sk.cujo-第20部分

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Vic　thought　about　leaving　early　and　decided　to　go　back　and　check　the　afternoon　mail　first。　Lisa；　their　secretary；　had　already　left　for　the　day；　getting　a　jump　on　the　holiday　weekend。　Hell；　you　couldn't　get　a　secretary　to　stay　until　the　stroke　of　five　any　more；　holiday　weekend　or　not。　As　far　as　Vic　was　concerned；　it　was　just　another　sign　of　the　continuing　decay　of　Western　Civ。　Probably　at　this　very　moment　Lisa；　who　was　beautiful；　just　twenty…one；　and　almost　totally　breastless；　was　entering　the　Interstate　flow　of　traffic；　bound　south　to　Old　Orchard　or　the　Hamptons；　dressed　in　tight　jeans　and　a　nothing　halter。　Get　down；　disco　Lisa。　Vic　thought；　and　grinned　a　little。
There　was　a　single　unopened　letter　on　his　desk　blotter。
He　picked　it　up　curiously；　noting　first　the　word　PERSONAL　printed　below　the　address；　and　second　the　fact　that　his　address　had　been　printed　in　solid　caps。
He　held　it；　turning　it　over　in　his　hands；　feeling　a　vague　thread　of　disquiet　slip　into　what　was　a　general　mood　of　tired　well…being。　Far　back　in　his　mind；　hardly　even　acknowledged；　was　a　sudden　urge　to　rip　the　letter　into　halves；　fourths；　eighths；　and　then　toss　the　pieces　into　the　wastebasket。
Instead；　he　tore　it　open　and　pulled　out　a　single　sheet　of　paper。
More　block　letters。
The　simple　message　…　six　sentences　…　hit　him　like　a　straight　shot　just　below　the　heart。　He　did　not　so　much　sit　in　his　chair　as　collapse　into　it。　A　little　grunt　escaped　him；　the　sound　of　a　man　who　has　suddenly　lost　all　his　wind。　His　mind　roared　with　nothing　but　white　noise　for　a　length　of　time　he　didn't　…　couldn't　…　understand　or　prehend。　If　Roger　had　e　in　just　then；　he　likely　would　have　thought　Vic　was　having　a　heart　attack。　In　a　way；　he　was。　His　face　was　paper…white。　His　mouth　hung　open。　Bluish　half…moons　had　appeared　under　his　eyes。
He　read　the　message　again。
And　then　again。
At　first　his　eyes　were　drawn　to　the　first　interrogative：
WHAT'S　THAT　MOLE　JUST　ABOVE　HER　PUBIC　HAIR　LOOK　LIKE　TO　YOU？
It's　a　mistake；　he　thought　confusedly。　No　one　knows　about　that　but　me。。。　well；　her　mother。　And　her　father。　Then；　hurt；　he　felt　the　first　splinters　of　jealousy：　Even　her　bikini　covers　that　。。。　her　little　bikini。
He　ran　a　hand　through　his　hair。　He　put　the　letter　down　and　ran　both　hands　through　his　hair。　That　punched；　gasping　feeling　was　still　there　in　his　chest。　The　feeling　that　his　heart　was　pumping　air　instead　of　blood。　He　felt　fright　and　pain　and　confusion。　But　of　the　three；　the　dominant　feeling；　the　overriding　emotion；　was　terrible　fright。
The　letter　glared　up　at　him　and　shouted：
I　ENJOYED　FUCKING　THE　SHIT　OUT　OF　HER
Now　it　was　this　line　his　eyes　fixed　upon；　not　wanting　to　leave。　He　could　hear　the　drone　of　a　plane　in　the　sky　outside；　leaving　the　jetport；　heading　up；　heading　out；　making　for　points　unknown；　and　he　thought；　I　ENJOYED　FUCKING　THE　SHIT　OUT　OF　HER。　Crude；　that's　crude。　Yes　sir　and　yes　ma'am；　yes　indeedy。　It　was　the　hack　of　a　blunt　knife。　FUCKING　THE　SHIT　OUT　OF　HER；　what　an　image　that　made。　Nothing　fancy　about　it。　It　was　like　getting　a　splash　in　the　eyes　from　a　squirtgun　loaded　up　with　battery　acid。
He　tried　hard　to　think　coherently　and
（I　ENJOYED）
just　couldn't
（FUCKING　THE　SHIT　OUT　OF　HER）
do　it。
Now　his　eyes　went　to　the　last　line　and　that　was　the　one　he　read　over　and　over　again；　as　if　trying　to　cram　the　sense　of　it　somehow　into　his　brain。　That　huge　feeling　of　fright　kept　getting　in　the　way。
DO　YOU　HAVE　ANY　QUESTIONS？
Yes。　All　of　a　sudden　he　had　all　kinds　of　questions。　The　only　thing　was；　he　didn't　seem　to　want　answers　to　any　of　them。
A　new　thought　crossed　his　mind。　What　if　Roger　hadn't　gone　home？　Often　he　poked　his　head　into　Vic's　office　before　leaving　if　there　was　a　light　on。　He　might　be　even　more　likely　to　do　so　tonight；　with　the　trip　pending。　The　thought　made　Vic　feel　panicky；　and　an　absurd　memory　surfaced：　all　those　times　he　had　spent　masturbating　in　the　bathroom　as　a　teenager；　unable　to　help　himself　but　terribly　afraid　everyone　must　know　exactly　what　he　was　up　to　in　there。　If　Roger　came　in；　he　would　see　something　was　wrong。　He　didn't　want　that。　He　got　up　and　went　to　the　window；　which　looked　down　six　stories　to　the　parking　lot　which　served　the　building。　Roger's　bright…yellow　Honda　Civic　was　gone　from　its　space。　He　had　gone　home。
