sk.everythingseventual-第69章
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d and she was worried。 That's the sort of argument where one of you ends up spending the night on the couch。 And the only way to stop an argument like that is to be quiet。 In a marriage； words are like rain。 And the land of a marriage is filled with dry washes and arroyos that can bee raging rivers in almost the wink of an eye。 The therapists believe in talk； but most of them are either divorced or queer。 It's silence that is a marriage's best friend。
Silence。
After a while； my best friend rolled over on her side； away from me and into the place where she goes when she finally gives up the day。 I lay awake a little while longer； thinking of a dusty little car； perhaps once white； parked nose…down in the ditch beside a ranch road out in the Nevada desert not too far from Caliente。 The driver's side door standing open； the rearview mirror torn off its post and lying on the floor； the front seat sodden with blood and tracked over by the animals that had e in to investigate； perhaps to sample。
There was a man…they assumed he was a man； it almost always is…who had butchered five women out in that part of the world； five in three years； mostly during the time L。T。 had been living with Lulubelle。 Four of the women were transients。 He would get them to stop somehow； then pull them out of their cars； rape them； dismember them with an axe； leave them a rise or two away for the buzzards and crows and weasels。 The fifth one was an elderly rancher's wife。 The police call this killer the Axe Man。 As I write this； the Axe Man has not been captured。 Nor has he killed again； if Cynthia Lulubelle Simms DeWitt was the Axe Man's sixth victim； she was also his last； at least so far。 There is still some question； however； as to whether or not she was his sixth victim。 If not in most minds' that question exists in the part of L。T。's mind which is still allowed to hope。
The blood on the seat wasn't human blood； you see； it didn't take the Nevada State Forensics Unit five hours to determine that。 The ranch hand who found Lulubelle's Subaru saw a cloud of circling birds half a mile away； and when he reached them； he found not a dismembered woman but a dismembered dog。 Little was left but bones and teeth； the predators and scavengers had had their day； and there's not much meat on a Jack Russell terrier to begin with。 The Axe Man most definitely got Frank； Lulubelle's fate is probable； but far from certain。
Perhaps； I thought； she is alive。 Singing 'Tie a Yellow Ribbon' at The Jailhouse in Ely or 'Take a Message to Michael' at The Rose of Santa Fe in Hawthorne。 Backed up by a three…piece bo。 Old men trying to look young in red vests and black string ties。 Or maybe she's blowing GM cowboys in Austin or Wendover…bending forward until her breasts press flat on her thighs beneath a calendar showing tulips in Holland； gripping set after set of flabby buttocks in her hands and thinking about what to watch on TV that night； when her shift is done。 Perhaps she just pulled over to the side of the road and walked away。 People do that。 I know it； and probably you do； too。 Sometimes people just say fuck it and walk away。 Maybe she left Frank behind； thinking someone would e along and give him a good home； only it was the Axe Man who came along； and 。 。 。
But no。 I met Lulubelle； and for the life of me I can't see her leaving a dog to most likely roast to death or starve to death in the barrens。 Especially not a dog she loved the way she loved Frank。 No； L。T。 hadn't been exaggerating about that； I saw them together； and I know。
She could still be alive somewhere。 Technically speaking； at least； L。T。's right about that。 Just because I can't think of a scenario that would lead from that car with the door hanging open and the rearview mirror lying on the floor and the dog lying dead and crow…picked two rises away； just because I can't think of a scenario that would lead from that place near Caliente to some other place where Lulubelle Simms sings or sews or blows truckers； safe and unknown； well； that doesn't mean that no such scenario exists。 As I told L。T。； it isn't as if they found her body； they just found her car； and the remains of the dog a little way from the car。 Lulubelle herself could be anywhere。 You can see that。
I couldn't sleep and I felt thirsty。 I got out of bed； went into the bathroom； and took the toothbrushes out of the glass we keep by the sink。 I filled the glass with water。 Then I sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and drank the water and thought about the sound that Siamese cats make； that weird crying； how it must sound good if you love them； how it must sound like ing home。
THE ROAD VIRUS HEADS NORTH
I actually have the picture described in this story； how weird is that？ My wife saw it and thought I'd like it （or at least react to it）； so she gave it to me as a 。 。 。 birthday present？ Christmas present？ I can't remember。 What I can remember is that none of my three kids liked it。 I hung it in my office； and they claimed the driver's eyes followed them as they crossed the room （as a very small boy； my son Owen was similarly freaked by a picture of Jim Morrison）。 I like stories about pictures that change； and finally I wrote this one about my picture。 The only other time I can remember being inspired to write a story based on an actual picture was 'The House on Maple Street；' based on a black…and…white drawing by Chris Van Allsburg。 That story is in Nightmares and Dreamscapes。 I also wrote a novel about a picture that changes。 It's called Rose Madder； and is probably the best read of my novels （no movie； either）。 In that story； the Road Virus is named Norman。
Richard Kinnell wasn't frightened when he first saw the picture at the yard sale in Rosewood。
He was fascinated by it； and he felt he'd had the good luck to find something which might be very special； but fright？ No。 It didn't occur to him until later （'not until it was too late；' as he might have written in one of his own numbingly successful novels） that he had felt much the same way about certain illegal drugs as a young man。
He had gone down to Boston to participate in a PEN/New En…gland conference titled 'The Threat of Popularity。' You could count on PEN to e up with such subjects； Kinnell had found； it was actually sort of forting。 He drove the two hundred and sixty miles from Derry rather than flying because he'd e to a plot impasse on his latest book and wanted some quiet time to try to work it out。
At the conference； he sat on a panel where people who should have known better asked him where he got his ideas and if he ever scared himself。 He left the city by way of the Tobin Bridge； then got on Route 1。 He never took the turnpike when he was trying to work out problems； the turnpike lulled him into a state that was like dreamless； waking sleep。 It was restful； but not very creative。 The stop…and…go traffic on the coast road； however； acted like grit inside an oyster…it created a fair amount of mental activity 。 。 。 and sometimes even a pearl。
Not； he supposed； that his critics would use that word。 In an issue of Esquire last year； Bradley Simons had begun his review of Nightmare City this way： 'Richard Kinnell； who writes like Jeffrey Dahmer cooks； has suffered a fresh bout of projectile vomiting。 He has titled this most recent mass of ejecta Nightmare City。'
Route 1 took him through Revere； Malden； Everett； and up the coast to Newburyport。 Beyond Newburyport and just south of the Massachusetts…New Hampshire border was the tidy little town of Rosewood。 A mile or so beyond the town center； he saw an array of cheap…looking goods spread out on the lawn of a two…story Cape。 Propped against an avocado…colored electric stove was a sign reading YARD SALE。 Cars were parked on both sides of the road； creating one of those bottlenecks which travellers unaffected by the yard sale mystique curse their way through。 Kinnell liked yard sales； particularly the boxes of old books you sometimes found at them。 He drove through the bottleneck； parked his Audi at the head of the line of cars pointed toward Maine and New Hampshire； then walked back。
A dozen or so people were cir
