is　cut　off　and　I　have　solved　my　problem；　I　have　quarantined　him　just　as　their　military　tried　to　quarantine　us。　I　am　being　followed　…　chased；　intact　…　but　barring　engine　trouble　or　a　flat　tire；　neither　group　of　followers　has　much　chance　of　catching　me。　I　have　too　great　a　lead。
　　　　These　things　were　facts　…　truth　…　but　they　had　no　savor。　What　had　savor　was　the　idea　of　going　to　the　door　behind　which　his　reluctant　host　was　imprisoned　and　yelling：　'I　fixed　you；　didn't　I？　I　fixed　your　little　red　wagon；　didn't　I？'　What　a　wagon；　red　or　otherwise；　had　to　do　with　any　of　this　Mr　Gray　didn't　know；　but　it　was　an　emotional　bullet　of　fairly　high　caliber　from　Jonesy's　armory　…　it　had　a　deep　and　satisfying　childhood　resonance。　And　then　he　would　stick　Jonesy's　tongue　（my　tongue　now；　Mr　Gray　thought　with　undeniable　satisfaction）　between　Jonesy's　lips　and　'give　him　the　old　raspberry'。
　　　　As　for　the　followers；　he　wanted　to　drop　Jonesy's　pants　and　show　them　Jonesy's　buttocks。　This　was　as　senseless　as　What　goes　around　es　around；　as　senseless　as　little　red　wagon；　but　he　wanted　to　do　it。　It　was　called　'mooning　the　assholes'　and　he　wanted　to　do　it。
　　　　He　was；　Mr　Gray　realized；　infected　with　this　world's　byrus。　It　began　with　emotion；　progressed　to　sensory　awareness　（the　taste　of　food；　the　undeniable　savage　pleasure　of　making　the　State　Trooper　beat　his　head　in　against　the　tiled　bathroom　wall　…　the　hollow　thud…thud　of　it）；　and　then　progressed　to　what　Jonesy　called　higher　thinking。　This　was　a　joke；　in　Mr　Gray's　view；　not　much　different　from　calling　shit　reprocessed　food　or　genocide　ethnic　cleansing。　And　yet　thinking　had　its　attractions　for　a　being　which　had　always　existed　as　part　of　a　vegetative　mind；　a　sort　of　highly　intelligent　not…consciousness。
　　　　Before　Mr　Gray　had　shut　him　up；　Jonesy　had　suggested　that　he　give　over　his　mission　and　simply　enjoy　being　human。　Now　he　discovered　that　desire　in　himself　as　his　previously　harmonious　mind；　his　not…conscious　mind；　began　to　fragment；　to　turn　into　a　crowd　of　opposing　voices；　some　wanting　A；　some　wanting　B；　some　wanting　Q　squared　and　divided　by　Z。　He　would　have　thought　such　babble　would　be　horrible；　the　stuff　of　madness。　Instead　he　found　himself　enjoying　the　wrangle。
　　　　There　was　bacon。　There　was　'sex　with　Carla'；　which　Jonesy's　mind　identified　as　a　superlatively　enjoyable　act；　involving　both　sensory　and　emotional　input。　There　was　fast　driving　and　bumper　pool　in　O'Leary's　Bar　near　Fenway　Park　and　beer　and　live　bands　that　played　loud　and　Patty　Loveless　singing　'Blame　it　on　your　lyin　cheatin　cold　deadbeatin　two…timin　double…dealin　mean　mistreatin　lovin　heart'　（whatever　that　meant）。　There　was　the　look　of　the　land　rising　from　the　fog　on　a　summer　morning。　And　murder；　of　course。　There　was　that。
　　　　His　problem　was　that　if　he　didn't　finish　this　business　quickly；　he　might　never　finish　it　at　all。　He　was　no　longer　byrum　but　Mr　Gray。　How　long　before　he　left　Mr　Gray　behind　and　became　Jonesy？
　　　　It's　not　going　to　happen；　he　thought。　He　pressed　the　accelerator　down；　and　although　it　didn't　have　much；　the　Subaru　gave　him　a　little　more。　In　the　back　seat　the　dog　yipped　。　。　。　then　howled　in　pain。　Mr　Gray　sent　out　his　mind　and　touched　the　byrum　growing　inside　the　dog。　It　was　growing　fast。　Almost　too　fast。　And　here　was　something　else　…　there　was　no　pleasure　in　meeting　its　mind；　none　of　the　warmth　that　es　when　like　encounters　like。　The　mind　of　the　byrum　felt　cold　。　。　。　rancid　。　。　。
　　　　'Alien；'　he　muttered。
　　　　Nevertheless；　he　quieted　it。　When　the　dog　went　into　the　water　supply；　the　byrum　should　still　be　inside。　It　would　need　time　to　adapt。　The　dog　would　drown；　but　the　byrum　would　live　yet　awhile；　feeding　on　the　dog's　dead　body；　until　it　was　time。　But　first　he　had　to　get　there。
　　　　It　wouldn't　be　long　now。
　　　　As　he　drove　west　on　I…90；　past　little　towns　（shitsplats；　Jonesy　thought　them；　but　not　without　affection）　like　Westborough；　Grafton；　and　Dorothy　Pond　（getting　closer　now；　maybe　forty　miles　to　go）；　he　looked　for　a　place　to　put　his　new　and　uneasy　consciousness　where　it　wouldn't　get　him　in　trouble。　He　tried　Jonesy's　kids；　then　backed　away　…　far　too　emotional。　Tried　Duddits　again；　but　that　was　still　a　blank；　Jonesy　had　stolen　the　memories。　Finally　he　settled　on　Jonesy's　work；　which　was　teaching　history；　and　his　specialty；　which　was　gruesomely　fascinating。　Between　1860　and　1865；　it　seemed　America　had　split　in　two；　as　byrus　colonies　did　near　the　end　of　each　growth　cycle。　There　had　been　all　sorts　of　causes；　the　chief　of　which　had　to　do　with　'slavery'；　but　again；　this　was　like　calling　shit　or　vomit　reprocessed　food。　'Slavery'　meant　nothing。　'Right　of　secession'　meant　nothing。　'Preserving　the　Union'　meant　nothing。　Basically；　they　had　just　done　what　these　creatures　did　best：　they　'got　mad；'　which　was　really　the　same　thing　as　'going　mad'　but　more　socially　acceptable。　Oh；　but　on　such　a　scale！
　　　　Mr　Gray　was　investigating　boxes　and　boxes　of　fascinating　weaponry　…　grapeshot；　chainshot；　minié　balls；　cannonballs；　bayonets；　landmines　…　when　a　voice