Pulled　out　of　himself；　Vic　listened。　The　offices　of　Ad　Worx　were　totally　silent。　There　was　the　resonating　quiet　that　seems　the　sole　property　of　business　quarters　after　hours。　There　was　not　even　the　sound　of　old　Mr。　Steigmeyer；　the　custodian；　rattling　around。　He　would　have　to　sign　out　in　the　lobby。　He　would　have　to　
Now　there　was　a　sound。　At　first　he　didn't　know　what　it　was。　It　came　to　him　in　a　moment。　It　was　whimpering。　The　sound　of　an　animal　with　a　smashed　foot。　Still　looking　out　the　window；　he　saw　the　cars　left　in　the　parking　lot　double；　then　treble；　through　a　film　of　tears。
Why　couldn't　he　get　mad？　Why　did　he　have　to　he　so　fucking　scared？
An　absurd；　antique　word　came　to　mind。　jilted；　he　thought。　I've　been　jilted。
The　whimpering　sounds　kept　ing。　He　tried　to　lock　his　throat；　and　it　did　no　good。　He　lowered　his　head　and　gripped　the　convector　grille　that　ran　below　the　window　at　waist　height。　Gripped　it　until　his　fingers　hurt；　until　the　metal　creaked　and　protested。
How　long　had　it　been　since　he　had　cried？　He　had　cried　the　night　Tad　was　born；　but　that　had　been　relief。　He　had　cried　when　his　dad　died　after　fighting　grimly　for　his　life　for　three　days　after　a　massive　heart　attack　struck　him；　and　those　tears；　shed　at　seventeen；　had　been　like　these；　burning；　not　wanting　to　e；　it　was　more　like　bleeding　than　crying。　But　at　seventeen　it　was　easier　to　cry；　easier　to　bleed。　When　you　were　seventeen　you　still　expected　to　have　to　do　your　share　of　both。
He　stopped　whimpering。　He　thought　it　was　done。　And　then　a　low　cry　came　out　of　him；　a　harsh；…　wavering　sound；　and　he　thought。。　Was　that　me？　God；　was　it　me　that　made　that　sound？
The　tears　began　to　slide　down　his　cheeks。　There　was　another　harsh　sound；　then　another。　He　gripped　the　convector　grille　and　cried。
Forty　minutes　later　he　was　sitting　in　Deering　Oaks　Park。　He　had　called　home　and　told　Donna　he　would　be　late。　She　started　to　ask　why；　and　why　he　sounded　so　strange。　He　told　her　he　would　be　home　before　dark。　He　told　her　to　go　ahead　and　feed　Tad。　Then　he　hung　up　before　she　could　say　anything　else。
Now　he　was　sitting　in　the　park。
The　tears　had　burned　off　most　of　the　fear。　What　was　left　was　an　ugly　slag　of　anger。　That　was　the　next　level　in　this　geological　column　of　knowledge。　But　anger　wasn't　the　right　word。　He　was　enraged。　He　was　infuriated。　It　was　as　if　he　had　been　stung　by　something。　A　part　of　him　had　recognized　that　it　would　be　dangerous　for　him　to　go　home　now　。。。　dangerous　for　all　three　of　them。
It　would　be　so　pleasurable　to　hide　die　wreckage　by　making　more；　it　would　（let's　face　it）　he　mindlessly　pleasurable　to　punch　her　cheating　fact　in。
He　was　sitting　beside　the　duckpond。　On　the　other　side；　a　spirited　Frisbee　game　was　going　on。　He　noticed　that　all　four　of　the　girls　playing　…　and　two　of　the　boys　…　were　on　roller　skates。　Roller　skates　were　big　this　summer。　He　saw　a　young　girl　in　a　tube　top　pushing　a　cart　of　pretzels；　peanuts；　and　canned　soft　drinks。　Her　face　was　soft　and　fresh　and　innocent。　One　of　the　guys　playing　Frisbee　flipped　her　the　disk；　she　caught　it　deftly　and　flipped　it　back。　In　the　sixties；　Vic　thought；　she　would　have　been　in　a　mune；　diligently　picking　bugs　off　tomato　plants。　Now　she　was　probably　a　member　in　good　standing　of　the　Small　Business　Administration。
He　and　Roger　used　to　e　down　here　to　eat　their　lunches　sometimes。　That　had　been　in　the　first　year。　Then　Roger　noticed　that；　although　the　pond　looked　lovely；　there　was　a　faint　but　definite　odor　of　putridity　hanging　around　it　。。。　and　the　small　house　on　the　rock　in　the　center　of　the　pond　was　whitewashed　not　with　paint　but　with　gullshit。　A　few　weeks　later；　Vic　had　noted　a　decaying　rat　floating　amid　the　condoms　and　gum　wrappers　at　the　edge　of　the　pond。　He　didn't　think　they　had　been　back　since　then。
The　Frisbee；　a　bright　red；　floated　across　the　sky。
The　image　that　had　provoked　his　anger　kept　recurring。　He　couldn't　keep　it　away。　It　was　as　crude　as　his　anonymous　correspondent's　choice　of　words　had　been；　but　he　couldn't　ditch　it。　He　saw　them