sk.dreamcatcher-第32部分

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d；　those　endorphins　kicking　in。　Whatever　was　wrong　with　him；　it　was　no　shortage　of　those；　he　was　suicidal　but　by　no　means　dysthytmic。
　　　　That　at　least　some　of　his　problem　…　the　physical　and　emotional　emptiness　that　was　like　a　near…whiteout　in　a　blizzard　…　was　physical；　hormonal；　he　had　no　doubt。　That　the　problem　could　be　addressed　if　not　entirely　corrected　by　pills　he　himself　had　prescribed　by　the　bushel　。　。　。　he　had　no　doubt　of　that；　either；　But　like　Pete；　who　undoubtedly　knew　there　was　a　rehab　and　years　of　AA　meetings　in　his　most　plausible　future；　Henry　did　not　want　to　be　fixed；　was　somehow　convinced　that　the　fix　would　be　a　he；　something　that　would　lessen　him。
　　　　He　wondered　if　Pete　had　gone　back　for　the　beer；　and　knew　the　answer　was　probably　yes。　Henry　would　have　suggested　bringing　it　along　if　he'd　thought　of　it；　making　such　a　risky　return　trip　（risky　for　the　woman　as　well　as　Pete　himself）　unnecessary；　but　he'd　been　pretty　freaked　out　…　and　the　beer　hadn't　even　crossed　his　mind。
　　　　He　bet　it　had　crossed　Pete's；　though。　Could　Pete　make　it　roundtrip　on　that　sprung　knee？　It　was　possible；　but　Henry　would　not　have　bet　on　it。
　　　　They're　back！　the　woman　had　screamed；　looking　up　at　the　sky。　They're　back！　They're　back！
　　　　Henry　put　his　head　down　and　jogged　a　little　faster。


