sk.dreamcatcher-第63部分

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nese　eyes。　Duddits　was　our　finest　hour；　he　had　told　Pete。
　　　　'Fit　wha？'　Henry　said　now。　'Fit　neek？'
　　　　Yeah；　fit　neek。　Turn　it　around；　put　it　on　the　right　way；　fit　neek。
　　　　Smiling　a　little　now　（although　his　cheeks　were　still　wet　with　tears　that　were　beginning　to　freeze）；　Henry　began　to　ski　along　the　crimped　track　of　the　snowmobile　again。


10

Ten　minutes　later　he　came　to　the　overturned　wreck　of　the　Scout。　He　suddenly　realized　two　things：　that　he　was　ragingly　hungry　after　all　and　that　there　was　food　in　there。　He　had　seen　the　tracks　both　going　and　ing　and　hadn't　needed　Natty　Bumppo　to　know　that　Pete　had　left　the　woman　and　returned　to　the　Scout。　Nor　did　he　need　Hercule　Poirot　to　tell　him　that　the　food　they'd　bought　at　the　store　…　most　of　it；　at　least　…　would　still　be　in　there。　He　knew　what　Pete　had　e　back　for。
　　　　He　skied　around　to　the　passenger　side；　following　Pete's　tracks；　then　froze　in　the　act　of　loosening　the　ski　bindings。　This　side　was　away　from　the　wind；　and　what　Pete　had　written　in　the　snow　as　he　sat　drinking　his　two　beers　was　mostly　still　here：　DUDDITS；　printed　over　and　over　again。　As　he　looked　at　the　name　in　the　snow；　Henry　began　to　shiver。　It　was　like　ing　to　the　grave　of　a　loved　one　and　hearing　a　voice　speak　out　of　the　ground。


