sk.cujo-第33部分

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e。
He　ran　the　trucks　slowly　back　across　the　room；　one　by　one；　returning　them　to　their　slant…parked　row。　He　paused　once　when　the　screen　door　slammed。　He　thought　she　would　call　to　him；　but　she　didn't。　There　was　the　sound　of　her　steps　crossing　the　kitchen；　then　the　creak　of　her　special　chair　in　the　living　room　as　she　sat　down。　But　the　TV　didn't　go　on。　He　thought　of　her　just　sitting　down　there；　just。　。　。　sitting　。。。　and　dismissed　the　thought；　quickly　from　his　mind。
He　finished　the　row　of　trucks。　There　was　Greedo；　his　best；　sitting　in　the　cab　of　the　dozer；　looking　blankly　out　of　his　round　black　eyes　at　the　door　of　Tad's　closet。　His　eyes　were　wide；　as　if　he　had　seen　something　there；　something　so　scary　it　had　shocked　his　eyes　wide；　something　really　gooshy；　something　horrible；　something　that　was　ing　
Tad　glanced　nervously　at　the　closet　door。　It　was　firmly　latched。
Still　he　was　tired　of　the　game。　He　put　the　trucks　back　in　his　playchest；　clanking　them　loudly　on　purpose　so　she　would　know　he　was　getting　ready　to　e　down　and　watch　Gunsmoke　on　Channel　8。　He　started　for　the　door　and　then　paused；　looking　at　the　Monster　Words；　fascinated。
Monsters；　stay　out　of　this　room！　You　have　no　business　here。
He　knew　them　by　heart。　He　liked　to　look　at　them；　read　them　by　rote；　look　at　his　daddy's　printing。
Nothing　will　touch　Tad；　or　hurt　Tad；　all　this　night。
You　have　no　business　here。
On　a　sudden；　powerful　impulse；　he　pulled　out　the　pushpin　that　held　the　paper　to　the　wall。　He　took　the　Monster　Words　carefully　…　almost　reverently　…　down。　He　folded　the　sheet　of　paper　up　and　put　it　carefully　into　the　back　pocket　of　his　jeans。　Then；　feeling　better　than　he　had　all　day；　he　ran　down　the　stairs　to　watch　Marshal　Dillon　and　Festus。
That　last　fellow　had　e　and　picked　up　his　car　at　ten　minutes　of　twelve。　He　had　paid　cash；　which　Joe　had　tucked　away　into　his　old　greasy　wallet；　reminding　himself　to　go　down　to　the　Norway　Savings　and　pick　up　another　five　hundred　before　he　and　Gary　took　off。
Thinking　of　taking　off　made　him　remember　Cujo；　and　the　problem　of　who　was　going　to　feed　him。　He　got　into　his　Ford　wagon　and　drove　down　to　Gary　Pervier's　at　the　foot　of　the　hill。　He　parked　in　Gary's　driveway。　He　started　up　the　porch　steps；　and　the　hail　that　had　been　rising　in　his　throat　died　there。　He　went　back　down　and　bent　over　the　steps。
There　was　blood　there。
Joe　touched　it　with　his　fingers。　It　was　tacky　but　not　pletely　dry。　He　stood　up　again；　a　little　worried　but　not　yet　unduly　so。　Gary　might　have　been　drunk　and　stumbled　with　a　glass　in　his　hand。　He　wasn't　really　worried　until　he　saw　the　way　the　rusty　bottom　panel　of　the　screen　door　was　crashed　in。
'Gary？'
There　was　no　answer。　He　found　himself　wondering　if　someone　with　a　grudge　had　maybe　e　hunting　ole　Gary。　Or　maybe　some　tourist　had　e　asking　directions　and　Gary　had　picked　the　wrong　day　to　tell　someone　he　could　take　a　flying　fuck　at　the　moon。　。
He　climbed　the　steps。　There　were　more　splatters　of　blood　on　the　boards　of　the　porch。
'Gary？'　he　called　again；　and　suddenly　wished　for　the　weight　of　his　shotgun　cradled　over　his　right　arm。　But　if　someone　had　punched　Gary　out；　bloodied　his　nose；　or　maybe　popped　out　a　few　of　the　old　Pervert's　remaining　teeth；　that　person　was　gone　now；　because　the　only　car　in　the　yard　other　than　Joe's　rusty　Ford　LTD　wagon　was　Gary's　white　'66　Chrysler　hardtop。　And　You　just　didn't　walk　out　to　Town　Road　No。　3。　Gary　Pervier's　was　seven　miles　from　town；　two　miles　off　the　Maple　Sugar　Road　that　led　back　to　Route　117。
More　likely　he　just　cut　himself；　Joe　thought。　But　Christ；　I　hope　it　was　just　his　hand　he　cut　and　not　his　throat。
Joe　opened　the　screen　door。　It　squealed　on　its　hinges。　'Gary？'
Still　no　answer。　There　was　a　sickish…sweet　smell　in　here　that　he　didn't　like。　but　at　first　he　thought　it　was　the　honeysuckle。　The　stairs　to　the　second　floor　went　up　on　his　left。　Straight　ahead　was　the　hall　to　the　kitchen；　the　living　room　doorway　opening　off　the　hall　about　halfway　down　on　the　right。　
