sk.theshining-第68部分
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Jack turned and ran； ran with the floating； weightless slowness that is so mon to dreams。
〃You did！ You did cheat！〃 he screamed in fear and anger as he crossed the darkened bed/sitting room。 〃I'll prove it！〃 George's hands were on his neck again。 Jack's heart swelled with fear until he was sure it would burst。 And then； at last； his hand curled around the doorknob and it turned under his hand and he yanked the door open。 He plunged out； not into the second…floor hallway； but into the basement room beyond the arch。 The cobwebby light was on。 His campchair； stark and geometrical； stood beneath it。
And all around it was a miniature mountain range of boxes and crates and banded bundles of records and invoices and God knew what。 Relief surged through him。
〃I'll find it！〃 he heard himself screaming。 He seized a damp and moldering cardboard box； it split apart in his hands； spilling out a waterfall of yellow flimsies。 〃It's here somewhere！ I will find it！〃 He plunged his hands deep into the pile of papers and came up with a dry； papery wasps' nest in one hand and a timer in the other。 The timer was ticking。 Attached to its back was a length of electrical cord and attached to the other end of the cord was a bundle of dynamite。 〃Here！〃 he screamed。 〃Here； take it！〃 His relief became absolute triumph。 He had done more than escape George；； be had conquered。 With these talismanic objects in his hands； George would never touch him again。 George would flee in terror。
He began to turn so he could confront George； and that was when George's hands settled around his neck； squeezing； stopping his breath； damming up his respiration entirely after one final dragging gasp。
〃I don't stutter；〃 whispered George from behind him。
He dropped the wasps' nest and wasps boiled out of it in a furious brown and yellow wave。 His lungs were on fire。 His wavering sight fell on the timer and the sense of triumph returned； along with a cresting wave of righteous wrath。
Instead of connecting the timer to dynamite； the cord ran to the gold knob of a stout black cane； like the one his father had carried after the accident with the milk truck。
He grasped it and the cord parted。 The cane felt heavy and right in his hands。
He swung it back over his shoulder。 On the way up it glanced against the wire from which the light bulb depended and the light began to swing back and forth； making the room's hooded shadows rock monstrously against the floor and walls。
On the way down the cane struck something much harder。 George screamed。 The grip on Jack's throatloosened。
He tore free of George's grip and whirled。 George was on his knees； his head drooping； his hands laced together on top of it。 Blood welled through his fingers。
〃Please；〃 George whispered humbly。 〃Give me a break； Mr。 Torrance；〃
〃Now you'll take your medicine；〃 Jack grunted。 〃Now by God； won't you。 Young pup。 Young worthless cur。 Now by God； right now。 Every drop。 Every single damn drop！〃 As the light swayed above him and the shadows danced and flapped； he began to swing the cane； bringing it down again and again； his arm rising and falling like a machine。 George's bloody protecting fingers fell away from his head and Jack brought the cane down again and again； and on his neck and shoulders and back and arms。 Except that the cane was no longer precisely a cane； it seemed to be a mallet with some kind of brightly striped handle。 A mallet with a hard side and soft side。 The business end was clotted with blood and hair。 And the flat； whacking sound of the mallet against flesh had been replaced with a hollow booming sound； echoing and reverberating。 His own voice had taken on this same quality； bellowing； disembodied。 And yet； paradoxically； it sounded weaker； slurred； petulant 。 。 。 as if he were drunk。
The figure on its knees slowly raised its head； as if in supplication。 There was not a face； precisely； but only a mask of blood through which eyes peered。
He brought the mallet back for a final whistling downstroke and it was fully launched before he saw that the supplicating face below him was not George's but Danny's。 It was the face of his son。
〃Daddy…〃 And then the mallet crashed home； striking Danny right between the eyes； closing them forever。 And something somewhere seemed to be laughing… （！ No ！）
* * *
He came out of it standing naked over Danny's bed； his hands empty； his body sheened with sweat。 His final scream had only been in his mind。 He voiced it again； this time in a whisper。
〃No。 No； Danny。 Never。〃 He went back to bed on legs that had turned to rubber。 Wendy was sleeping deeply。 The clock on the nightstand said it was quarter to five。 He lay sleepless until seven； when Danny began to stir awake。 Then he put his legs over the edge of the bed and began to dress。 It was time to go downstairs and check the boiler。
》
THE SNOWMOBILE
Sometime after midnight； while they all slept uneasily； the snow had stopped after dumping a fresh eight inches on the old crust。 The clouds had broken； a fresh wind had swept them away； and now Jack stood in a dusty ingot of sunlight； which slanted through the dirty window set into the eastern side of the equipment shed。
The place was about as long as a freight car； and about as high。 It smelled of grease and oil and gasoline and…faint； nostalgic smell…sweet grass。 Four power lawnmowers were ranked like soldiers on review against the south wall； two of them the riding type that look like small tractors。 To their left were posthole diggers； round…bladed shovels made for doing surgery on the putting green； a chain saw； the electric hedge…clippers； and a long thin steel pole with a red flag at the top。 Caddy； fetch my ball in under ten seconds and there's a quarter in it for you。 Yes； sir。
Against the eastern wall； where the morning sun slanted in most strongly； three Ping…Pong tables leaned one against the other like a drunken house of cards。 Their nets had been removed and flopped down from the shelf above。 In the corner was a stack of shuffleboard weights and a roque set…the wickets banded together with twists of wire； the brightly painted balls in an egg…carton sort of thing （strange hens you have up here； Watson 。 。 。 yes； and you should see the animals down on the front lawn； ha…ha）； and the mallets； two sets of them； standing in their racks。
He walked over to them； stepping over an old eight…cell battery （which had once sat beneath the hood of the hotel truck； no doubt） and a battery charger and a pair of J。 C。 Penney jumper cables coiled between them。 He slipped one of the short…handled mallets out of the front rack and held it up in front of his face； like a knight bound for battle saluting his king。
Fragments of his dream （it was all jumbled now； fading） recurred； something about George Hatfield and his father's cane； just enough to make him uneasy and； absurdly enough； a trifle guilty about holding a plain old garden…variety roque mallet。 Not that roque was such a mon garden…variety game anymore； its more modern cousin； croquet； was much more popular now 。 。 。 and a child's version of the game at that。 Roque； however 。 。 。 that must have been quite a game。 Jack had found a mildewed rule book down in the basement； from one of the years in the early twenties when a North American Roque Tournament had been held at the Overlook。 Quite a game。
（schizo） He frowned a little； then smiled。 Yes； it was a schizo sort of game at that。
The mallet expressed that perfectly。 A soft end and a hard end。 A game of finesse and aim； and a game of raw； bludgeoning power。
He swung the mallet through the air 。 。 。 whhhoooop。 He smiled a little at the powerful； whistling sound it made。 Then he replaced it in the rack and turned to his left。 What he saw there made him frown again。
The snowmobile sat almost in the middle of the equipment shed； a fairly new one； and Jack didn't care for its looks at all。 Bombardier Skidoo was written on the side of the engine cowling facing him in black letters which had been raked backward； presumably to connote speed。 The protruding skis were also black。
There was black piping to t
