sk.dreamcatcher-第124部分

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　　　　No　matter。　Because　Mr　Gray's　next　seven　had　been　the　Dodge　Ram；　old　Mr　I　？　MY　BORDER　COLLIE。　What　had　Gray　done？　Fed　some　of　the　gray's　dead　body　to　the　dog？　Put　the　dog's　nose　to　the　corpse　and　forced　him　to　inhale　of　that　fruiting　body？　No；　eating　was　much　more　likely；　c'mon；　boy；　chow　time。　Whatever　process　started　the　weasels；　it　began　in　the　gut；　not　the　lungs。　Jonesy　had　a　momentary　image　of　McCarthy　lost　in　the　woods。　Beaver　had　asked　What　the　hell　have　you　been　eating？　Woodchuck　turds？　And　what　had　McCarthy　replied？　Bushes　and　things。　。　。　I　don't　know　just　what　。　。　。　I　was　just　so　hungry；　you　know。　。　。
　　　　Sure。　Hungry。　Lost；　scared；　and　hungry。　Not　noticing　the　red　splotches　of　byrus　on　the　leaves　of　some　of　the　bushes；　the　red　speckles　on　the　green　moss　he　crammed　into　his　mouth；　gagging　it　down　because　somewhere　back　there　in　his　tame　oh…gosh　oh…dear　lawyer's　life；　he　had　read　that　you　could　eat　moss　if　you　were　lost　in　the　woods；　that　moss　wouldn't　hurt　you。　Did　everyone　who　swallowed　some　of　the　byrus　（grains　of　it；　almost　too　small　to　be　seen；　floating　in　the　air）　incubate　one　of　the　vicious　little　monsters　that　had　torn　McCarthy　apart　and　then　killed　the　Beav？　Probably　not；　no　more　than　every　woman　who　had　unprotected　sex　got　pregnant。　But　McCarthy　had　caught　and　so　had　Lad。
　　　　'He　knows　about　the　cottage；'　Jonesy　said。
　　　　Of　course。　The　cottage　in　Ware；　some　sixty　miles　west　of　Boston。　And　he'd　know　the　story　of　the　Russian　woman；　everyone　knew　it；　Jonesy　had　passed　it　on　himself。　It　was　too　gruesomely　good　not　to　pass　on。　They　knew　it　in　Ware；　in　New　Salem；　in　Cooleyville　and　Belchertown；　Hardwick　and　Packardsville　and　Pelham。　All　the　surrounding　towns。　And　what；　pray　tell；　did　those　towns　surround？
　　　　Why；　the　Quabbin；　that　was　what　they　surrounded。　Quabbin　Reservoir。　The　water　supply　for　Boston　and　the　adjacent　metropolitan　area。　How　many　people　drank　their　daily　water　from　the　Quabbin？　Two　million？　Three？　Jonesy　didn't　know　for　sure；　but　a　lot　more　than　had　ever　drunk　from　the　supply　stored　in　the　Derry　Standpipe。　Mr　Gray；　rolling　seven　after　seven；　a　run　for　the　ages　and　now　only　one　away　from　breaking　the　bank。
　　　　Two　or　three　million　people。　Mr　Gray　wanted　to　introduce　them　to　Lad　the　border　collie；　and　to　Lad's　new　friend。
　　　　And　delivered　in　this　new　medium；　the　byrus　would　take。