2

Six　more　miles；　six　more　to　Banbury　Cross。　Was　it　down　to　six　yet；　or　was　he　being　optimistic？　Giving　those　old　endorphins　a　little　too　much　free　rein？　Well；　so　what　if　he　was？　Optimism　couldn't　hurt　at　this　point。　The　snow　had　almost　stopped　falling　and　the　tide　of　animals　had　slackened；　and　that　was　also　good…　What　wasn't　so　good　was　the　thoughts　in　his　head；　some　of　which　seemed　less　and　less　like　his　own。　Becky；　for　instance；　who　was　Becky？　The　name　had　begun　to　resonate　in　his　head；　had　bee　another　part　of　the　mantra。　He　supposed　it　was　the　woman　he'd　just　avoided　killing。　Whose　little　girl　are　you？　Becky；　why　I'm　Becky；　I'm　pretty　Becky　Shue。
　　　　Except　she　hadn't　been　pretty；　not　pretty　at　all。　One　heavyset　smelly　mama　was　what　she'd　been；　and　now　she　was　in　Pete　Moore's　less　than　reliable　care。
　　　　Six。　Six。　Six　more　miles　to　Banbury　Cross。
　　　　Jogging　steadily　…　as　steadily　as　was　possible；　given　the　footing　…　and　hearing　strange　voices　in　his　head。　Except　only　one　of　them　was　really　strange；　and　that　one　wasn't　a　voice　at　all　but　a　kind　of　hum　with　a　rhythmic　beat
　　　　（whose　little　girl；　whose　little　girl；　pretty　Becky　Shue）
　　　　caught　in　it。　The　rest　were　voices　he　knew；　or　voices　his　friends　knew。　One　was　a　voice　Jonesy　had　told　him　about；　a　voice　he'd　heard　after　his　accident　and　associated　with　all　his　pain：　Please　stop；　I　can't　stand　it；　give　me　a　shot；　where's　Marcy。
　　　　He　heard　Beaver's　voice：　Go　look　in　the　chamber　pot。
　　　　Jonesy；　answering：　Why　don't　we　just　knock　on　the　bathroom　door　and　ask　him　how　he　is？
　　　　A　stranger's　voice　saying　that　if　he　could　just　do　a　number　two　he'd　be　okay　。　。　。
　　　　。。。　only　he　was　no　stranger；　he　was　Rick；　pretty　Becky's　friend　Rick。　Rick　what？　McCarthy？　McKinley？　McKeen？　Henry　wasn't　sure；　but　he　leaned　toward　McCarthy；　like　Kevin　McCarthy　in　that　old　horror　movie　about　the　pods　from　space　that　made　themselves　look　like　people。　One　of　Jonesy's　raves。　Get　a　few　drinks　in　him　and　mention　that　movie　and　Jonesy　would　respond　with　the　key　line　at　once：　'They're　here！　They're　here！'
　　　　The　woman；　looking　up　at　the　sky　and　screaming　They're　back；　they're　back。
　　　　Dear　Christ；　there'd　been　nothing　like　this　since　they　were　kids　and　this　was　worse；　like　picking　up　a　power…line　filled　with　voices　instead　of　electricity。
　　　　All　those　patients　over　the　years；　plaining　of　voices　in　their　heads。　And　Henry；　the　big　psychiatrist　（Young　Mr　God；　one　state　hospital　patient　called　him　back　in　the　early　days）；　had　nodded　as　if　he　knew　what　they　were　talking　about。　Had　in　fact　believed　he　did　know　what　they　were　talking　about。　But　maybe　only　now　did　he　really　know。
　　　　Voices。　Listening　to　them　so　hard　he　missed　the　whup…whup…whup　of　the　helicopter　passing　overhead；　a　dark　rushing　shark…shape　barely　obscured　by　the　bottoms　of　the　clouds。　Then　the　voices　began　to　fade　as　radio　signals　from　faraway　places　do　when　daylight　es　and　the　atmosphere　once　more　begins　to　thicken。　At　last　there　was　only　the　voice　of　his　own　thoughts；　insisting　that　something　terrible　had　happened　or　was　about　to　happen　at　Hole　in　the　Wall；　that　something　equally　terrible　was　about　to　happen　or　had　happened　back　there　at　the　Scout　or　the　loggers'　shelter。
　　　　Five　more　miles。　Five　more　miles。
　　　　　In　an　effort　to　turn　his　mind　away　from　his　friend　behind　and　his　friends　ahead；　or　what　might　be　happening　all　around　him；　he　let　his　mind　go　to　where　he　knew　Pete's　mind　had　already　gone：　to　1978；　and　Tracker　Brothers；　and　to　Duddits。　How　Duddits　Cavell　could　have　anything　to　do　with　this　fuckarow　Henry　didn't　understand；　but　they　had　all　been　thinking　about　him；　and　Henry　didn't　even　need　that　old　mental　connection　to　know　it。　Pete　had　mentioned　Duds　while　they　were　dragging　the　woman　to　the　loggers'　shelter　on　that　piece　of　tarp；　Beaver　had　been　talking　about　Duddits　Just　the　other　day　when　Henry　and　the　Beav　had　been　in　the　woods　together　…　the　day　Henry　had　tagged　his　deer；　that　had　been；　The　Beav　reminiscing　about　how　the　four　of　them　had　taken　Duddits　Christmas　shopping　in　Bangor　one　year。　just　after　Jonesy　had　gotten　his　license　that　was；　Jonesy　would　have　driven　anyone　anywhere　that　winter。　The　Beav　laughing　about　how　Duddits　had　worried　Santa　Claus　wasn't　real；　and　all　four　of　them　…　big　high…school　galoots　by　then；　thinking　they　had　the　world　by　the　tail　…　working　to　reconvince　Duddits　that　Santa　was　a　true　thing；　the　real　deal。　Which　of　course　they'd　done。　And　Jonesy　had　called　Henry　from　Brookline　Just　last　month；　drunk　（drunkenness　was　much　rarer　for　Jonesy；　especially　since　his　accident；　than　it　was　for　Pete；　and　it　was　the　only　maudlin　call　Henry　had　ever　gotten　from　the　man）；　saying　that　he'd　never　done　anything　in　his　life　that　was　as　good；　as　plain　and　simple　baldass　fine；　as　what　they　had　done　for　poor　old　Duddits　Cavell　back　in　1978。　That　was　our　finest　hour；　Jonesy　had　said　on　the　phone；　and　with　a　nasty　jolt；　Henry　realized　he　had　told　Pete　exactly　the　same　thing。　Duddits；　man。　Fucking　Duds。
　　　　Five　more　miles　。　。　。　or　maybe　four。　Five　more　miles　。　。　。　or　maybe　four。
　　　　They　had　been　going　to　see　a　picture　of　a　girl's　pussy；　the　picture　supposedly　tacked　up　on　the　bulletin　board　of　some　deserted　office。　Henry　couldn't　remember　the　girl's　name；　not　after　all　these　years；　only　that　she'd　been　that　prick　Grenadeau's　girlfriend　and　the　1978　Homeing　Queen　at　Derry　High。　Those　things　had　made　the　prospect　of　seeing　her　pussy　especially　interesting。　And　then；　just　as　they　got　to　the　driveway；　they　had　seen　a　discarded　red…and…white　Derry　Tigers　shirt。　And　a　little　way　down　the　driveway　there　had　been　something　else。
　　　　I　hate　that　fuckin　show；　they　never　change　their　clothes；　Pete　had　said；　and　Henry　opened　his　mouth　to　reply；　only　before　he　could　。　。　。
　　　　'The　kiddo　screamed；'　Henry　said。　He　slipped　in　the　snow；　tottered　for　a　moment；　then　ran　on　again；　remembering　that　October　day　under　that　white　sky。　He　ran　on　remembering　Duddits。　How　Duddits　had　screamed　and　changed　all　their　lives。　For　the　better；　they　had　always　assumed；　but　now　Henry　wondered。
　　　　Right　now　he　wondered　very　much。


3

When　they　get　to　the　driveway　…　not　much　of　a　driveway；　weeds　are　growing　even　in　the　gravelly　wheelruts　now　…　Beaver　is　in　the　lead。　Beaver　is；　indeed；　almost　foaming　at　the　jaws。　Henry　guesses　that　Pete　is　nearly　as　wrought…up；　but　Pete　is　holding　it　in　better；　even　though　he's　a　year　younger。　Beaver　is　。　。　。　what's　the　word？　Agog。　Henry　almost　laughs　at　the　aptness　of　it；　and　then　the　Beav　stops　so　suddenly　Pete　almost　runs　into　him。
　　　　'Hey！'　Beaver　says。　'Fuck　me　Freddy！　Some　kid's　shirt！'
　　　　It　is　indeed。　Red　and　white；　and　not　old　and　dirty；　as　if　it　had　been　there　a　thousand　years。　In　fact；　it　looks　almost　new。　　　
　　　　'Shirt；　schmirt；　who　gives　a　shit？'　Jonesy　wants　to　know。
　　　　'Let's　just…'
　　　　'Hold　your　horses；'　the　Beav　says。　'This　is　a　good　shirt。'　Except　when　he　picks　it　up；　they　see　that　it　isn't。