sk.dreamcatcher-第147章

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　not。　There　are　some　people　after　us；　Jonesy。　Bad　people。　Do　you　hear　them？　Know　where　they　are？'　　　　
　　　　Lying　on　the　cold；　leaf…littered　floor；　Jonesy　shook　his　head。　'I'm　back　to　the　standard　five　senses；　I'm　afraid。　ESP's　all　gone。　The　Greeks　may　e　bearing　gifts；　but　they're　Indian　givers。'　He　laughed。'　Jesus；　I　could　lose　my　job　for　a　crack　like　that。　Sure　you　don't　want　to　just　shoot　me？'
　　　　Owen　paid　no　more　attention　to　this　than　he　had　to　the　semantical　differences　between　fuckarow　and　fuckaree。　Kurtz　was　ing；　that　was　the　problem　he　had　to　deal　with　now。　He　hadn't　heard　him　arrive；　but　he　might　not　have　done。　The　snow　was　falling　heavily　enough　to　damp　all　but　loud　sounds。　Gunshots；　for　instance。
　　　　'I　have　to　go　back　to　the　road；'　he　said。　'You　hang　in　there。'
　　　　'What　choice？'　Jonesy　asked；　and　closed　his　eyes。　'Man；　I　wish　I　could　go　back　to　my　nice　warm　office。　I　never　thought　I'd　say　that；　but　there　it　is。'
　　　　Owen　turned　and　went　back　down　the　steps；　slipping　and　sliding　but　managing　to　keep　his　feet。　He　scanned　the　woods　to　either　side　of　the　path；　but　not　closely。　If　Kurtz　and　Freddy　were　laid　up；　waiting　someplace　between　here　and　the　Hummer；　he　doubted　be　would　see　them　in　time　to　do　anything。　He　might　see　tracks；　but　by　then　he'd　be　so　close　to　them　they'd　likely　be　the　last　things　he　saw。　He　had　to　hope　he　was　still　ahead；　that　was　all。　Had　to　trust　to　plain　old　baldass　luck；　and　why　not？　He'd　been　in　plenty　of　tight　places；　and　baldass　luck　had　always　pulled　him　through。　Maybe　it　would　do　so　ag…
　　　　The　first　bullet　took　him　in　the　belly；　knocking　him　backward　and　blowing　the　back　of　his　coat　out　in　a　bee…shape。　He　pumped　his　feet；　trying　to　stay　upright；　also　trying　to　hang　onto　the　MP5。　There　was　no　pain；　just　a　feeling　of　having　been　sucker…punched　by　a　large　boxing　glove　on　the　fist　of　a　mean　opponent。　The　second　round　shaved　the　side　of　his　head；　producing　a　bum…and…sting　like　rubbing　alcohol　poured　into　an　open　wound。　The　third　shot　hit　him　high　up　on　the　right　side　of　the　chest　and　that　was　Katie　bar　the　door；　he　lost　both　his　feet　and　the　carbine。
　　　　What　had　Jonesy　said？　Something　about　having　saved　the　world　and　getting　paid　off　in　the　traditional　manner。　And　this　wasn't　so　bad；　really；　it　had　taken　Jesus　six　hours；　they'd　put　a　joke　sign　over　His　head；　and　e　cocktail　hour　they'd　given　Him　a　stiff　vinegar…and…water。
　　　　He　lay　half　on　and　half　off　the　snow…covered　path；　vaguely　aware　that　something　was　screaming　and　it　wasn't　him。　It　sounded　like　an　enormous　pissed…off　blue　jay。　　　　
　　　　That's　an　eagle；　Owen　thought。
　　　　He　managed　to　get　a　breath；　and　although　the　exhale　was　more　blood　than　air；　he　was　able　to　get　up　on　his　elbows。　He　saw　two　figures　emerge　from　the　tangle　of　birches　and　pines；　bent　low；　very　much　in　bat…advance　mode。　One　was　squat　and　broad…shouldered；　the　other　slim　and　gray…haired　and　positively　perky。　Johnson　and　Kurtz。　The　bulldog　and　the　greyhound。　His　luck　had　run　out　after　all。　In　the　end；　luck　always　did。
　　　　Kurtz　knelt　beside　him；　eyes　sparkling。　In　one　hand　he　held　a　triangle　of　newspaper。　It　was　battered　and　slightly　curved　from　its　long　trip　in　Kurtz's　rear　pocket；　but　still　recognizable。　It　was　a　cocked　hat。　A　fool's　hat。　'Tough　luck；　buck；'　Kurtz　said。
　　　　Owen　nodded。　It　was。　Very　tough　luck。　'I　see　you　found　time　to　make　me　a　little　something。'
　　　　'I　did。　Did　you　achieve　your　prime　objective；　at　least？'　Kurtz　lifted　his　chin　in　the　direction　of　the　shaft　house。
　　　　'Got　him；'　Owen　managed；　His　mouth　was　full　of　blood。　He　spat　it　out；　tried　to　pull　in　another　breath；　and　heard　the　good　part　of　it　wheeze　out　of　some　new　hole　instead。　　　　
　　　　'Well；　then；'　Kurtz　said　benevolently；　'all's　well　that　ends　well；　wouldn't　you　say？'　He　put　the　newspaper　hat　tenderly　on　Owen's　head。　Blood　soaked　it　immediately；　spreading　upward；　turning　the　UFO　story　red。
　　　　There　was　another　scream　from　somewhere　out　over　the　Reservoir；　perhaps　from　one　of　the　islands　that　were　actually　hills　poking　up　from　a　purposely　drowned　landscape。
　　　　'That's　an　eagle；'　Kurtz　said；　and　patted　Owen's　shoulder。　'Count　yourself　lucky；　laddie。　God　sent　you　a　warbird　to　sing　you　to…'
　　　　Kurtz's　head　exploded　in　a　spray　of　blood　and　brains　and　bone。
　　　　Owen　saw　one　final　expression　in　the　man's　blue；　white…lashed　eyes：　amazed　disbelief。　For　a　moment　Kurtz　remained　on　his　knees；　then　toppled　forward　on　what　remained　of　his　face。　Behind　him；　Freddy　Johnson　stood　with　his　carbine　still　raised　and　smoke　drifting　from　the　muzzle。
　　　　Freddy；　Owen　tried　to　say。　No　sound　came　out；　but　Freddy　must　have　read　his　lips。　He　nodded。
　　　　'Didn't　want　to；　but　the　bastard　was　going　to　do　it　to　me。　Didn't　have　to　read　his　mind　to　know　that。　Not　after　all　these　years。'
　　　　Finish　it；　Owen　tried　to　say。　Freddy　nodded　again。　Perhaps　there　was　a　vestige　of　that　goddam　telepathy　left　inside　Freddy；　after　all。
　　　　Owen　was　fading。　Tired　and　fading。　Goodnight；　sweet　ladies；　goodnight；　David；　goodnight；　Chet。　Goodnight；　sweet　prince。　He　lay　back　on　the　snow　and　it　was　like　falling　back　into　a　bed　stuffed　with　the　softest　down。　From　somewhere；　faint　and　far；　he　heard　the　eagle　scream　again。　They　had　invaded　its　territory；　disturbed　its　snowy　autumn　peace；　but　soon　they　would　be　gone。　The　eagle　would　have　the　reservoir　to　itself　again。
　　　　We　were　heroes；　Owen　thought。　Damned　if　we　weren't。　Fuck　your　hat；　Kurtz；　we　were　h…
　　　　He　never　heard　the　final　shot。


