sk.dreamcatcher-第28部分

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e　was　something　wrong　with　Henry；　too；　this　November。　Pete　didn't　know　if　Beaver　felt　it；　but　he　was　pretty　sure　Jonesy　did。　Henry　was　kind　of　tucked　up。　He　was　maybe　even…
　　　　From　behind　him　there　came　a　wet　grunt。　Pete　screamed　and　whirled　around。　His　knee　locked　up　again；　locked　up　savagely；　but　in　his　fright　he　barely　noticed。　It　was　the　bear；　the　bear　had　circled　back　behind　him；　that　bear　or　another　one…
　　　　It　wasn't　a　bear。　It　was　a　moose；　and　it　walked　past　Pete　with　no　more　than　a　glance　as　he　fell　into　the　road　again；　cursing　low　in　his　throat　and　holding　his　leg；　looking　up　into　the　lightly　falling　snow　and　cursing　himself　for　a　fool。　An　alcoholic　fool。
　　　　He　had　a　frightening　few　moments　when　it　seemed　that　this　time　the　knee　wasn't　going　to　let　go　…　he'd　torn　something　in　it　and　here　he　would　lie　in　the　exodus　of　animals　until　Henry　finally　returned　on　the　snowmobile；　and　Henry　would　say　What　the　fuck　are　you　doing　here？　Why　did　you　leave　her　alone？　As　if　I　didn't　know。
　　　　But　at　last　he　was　able　to　get　up　again。　The　best　he　could　do　was　a　gimpy　sidesaddle　hobble；　but　it　was　better　than　lying　in　the　snow　a　couple　of　yards　from　a　fresh　pile　of　steaming　moose　shit。　He　could　now　see　the　overturned　Scout；　its　wheels　and　undercarriage　covered　with　fresh　snow。　He　told　himself　that　if　his　latest　fall　had　happened　on　the　other　side　of　the　hill；　he　would　have　gone　back　to　the　woman　and　the　fire；　but　that　now；　with　the　Scout　actually　in　sight；　it　was　better　to　go　on。　That　the　guns　were　his　main　objective；　the　bottles　of　Bud　just　an　extra　added　attraction。　And　almost　believed　it。　As　far　as　getting　back　。　。　。　well；　he　would　make　it　somehow。　He'd　gotten　this　far；　hadn't　he？
　　　　Fifty　yards　or　so　from　the　Scout；　he　heard　a　rapidly　approaching　whup…whup…whup　…　the　unmistakable　sound　of　a　helicopter。　He　looked　skyward　eagerly；　preparing　himself　to　stand　upright　long　enough　to　wave　…　God；　if　anyone　needed　a　little　help　from　the　sky；　it　was　him　…　but　the　helicopter　never　quite　broke　through　the　low　ceiling。　For　a　moment　he　saw　a　dark　shape　running　through　the　dreck　almost　directly　above　him；　the　bleary　flash　of　its　lights；　as　well　…　and　then　the　sound　of　the　copter　was　moving　off　to　the　east；　in　the　direction　the　animals　were　running。　He　was　dismayed　to　feel　a　nasty　sense　of　relief　lurking　just　below　his　disappointment：　if　the　helicopter　had　landed；　he　never　would've　gotten　to　the　beer；　and　he　had　e　all　this　way；　all　this　damn　way。


