sk.theshining-第79部分
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might have a fishbone caught in his throat。 〃We can talk about that later。 You go on and pack。 I'll talk to Baedecker。 Want me to make you a plane reservation？〃
〃No； sir； I'll do it。〃
〃All right。〃 Queems stood up； leaned sincerely forward； and inhaled a raft of ascending smoke from his Kent。 He coughed heartily； his thin white face turning red。 Hallorann struggled hard to keep his somber expression。 〃I hope everything turns out； Dick。 Call when you get word。〃
〃I'll do that。〃 They shook hands over the desk。
Hallorann made himself get down to the ground floor and across to the hired help's pound before bursting into rich； bead…shaking laughter。 He was still grinning and mopping his streaming eyes with his handkerchief when the smell of oranges came； thick and gagging； and the bolt followed it； striking him in the head； sending him back against the pink stucco wall in a drunken stagger。
（！！！ PLEASE E DICK PLEASE E E QUICK ！！！）
He recovered a little at a time and at last felt capable of climbing the outside stairs to his apartment。 He kept the latchkey under the rush…plaited doormat； and when he reached down to get it； something fell out of his inner pocket and fell to the second…floor decking with a flat thump。 His mind was still so much on the voice that had shivered through his head that for a moment he could only look at the blue envelope blankly； not knowing what it was。
Then he turned it over and the word WILL stared up at him in the black spidery letters。
（Oh my God is it like that？） He didn't know。 But it could be。 All week long the thought of his own ending had been on his mind like a 。 。 。 well； like a （Go on； say it） like a premonition；。
Death？ For a moment his whole life seemed to flash before him； not in a historical sense； no topography of the ups and downs that Mrs。 Hallorann's third son； Dick； had lived through； but his life as it was now。 Martin Luther King had told them not long before the bullet took him down to his martyr's grave that he had been to the mountain。 Dick could not claim that。 No mountain； but he had reached a sunny plateau after years of struggle。 He had good friends。 He had all the references he would ever need to get a job anywhere。 When he wanted fuck； why； he could find a friendly one with no questions asked and no big shitty struggle about what it all meant。 He had e to terms with his blackness…happy terms。 He was up past sixty and thank God； he was cruising。
Was he going to chance the end of that…the end of him…for three white people he didn't even know？
But that was a lie； wasn't it？
He knew the boy。 They had shared each other the way good friends can't even after forty years of it。 He knew the boy and the boy knew him； because they each had a kind of searchlight in their heads； something they hadn't asked for； something that had just been given。
（Naw； you got a flashlight； he the one with the searchlight。） And sometimes that light； that shine； seemed like a pretty nice thing。 You could pick the horses； or like the boy had said； you could tell your daddy where his trunk was when it turned up missing。 But that was only dressing； the sauce on the salad； and down below there was as much bitter vetch in that salad as there was cool cucumber。 You could taste pain and death and tears。 And now the boy was stuck in that place； and he would go。 For the boy。 Because； speaking to the boy； they had only been different colors when they used their mouths。 So he would go。 He would do what he could； because if he didn't； the boy was going to die right inside his head。
But because he was human he could not help a bitter wish that the cup had never been passed his way。
* * *
（She had started to get out and e after him。） He had been dumping a change of clothes into an overnight bag when the thought came to him； freezing him with the power of the memory as it always did when he thought of it。 He tried to think of it as seldom as possible。
The maid； Delores Vickery her name was； had been hysterical。 Had said some things to the other chambermaids； and worse still； to some of the guests。 When the word got back to Ullman； as the silly quiff should have known it would do； he had fired her out of hand。 She had e to Hallorann in tears； not about being fired； but about the thing she had seen in that second…floor room。 She had gone into 217 to change the towels； she said； and there had been that Mrs。
Massey； lying dead in the tub。 That； of course； was impossible。 Mrs。 Massey had been discreetly taken away the day before and was even then winging her way back to New York…in the shipping hold instead of the first class she'd been accustomed to。
Hallorann hadn't liked Delores much； but he had gone up to look that evening。
The maid was an olive…plected girl of twenty…three who waited table near the end of the season when things slowed down。 She had a small shining； Hallorann judged； really not more than a twinkle； a mousy…looking man and his escort； wearing a faded cloth coat； would e in for dinner and Delores would trade one of her tables for theirs。 The mousy little man would leave a picture of Alexander Hamilton under his plate； bad enough for the girl who had made the trade； but worse； Delores would crow over it。 She was lazy； a goof…off in an operation run by a man who allowed no goof…offs。 She would sit in a linen closet； reading a confession magazine and smoking； but whenever Ullman went on one of his unscheduled prowls （and woe to the girl he caught resting her feet） he found her working industriously； her magazine hidden under the sheets on a high shelf； her ashtray tucked safely into her uniform pocket。 Yeah； Hallorann thought； she'd been a goof…off and a sloven and the other girls had resented her； but Delores had had that little twinkle。 It had always greased the skids for her。 But what she had seen in 217 had scared her badly enough so she was more than glad to pick up the walking papers Ullman had issued her and go。
Why had she e to him？ A shine knows a shine； Hallorann thought； grinning at the pun。
So he had gone up that night and bad let himself into the room； which was to be reoccupied the next day。 He had used the office passkey to get in； and if Ullman had caught him with that key； he would have joined Delores Vickery on the unemployment line。
The shower curtain around the tub had been drawn。 He had pushed it back； but even before he did he'd had a premonition of what he was going to see。 Mrs。
Massey； swollen and purple； lay soggily in the tub； which was half…full of water。 He had stood looking。 down at her； a pulse beating thickly in his throat。
There had been other things at the Overlook： a bad dream that recurred at irregular intervals…some sort of costume party and he was catering it in the Overlook's ballroom and at the shout to unmask； everybody exposed faces that were those of rotting insects…and there had been the hedge animals。 Twice； maybe three times； he had （or thought he had） seen them move； ever so slightly。
That dog would seem to change from his sitting…up posture to a slightly crouched one； and the lions seemed to move forward； as if menacing the little tykes on the playground。 Last year in May Ullman had sent him up to the attic to look for the ornate set of firetools that now stood beside the lobby fireplace。 While he had been up there the three lightbulbs strung overhead had gone out and he had lost his way back to the trapdoor。 He had stumbled around for an unknown length of time； closer and closer to panic； barking his shins on boxes and bumping into things； with a stronger and stronger feeling that something was stalking him in the dark。 Some great and frightening creature that had just oozed out of the woodwork when the lights went out。 And when he had literally stumbled over the trapdoor's ringbolt he had hurried down as fast as he could； leaving the trap open； sooty and disheveled； with a feeling of disaster barely averted。 Later Ullman had e down to the kitchen personally； to inform him he had left the attic trapdoor open and the lights burning up there。 Did Hallorann think the guests wanted to go up there and play treasure hunt？ Did