30

There　had　been　more　firing；　now　there　was　silence。　Henry　sat　in　the　back　seat　of　the　Humvee　beside　his　dead　friend；　trying　to　decide　what　to　do　next。　The　chances　that　they　had　all　killed　each　other　seemed　slim。　The　chances　that　the　good　guys　…　correction；　the　good　guy　had　taken　out　the　bad　ones　seemed　slimmer　still。
　　　　His　first　impulse　following　this　conclusion　was　to　vacate　the　Hummer　posthaste　and　hide　in　the　woods。　Then　he　looked　at　the　snow　（If　I　ever　see　snow　again；　he　thought；　it'll　be　too　soon）　and　rejected　the　idea。　If　Kurtz　or　whoever　was　with　him　came　back　in　the　next　half　hour；　Henry's　tracks　would　still　be　there。　They　would　follow　his　trail；　and　at　the　end　of　it　they'd　shoot　him　like　a　rabid　dog。　Or　a　weasel。
　　　　Get　a　gun；　then。　Shoot　them　before　they　can　shoot　you。
　　　　A　better　idea。　He　was　no　Wyatt　Earp；　but　he　could　shoot　straight。　Shooting　men　was　a　lot　different　from　shooting　deer；　you　didn't　have　to　be　a　headshrinker　to　know　that；　but　he　believed；　given　a　clear　line　of　fire；　he　could　shoot　these　guys　with　very　little　hesitation。
　　　　He　was　reaching　for　the　doorhandle　when　he　heard　a　surprised　curse；　a　thump；　yet　another　gunshot。　This　one　was　very　close。　Henry　thought　someone　had　lost　his　footing　and　gone　down　in　the　snow；　discharging　his　weapon　when　he　landed　on　his　ass。　Perhaps　the　son　of　a　bitch　had　just　shot　himself？　Was　that　too　much　to　hope　for？　Wouldn't　that　just…
　　　　But　no。　No　joy。　Henry　heard　a　low　grunt　as　the　person　who'd　fallen　got　up　and　came　on　again。　There　was　only　one　option；　and　Henry　took　it。　He　lay　back　down　on　the　seat；　put　Duddits's　arms　around　him　again　（as　best　he　could）；　and　played　dead。　He　didn't　think　there　was　much　chance　this　hugger…mugger　would　work；　The　bad　guys　had　passed　by　on　their　way　in　…　obviously；　as　he　was　still　alive　…　but　on　their　way　in　they　must　have　been　in　a　pants…ripping　hurry。　Now　they　would　be　a　lot　less　likely　to　be　fooled　by　a　few　bullet　holes；　some　broken　glass；　and　the　blood　of　poor　old　Duddits's　final　hemorrhages。
　　　　Henry　heard　soft；　crunching　footsteps　in　the　snow。　Only　one　set；　by　the　sound。　Probably　the　infamous　Kurtz。　Last　man　standing。　Darkness　approaching。　Death　in　the　afternoon。　No　longer　his　old　friend　…　now　he　was　only　playing　dead　…　but　approaching；　just　the　same。
　　　　Henry　closed　his　eyes　。　。　。　waited　。　。　。
　　　　The　footsteps　passed　the　Humvee　without　slowing。


31

Freddy　Johnson's　strategic　goal　was；　for　the　time　being；　both　extremely　practical　and　extremely　short…term：　he　wanted　to　get　the　goddam　Hummer　turned　around　without　getting　stuck。　If　he　managed　that；　he　wanted　to　get　past　the　break　in　East　Street　（where　the　Subaru　Owen　had　been　chasing　had　e　to　grief）　without　getting　ditched　himself　If　he　made　it　back　to　the　access　road；　he　might