11

There　was　broken　glass　inside　the　Scout。　Blood；　as　well。　Because　most　of　the　blood　was　on　the　back　seat；　Henry　felt　sure　it　hadn't　been　spilled　in　the　original　accident；　Pete　had　cut　himself　on　his　return　trip。　To　Henry；　the　interesting　thing　was　that　there　was　none　of　the　red…gold　fuzz。　It　grew　rapidly；　and　so　the　logical　conclusion　was　that　Pete　hadn't　been　infected　when　he'd　e　for　the　beer。　Later；　maybe；　but　not　then。
　　　　He　grabbed　the　bread；　the　peanut　butter；　the　milk；　and　the　carton　of　orange　juice。　Then　he　backed　out　of　the　Scout　and　sat　with　his　shoulders　against　the　overturned　rear　end；　watching　the　fresh　snow　sift　down　and　gobbling　bread　and　peanut　butter　as　fast　as　he　could；　using　his　index　finger　as　a　knife　and　licking　it　clean　between　spreads。　The　peanut　butter　was　good　and　the　orange　juice　went　down　in　two　long　drafts；　but　it　wasn't　enough。
　　　　'What　you're　thinking　of；'　he　announced　to　the　darkening　afternoon；　'is　grotesque。　Not　to　mention　red。　Red　food。'
　　　　Red　or　not；　he　was　thinking　of　it；　and　surely　it　wasn't　all　that　grotesque；　he　was；　after　all；　a　man　who　had　spent　long　nights　thinking　about　guns　and　ropes　and　plastic　bags。　All　of　that　seemed　a　little　childish　just　now；　but　it　was　him；　all　right。　And　so…
　　　　'And　so　let　me　close；　ladies　and　gentlemen　of　the　American　Psychiatric　Association；　by　quoting　the　late　Joseph　〃Beaver〃　Clarendon：　〃Said　fuck　it　and　put　a　dime　in　the　Salvation　Army　bucket。　And　if　you　don't　like　it；　grab　my　cock　and　suck　it。〃　Thank　you　very　much。'
　　　　Having　thus　discoursed　to　the　American　Psychiatric　Association；　Henry　crawled　back　into　the　Scout；　once　more　successfully　avoiding　the　broken　glass；　and　got　the　package　wrapped　in　butcher's　paper　（2。79　printed　on　it　in　Old　Man　Gosselin's　shaky　hand）。　He　backed　out　again　with　the　package　in　his　pocket；　then　took　it　out　and　snapped　the　twine。　Inside　were　nine　plump　hot　dogs。　The　red　kind。
　　　　For　a　moment　his　mind　tried　to　show　him　the　legless　reptilian　thing　squirming　on　Jonesy's　bed　and　looking　at　him　with　its　empty　black　eyes；　but　he　banished　it　with　the　speed　and　ease　of　one　whose　survival　instincts　have　never　wavered。
　　　　The　hot　dogs　were　fully　cooked；　but　he　warmed　them　up　just　the　same；　running　the　flame　of　his　butane　lighter　back　and　forth　beneath　each　one　until　it　was　at　least　warm；　then　wrapping　it　in　Wonder　Bread　and　gobbling　it　down。　He　smiled　as　he　did　it；　knowing　how　ridiculous　he　would　look　to　an　observer。　Well；　didn't　they　say　that　psychiatrists　eventually　ended　up　as　loony　as　their　patients；　if　not　more　so？
　　　　The　important　thing　was　that　he　was　finally　full。　Even　more　important；　all　the　disconnected　thoughts　and　fragmented　images　had　drained　out　of　his　mind。　Also　the　song。　He　hoped　none　of　that　crap　would　e　back。　Ever；　please　God。
　　　　He　swallowed　more　milk；　belched；　then　leaned　his　head　against　the　side　of　the　Scout　and　closed　his　eyes。　No　going　to　sleep；　though；　these　woods　were　lovely；　dark　and　deep；　and　he　had　twelve…point…seven　miles　to　go　before　he　could　sleep。
　　　　He　remembered　Pete　talking　about　the　gossip　in　Gosselin's　missing　hunters；　lights　in　the　sky　…　and　how　blithely　The　Great　American　Psychiatrist　had　dismissed　it；　gassing　about　the　Satanism　hysteria　in　Washington　State；　the　abuse　hysteria　in　Delaware。　Playing　Mr　Smartass　Shrink…Boy　with　his　mouth　and　the　front　of　his　mind　while　the　back　of　his　mind　went　on　playing　with　suicide　like　a　baby　who's　just　discovered　his　toes　in　the　bathtub。　He　had　sounded　entirely　plausible；　ready　for　any　TV　panel　show　that　wanted　to　spend　sixty　minutes　on　the　interface　between　the　unconscious　and　the　unknown；　but　things　had　changed。　Now　he　had　bee　one　of　the　missing　hunters。　Also；　he　had　seen　things　you　couldn't　find　on　the　Internet　no　matter　how　big　your　search　engine　was。
　　　　He　sat　there；　head　back；　eyes　closed；　belly　full。　Jonesy's　Garand　was　propped　against　one　of　the　Scout's　tires。　The　snow　lit　on　his　cheeks　and　forehead　like　the　light　touch　of　a　kitten's　paws。　'This　is　it；　what　all　the　geeks　have　been　waiting　for；'　he　said。　'Close　encounters　of　the　third　kind。　Hell；　maybe　the　fourth　or　fifth　kind。　Sorry　I　made　fun　of　you；　Pete。　You　were　right　and　I　was　wrong。　Hell；　it's　worse　than　that。　Old　Man　Gosselin　was　right　and　I　was　wrong；　So　much　for　a　Harvard　education。'
　　　　And　once　he'd　said　that　much　out　loud；　things　began　to　make　sense。　Something　had　either　landed　or　crashed。　There　had　been　an　armed　response　from　the　United　States　government。　Were　they　telling　the　outside　world　what　had　happened？　Probably　not；　that　wasn't　their　style；　but　Henry　had　an　idea　they　would　have　to　before　much　longer。　You　couldn't　put　the　entire　Jefferson　Tract　in　Hangar　57。
　　　　Did　he　know　anything　else？　Maybe；　and　maybe　it　was　a　little　more　than　the　men　in　charge　of　the　helicopters　and　the　firing　parties　knew。　They　clearly　believed　they　were　dealing　with　a　contagion；　but　Henry　didn't　think　it　was　as　dangerous　as　they　seemed　to。　The　stuff　caught；　bloomed　。　。　。　but　then　it　died。　Even　the　parasite　that　had　been　inside　the　woman　had　died。　This　was　a　bad　time　of　year　and　a　bad　place　to　culture　interstellar　athlete's　foot；　if　that　was　what　it　was。　All　that　argued　strongly　for　the　possibility　of　a　crash　landing　。　。　。　but　what　about　the　lights　in　the　sky？　What　about　the　implants？　For　years　people　who　claimed　they'd　been　abducted　bv　ETs　had　also　claimed　they　had　been　stripped　。　。　。　examined　。　。　。　forced　to　undergo　implants。　All　ideas　so　Freudian　they　were　almost　laughable　。　。　。
　　　　Henry　realized　he　was　drifting　and　snapped　awake　so　strongly　that　the　unwrapped　package　of　hot　dogs　tumbled　off　his　lap　and　into　the　snow。　No；　not　just　drifting；　dozing。　A　good　deal　more　light　had　seeped　out　of　the　day；　and　the　world　had　gone　a　dull　slate　color。　His　pants　were　speckled　with　the　fresh　snow。　If　he'd　gone　any　deeper；　he'd've　been　snoring。
　　　　He　brushed　himself　off　and　stood　up；　wincing　as　his　muscles　screamed　in　protest。　He　regarded　the　hot　dogs　lying　there　in　the　snow　with　something　like　revulsion；　then　bent　down；　rewrapped　them；　and　tucked　them　into　one　of　his　coat　pockets。　They　might　start　looking　good　to　him　again　later　on。　He　sincerely　hoped　not；　but　you　never　knew。
　　　　'Jonesy's　in　the　hospital；'　he　said　abruptly。　No　idea　what　he　meant。　'Jonesy's　in　the　hospital　with　Mr　Gray。　Got　to　stay　there。　ICU。'
　　　　Madness。　Prattling　madness。　He　clamped　the　skis　to　his　boots　again；　praying　that　his　back　wouldn't　lock　up　while　he　was　bent　over；　and　then　pushed　off　along　the　track　once　more；　the　snow　starting　to　thicken　around　him　now；　the　day　darkening。
　　　　By　the　time　he　realized　that　he　had　remembered　the　hot　dogs　but　forgotten　Jonesy's　rifle　（not　to　mention　his　own）；　he'd　gone　too　far　to　turn　around。


12

He　stopped　what　might　have　been　three　quarters　of　an　hour　later；　peering　stupidly　down　at　the　Arctic　Cat's　print。　There　was　little　more　than　a　glimmer　of　light　left　in　the　day　now；　but　enough　to　see　that　the　track　…　what　was　left　of　it　…　v