CHAPTER　TWENTY

THE　CHASE　ENDS


1

South　and　south　and　south。
　　　　By　the　time　Mr　Gray　passed　the　Gardiner　exit；　the　first　one　below　Augusta；　the　snow…cover　on　the　ground　was　considerably　less　and　the　turnpike　was　slushy　but　two　lanes　wide　again。　It　was　time　to　trade　the　plow　for　something　less　conspicuous；　partly　because　he　no　longer　needed　it；　but　also　because　Jonesy's　arms　were　aching　with　the　unaccustomed　strain　of　controlling　the　oversized　vehicle。　Mr　Gray　didn't　care　much　for　Jonesy's　body　（or　so　he　told　himself；　in　truth　it　was　hard　not　to　feel　at　least　some　affection　for　something　capable　of　providing　such　unexpected　pleasures　as　'bacon'　and　'murder'）；　but　it　did　have　to　take　him　another　couple　of　hundred　miles。　He　suspected　that　Jonesy　wasn't　in　very　good　shape　for　a　man　in　the　middle　of　his　life。　Part　of　that　was　the　accident　he'd　been　in；　but　it　also　had　to　do　with　his　job；　He　was　an　'academic'。　As　a　result；　he　had　pretty　much　ignored　the　more　physical　aspects　of　his　life；　which　stunned　Mr　Gray。　These　creatures　were　sixty　per　cent　emotion；　thirty　per　cent　sensation；　ten　per　cent　thought　（and　ten　per　cent；　Mr　Gray　reflected；　was　probably　on　the　generous　side）。　To　ignore　the　body　the　way　Jonesy　had　seemed　both　willful　and　stupid　to　Mr　Gray。　But；　of　course；　that　was　not　his　problem。　Nor　Jonesy's；　either。　Not　anymore。　Now　Jonesy　was　what　he　had　apparently　always　wanted　to　be：　nothing　but　mind。　Judging　from　the　way　he'd　reacted；　he　didn't　actually　care　for　that　state　much　once　he　had　attained　it。
　　　　On　the　floor　of　the　plow；　where　Lad　lay　in　a　litter　of　cigarette　butts；　cardboard　coffee　cups；　and　balled…up　snack…wrappers；　the　dog　whined　in　pain。　Its　body　was　grotesquely　bloated；　the　torso　the　size　of　a　water…barrel。　Soon　the　dog　would　pass　gas　and　its　midsection　would　deflate　again。。　Mr　Gray　had　established　contact　with　the　byrum　growing　inside　the　dog；　and　would　hence　regulate　its　gestation。
　　　　The　dog　would　be　his　version　of　what　his　host　thought　of　as　'the　Russian　woman'。　And　once　the　dog　had　been　placed；　his　job　would　be　done。
　　　　He　reached　behind　him　with　his　mind；　feeling　for　the　others。　Henry　and　his　friend　Owen　were　entirely　gone；　like　a　radio　station　that　has　ceased　to　broadcast；　and　that　was　troubling。　Farther　behind　（they　were　just　passing　the　Newport　exits；　sixty　or　so　miles　north　of　Mr　Gray's　current　position）；　was　a　group　of　three　with　one　clear　contact：　'Pearly'。　This　Pearly；　like　the　dog；　was　incubating　a　byrum；　and　Mr　Gray　could　receive　him　clearly。　He　had　also　been　receiving　another　of　that　group　…　'Freddy'　…　but　now　'Freddy'　was　gone。　The　byrus　on　him　had　died；　'Pearly'　said　so。
　　　　Here　was　one　of　the　green　turnpike　signs：　REST　AREA。　There　was　a　Burger　King　here；　which　Jonesy's　files　identified　as　both　a　'restaurant'　and　a　'fast…food　joint'。　There　would　be　bacon　there；　and　his　stomach　gurgled　at　the　thought。　Yes；　it　would　be　hard　in　many　ways　to　give　this　body　up。　It　had　its　pleasures；　definitely　had　its　pleasures。　No　time　for　bacon　now；　however；　now　it　was　time　to　change　vehicles。　And　he　had　to　be　fairly　unobtrusive　about　it。
　　　　This　exit　into　the　rest　area　split　in　two；　with　one　road　for　PASSENGER　VEHICLES　and　one　for　TRUCKS　AND　BUSES。　Mr　Gray　drove　the　big　orange　plow　into　the　parking　lot　for　trucks　（Jonesy's　muscles　trembling　with　the　strain　of　turning　the　big　steering　wheel）；　and　was　delighted　to　see　four　other　plows；　practically　identical　to　his　own；　all　parked　together。　He　nosed　into　a　space　at　the　end　of　the　line　and　killed　the　engine。
　　　　He　felt　for　Jonesy。　Jonesy　was　there；　hunkered　in　his　perplexing　safety　zone。　'What　you　up　to；　partner？'　Mr　Gray　murmured。
　　　　No　answer　。　。　。　but　he　sensed　Jonesy　listening。
　　　　'What　you　doing？'
　　　　No　answer　still。　And　really；　what　could　he　be　doing？　He　was　locked　in　and　blind。　Still；　it　would　behoove　him　not　to　forget　Jonesy　。　。　。　Jonesy　with　his　somehow　exciting　suggestion　that　Mr　Gray　forgo　the　imperative　…　the　need　to　seed　…　and　simply　enjoy　life　on　earth。　Every　now　and　then　a　thought　would　occur　to　Mr　Gray；　a　letter　pushed　under　the　door　from　Jonesy's　haven。　This　sort　of　thought；　according　to　Jonesy's　files；　was　a　'slogan'。　Slogans　were　simple　and　to　the　point。　The　most　recent　said：　BACON　IS　JUST　THE　BEGINNING。　And　Mr　Gray　was　sure　that　was　true。　Even　in　his　hospital　room　（what　hospital　room？　what　hospital？　who　is　Marcy？　who　wants　a　shot？）；　he　understood　that　life　here　was　very　delicious。　But　the　imperative　was　deep　and　unbreakable：　he　would　seed　this　world　and　then　die。　And　if　he　got　to　eat　a　little　bacon　along　the　way；　why；　so　much　the　better。
　　　　'Who　was　Richie？　Was　he　a　Tiger？　Why　did　you　kill　him？'
　　　　No　answer。　But　Jonesy　was　listening。　Very　carefully。　Mr　Gray　hated　having　him　in　there。　It　was　（the　simile　came　from　Jonesy's　store）　like　having　a　tiny　fishbone　stuck　in　your　throat。　Not　big　enough　to　choke　you；　but　plenty　big　enough　to　'bug'　you。
　　　　'You　annoy　the　shit　out　of　me；　Jonesy。'　Putting　on　his　gloves　now；　the　ones　that　had　belonged　to　the　owner　of　the　Dodge　Ram。　The　owner　of　Lad。
　　　　This　time　there　was　a　reply。　The　feeling　is　mutual；　partner。　So　why　don't　you　go　someplace　where　you're　wanted？　Take　your　act　and　put　it　on　the　road？
　　　　'Can't　do　that；'　Mr　Gray　said。　He　extended　a　hand　to　the　dog；　and　Lad　sniffed　gratefully　at　the　scent　of　its　master　on　the　glove。　Mr　Gray　sent　it　a　be…calm　thought；　then　got　out　of　the　plow　and　began　to　walk　toward　the　side　of　the　restaurant。　Around　back　would　be　the　'employee's　parking　lot'。
　　　　Henry　and　the　other　guy　are　right　on　top　of　you；　asshole。　Sniffing　up　your　tailpipe。　So　relax。　Spend　as　much　time　here　as　you　want。　Have　a　triple　order　of　bacon。
　　　　'They　can't　feel　me；'　Mr　Gray　said；　his　breath　puffing　out　in　front　of　him　（the　sensation　of　the　cold　air　in　his　mouth　and　throat　and　lungs　was　exquisite；　invigorating　…　even　the　smells　of　gasoline　and　diesel　fu