3

Five　minutes　later　he　was　down　on　his　knees　and　climbing　carefully　into　the　overturned　Scout。　He　quickly　learned　that　his　bad　knee　wouldn't　support　him　for　long　（it　was　swelled　against　his　jeans　now　like　a　big　painful　loaf　of　bread）；　and　more　or　less　swam　into　the　snow…coated　interior。　He　didn't　like　it；　all　the　smells　seemed　too　strong；　all　the　dimensions　too　close。　It　was　almost　like　crawling　into　a　grave；　one　that　smelled　of　Henry's　cologne。
　　　　The　groceries　were　sprayed　all　over　the　back；　but　Pete　barely　gave　the　bread　and　cans　and　mustard　and　the　package　of　red　hot　dogs　（red　dogs　were　about　all　Old　Man　Gosselin　carried　for　meat）　a　glance。　It　was　the　beer　he　was　interested　in；　and　it　looked　like　only　one　bottle　had　broken　when　the　Scout　turned　turtle。　Drunk's　luck。　The　smell　was　strong　…　of　course　the　one　he'd　been　drinking　from　had　spilled　as　well　…　but　beer　was　a　smell　he　liked。　Henry's　cologne；　on　the　other　hand　。　。　。　phew；　Jesus。　In　a　way　it　was　as　bad　as　the　smell　of　the　crazy　lady's　gas。　And　he　didn't　know　why　the　smell　of　cologne　should　make　him　think　of　coffins　and　graves　and　funeral　flowers；　but　it　did。
　　　　'Why　would　you　want　to　wear　cologne　in　the　woods　anyway；　old　sport？'　he　asked；　the　words　ing　out　in　little　puffs　of　white　vapor。　And　the　answer　of　course　was　that　Henry　hadn't　been　…　the　smell　wasn't　really　here　at　all；　just　the　smell　of　beer。　For　the　first　time　in　a　long　time　Pete　found　himself　thinking　about　the　pretty　real　estate　lady　who　had　lost　her　keys　outside　the　Bridgton　Pharmacy；　and　how　he　had　known　she　wasn't　going　to　meet　him　for　dinner；　didn't　want　to　be　within　ten　miles　of　him。　Was　smelling　nonexistent　cologne　like　that？　He　didn't　know；　only　that　he　didn't　like　the　way　the　smell　seemed　all　mixed　up　in　his　mind　with　the　idea　of　death。
　　　　Forget　it；　numbnuts。　You're　spooking　yourself；　that's　all。　There's　a　big　difference　between　really　seeing　the　line　and　just　spooking　yourself。　Forget　about　it　and　get　what　you　came　for。
　　　　'Good　fuckin　idea；'　Pete　said。
　　　　The　store…bags　were　plastic；　not　paper；　the　kind　with　handles；　Old　Man　Gosselin　had　marched　at　least　that　far　into　the　future。　Pete　snagged　one；　and　as　he　did；　felt　a　rip　of　pain　on　the　pad　of　his　right　hand。　Only　one　goddam　broken　bottle　and　so　naturally　he'd　cut　himself　on　it；　and　pretty　deep；　from　the　feel。　Maybe　this　was　his　punishment　for　leaving　the　woman　alone　back　there。　If　so；　he'd　take　it　like　a　man　and　count　himself　let　off　easy。
　　　　He　gathered　up　eight　bottles；　started　to　work　his　way　back　out　of　the　Scout；　then　thought　again。　Had　he　staggered　all　the　way　back　here　for　a　lousy　eight　beers？　'I　think　not；'　he　muttered；　and　then　got　the　other　seven；　taking　time　to　scrounge　them　all　in　spite　of　how　creepy　the　Scout　was　making　him　feel。　At　last　he　backed　out；　fighting　the　panicky　idea　that　something　small；　but　with　big　teeth；　would　soon　spring　at　him；　taking　a　great　big　chomp　out　of　his　balls。　Pete's　Punishment；　Part　Two。
　　　　He　didn't　exactly　freak；　but　he　wiggled　back　out　faster　than　he'd　wiggled　in；　and　his　knee　locked　up　again　just　as　he　got　entirely　clear。　He　rolled　over　on　his　back；　whimpering；　looking　up　into　the　snow　…　the　last　of　it；　now　ing　down　in　great　big　flakes　as　lacy　as　a　woman's　best　underwear　…　and　massaging　the　knee；　telling　it　to　e　on；　now；　honey；　e　on　now；　sweetie；　let　go；　you　fucking　bitch。　And　just　as　he　was　starting　to　think　that　this　time　it　wouldn't；　it　did。　He　hissed　through　his　teeth；　sat　up；　and　looked　at　the　bag　'THANKS　FOR　SHOPPING　AT　OUR　PLACE！　printed　on　the　side　in　red。
　　　　'Where　else　would　I　shop；　you　old　bastard？'　he　asked。　He　decided　to　allow　himself　one　beer　after　all　before　starting　back　to　the　woman。　Hell；　it　would　lighten　the　load。　　　
　　　　Pete　fished　one　out；　twisted　the　cap；　and　poured　the　top　half　down　his　throat　in　four　big　gulps。　It　was　cold　and　the　snow　he　was　sitting　in　was　even　colder；　but　he　still　felt　better。　That　was　the　magic　of　beer。　The　magic　of　scotch；　vodka；　and　gin　as　well；　but　when　it　came　to　alcohol；　he　was　with　Tom　T。　Hall：　he　liked　beer。
　　　　Looking　at　the　bag；　he　thought　again　of　the　carrot…top　back　in　the　store　…　the　mystified　grin；　the　Chinese　eyes　that　had　originally　earned　such　people　the　term　mongoloids；　as　in　mongoloid　idiot。　That　led　him　to　Duddits　again；　Douglas　Cavell　if　you　wanted　to　be　formal　about　it。　Why　Duds　had　been　on　his　mind　so　much　lately　Pete　couldn't　say；　but　he　had；　and　Pete　made　himself　a　promise：　when　this　was　over；　he　was　going　to　stop　in　Derry　and　see　old　Duddits。　He'd　make　the　others　go　with　him；　and　somehow　he　didn't　think　he'd　have　to　try　very　hard　to　convince　them。　Duddits　was　probably　the　reason　they　were　still　friends　after　so　many　years。　Hell；　most　kids　never　so　much　as　thought　of　their　college　or　high…school　buddies　again；　let　alone　those　they'd　chummed　with　in　junior　high　。　。　。　what　was　now　known　as　middle　school；　although　Pete　had　no　doubt　it　was　the　same　sad　jungle　of　insecurities；　confusion；　smelly　armpits；　crazy　fads；　and　half…baked　ideas。　They　hadn't　known　Duddits　from　school；　of　course；　because　Duddits　didn't　go　to　Derry　junior　High。　Duds　went　to　The　Mary　M。　Snowe　School　for　the　Exceptional；　which　was　known　to　the　neighborhood　kids　as　The　Retard　Academy　or　sometimes　just　The　Dumb　School。　In　the　ordinary　course　of　events　their　paths　never　would　have　crossed；　but　there　was　this　vacant　lot　out　on　Kansas　Street；　and　the　abandoned　brick　building　that　went　with　it。　Facing　the　street　you　could　still　read　TRACKER　BROTHERS　SHIPPING　TRUCKING　AND　STORAGE　in　fading　white　paint　on　the　old　red　brick。　And　on　the　other　side；　in　the　big　alcove　where　the　trucks　had　once　backed　up　to　unload　。　。　。　something　else　was　painted　there。
　　　　Now；　sitting　in　the　snow　but　no　longer　feeling　it　melting　to　cold　slush　u