There　was　something　on　the　hall　floor　but　it　was　too　dark　for　Joe　to　make　it　out。　Looked　like　an　endtable　that　had　been　knocked　over；　or　something　like　that　。。。　but　so　far　as　Joe　knew；　there　wasn't　now　and　never　had　been　any　furniture　in　Gary's　front　hall。　He　leaned　his　lawn　chairs　in　here　when　it　rained；　but　there　hadn't　been　any　rain　for　two　weeks。　Besides；　the　chairs　had　been　out　by　Gary's　Chrysler　in　their　accustomed　places。　By　the　honeysuckle。
Only　that　smell　wasn't　honeysuckle。　It　was　blood。　A　whole　lot　of　blood。　And　that　was　no　tipped…over　endtable。
He　hurried　down　to　the　shape；　his　heart　hammering　in　his　chest。　He　knelt　by　it；　and　a　sound　like　a　squeak　escaped　his　throat　Suddenly　the　air　in　the　hall　seemed　too　hot　and　dose。
It　seemed　to　be　strangling　him。　He　turned　away　from　Gary；　one　hand　cupped　over　his　mouth。　Someone　had　murdered　Gay。　Someone　had　
He　forced　himself　to　look　back。　Gary　lay　in　a　pool　of　his　own　blood。　His　eyes　glared　sightlessly　up　at　the　hallway　ceiling。　His　throat　had　been　opened。　Not　just　opened；　dear　God　；　it　looked　as　if　it　had　been　chewed　open。
This　time　there　was　no　struggle　with　his　gorge。　This　time　he　simply　let　everything　e　up　in　a　series　of　hopeless　choking　sounds。　Crazily；　the　back　of　his　mind　had　turned　to　Charity　with　childish　resentment。　Charity　had　gotten　her　trip；　but　he　wasn't　going　to　get　his。　He　wasn't　going　to　get　his　because　some　crazy　bastard　had　done　a　jack　the　Ripper　act　on　poor　old　Gary　Pervier　and　
…　and　he　had　to　call　the　police。　Never　mind　all　the　rest　of　it。　Never　mind　the　way　the　ole　Pervert's　eyes　were　glaring　up　at　the　ceiling　in　the　shadows；　the　way　the　sheared…copper　smell　of　his　blood　mingled　with　the　sickish…sweet　aroma　of　the　honeysuckle。
He　got　to　his　feet　and　staggered　down　toward　the　kitchen。　He　was　moaning　deep　in　his　throat　but　was　hardly　aware　of　it。　The　phone　was　on　the　wall　in　the　kitchen。　He　had　to　call　the　State　Police；　Sheriff　Bannerman；　someone　
He　stopped　in　the　doorway。　His　eyes　widened　until　they　actually　seemed　to　be　bulging　from　his　head。　There　was　a　pile　of　dog　droppings　in　the　doorway　of　the　kitchen　。。。　and　he　knew　from　the　size　of　the　pile　whose　dog　had　been　here。
'Cujo；'　he　whispered。　'Oh　my　God；　Cujo's　gone　rabid！'
He　thought　he　heard　a　sound　behind　him　and　he　whirled　around；　hair　freezing　up　from　the　back　of　his　neck。　The　hallway　was　empty　except　for　Gary；　Gary　who　had　said　the　other　night　that　Joe　couldn't　sic　Cujo　on　a　yelling　nigger；　Gary　with　his　throat　laid　open　all　the　way　to　the　knob　of　his　backbone。
There　was　no　sense　in　taking　chances。　He　bolted　back　down　the　hallway；　skidding　momentarily　in　Gary's　blood；　leaving　an　elongated　footmark　behind　him。　He　moaned　again；　but　when　he　had　shut　the　heavy　inner　door　he　felt　a　little　better。
He　went　back　to　the　kitchen；　shying　his　way　around　Gary's　body；　and　looked　in；　ready　to　pull　the　kitchen　hallway　door　shut　quickly　if　Cujo　was　in　there。　Again　he　wished　distractedly　for　the　forting　weight　of　his　shotgun　over　his　arm。
The　kitchen　was　empty。　Nothing　…moved　except　the　curtains；　stirring　in　a　sluggish　breeze　which　whispered　through　the　open　windows。　There　was　a　smell　of　dead　vodka　bottles。　It　was　sour；　but　better　than　that　。。。　that　other　smell。　Sunlight　lay　on　the　faded　hilly　linoleum　in　orderly　patterns。　The　phone；　its　once…white　plastic　case　now　dulled　with　the　grease　of　many　bachelor　meals　and　cracked　in　some　long…ago　drunken　stumble；　hung　on　the　wall　as　always。
Joe　went　in　and　closed　le　door　firmly　behind　him。　He　crossed　to　the　two　open　windows　and　saw　nothing　in　the　tangle　of　the　back　yard　except　the　rusting　corpses　of　the　two　cars　that　had　predated　Gary's　Chrysler。　He　closed　the　windows　anyway。
He　went　to　the　telephone；　pouring　sweat　in　the　explosively　hot　kitchen。　The　book　was　hanging　beside　the　phone　on　a　hank　of　hayrope。　Gary　had　made　the　hole　through　the　book　where　the　hayrope　was　threaded　with　Joe's　drillpunch　about　a　year　ago；　drunk　as　a　lord　and　proclaiming　that　he　didn't　give　a　shit。
Joe　picked　the　book　up　and　then　dropped　it。　The　book　thudded　against　the　wall。　His　hands　felt　too　heavy。　His　mouth　was　slimy　with　the　taste　of　vomit。　He　got　hold　of　the　book　again　and　opened　it　with　a　jerk　that　nearly　tore　off　the　cover。　He　could　have　dialed　0；　or　555…1212；　but　in　his　shock