sk.dreamcatcher-第63章
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nese eyes。 Duddits was our finest hour； he had told Pete。
'Fit wha？' Henry said now。 'Fit neek？'
Yeah； fit neek。 Turn it around； put it on the right way； fit neek。
Smiling a little now （although his cheeks were still wet with tears that were beginning to freeze）； Henry began to ski along the crimped track of the snowmobile again。
10
Ten minutes later he came to the overturned wreck of the Scout。 He suddenly realized two things： that he was ragingly hungry after all and that there was food in there。 He had seen the tracks both going and ing and hadn't needed Natty Bumppo to know that Pete had left the woman and returned to the Scout。 Nor did he need Hercule Poirot to tell him that the food they'd bought at the store … most of it； at least … would still be in there。 He knew what Pete had e back for。
He skied around to the passenger side； following Pete's tracks； then froze in the act of loosening the ski bindings。 This side was away from the wind； and what Pete had written in the snow as he sat drinking his two beers was mostly still here： DUDDITS； printed over and over again。 As he looked at the name in the snow； Henry began to shiver。 It was like ing to the grave of a loved one and hearing a voice speak out of the ground。
11
There was broken glass inside the Scout。 Blood； as well。 Because most of the blood was on the back seat； Henry felt sure it hadn't been spilled in the original accident； Pete had cut himself on his return trip。 To Henry； the interesting thing was that there was none of the red…gold fuzz。 It grew rapidly； and so the logical conclusion was that Pete hadn't been infected when he'd e for the beer。 Later； maybe； but not then。
He grabbed the bread； the peanut butter； the milk； and the carton of orange juice。 Then he backed out of the Scout and sat with his shoulders against the overturned rear end； watching the fresh snow sift down and gobbling bread and peanut butter as fast as he could； using his index finger as a knife and licking it clean between spreads。 The peanut butter was good and the orange juice went down in two long drafts； but it wasn't enough。
'What you're thinking of；' he announced to the darkening afternoon； 'is grotesque。 Not to mention red。 Red food。'
Red or not； he was thinking of it； and surely it wasn't all that grotesque； he was； after all； a man who had spent long nights thinking about guns and ropes and plastic bags。 All of that seemed a little childish just now； but it was him； all right。 And so…
'And so let me close； ladies and gentlemen of the American Psychiatric Association； by quoting the late Joseph 〃Beaver〃 Clarendon： 〃Said fuck it and put a dime in the Salvation Army bucket。 And if you don't like it； grab my cock and suck it。〃 Thank you very much。'
Having thus discoursed to the American Psychiatric Association； Henry crawled back into the Scout； once more successfully avoiding the broken glass； and got the package wrapped in butcher's paper （2。79 printed on it in Old Man Gosselin's shaky hand）。 He backed out again with the package in his pocket； then took it out and snapped the twine。 Inside were nine plump hot dogs。 The red kind。
For a moment his mind tried to show him the legless reptilian thing squirming on Jonesy's bed and looking at him with its empty black eyes； but he banished it with the speed and ease of one whose survival instincts have never wavered。
The hot dogs were fully cooked； but he warmed them up just the same； running the flame of his butane lighter back and forth beneath each one until it was at least warm； then wrapping it in Wonder Bread and gobbling it down。 He smiled as he did it； knowing how ridiculous he would look to an observer。 Well； didn't they say that psychiatrists eventually ended up as loony as their patients； if not more so？
The important thing was that he was finally full。 Even more important； all the disconnected thoughts and fragmented images had drained out of his mind。 Also the song。 He hoped none of that crap would e back。 Ever； please God。
He swallowed more milk； belched； then leaned his head against the side of the Scout and closed his eyes。 No going to sleep； though； these woods were lovely； dark and deep； and he had twelve…point…seven miles to go before he could sleep。
He remembered Pete talking about the gossip in Gosselin's missing hunters； lights in the sky … and how blithely The Great American Psychiatrist had dismissed it； gassing about the Satanism hysteria in Washington State； the abuse hysteria in Delaware。 Playing Mr Smartass Shrink…Boy with his mouth and the front of his mind while the back of his mind went on playing with suicide like a baby who's just discovered his toes in the bathtub。 He had sounded entirely plausible； ready for any TV panel show that wanted to spend sixty minutes on the interface between the unconscious and the unknown； but things had changed。 Now he had bee one of the missing hunters。 Also； he had seen things you couldn't find on the Internet no matter how big your search engine was。
He sat there； head back； eyes closed； belly full。 Jonesy's Garand was propped against one of the Scout's tires。 The snow lit on his cheeks and forehead like the light touch of a kitten's paws。 'This is it； what all the geeks have been waiting for；' he said。 'Close encounters of the third kind。 Hell； maybe the fourth or fifth kind。 Sorry I made fun of you； Pete。 You were right and I was wrong。 Hell； it's worse than that。 Old Man Gosselin was right and I was wrong； So much for a Harvard education。'
And once he'd said that much out loud； things began to make sense。 Something had either landed or crashed。 There had been an armed response from the United States government。 Were they telling the outside world what had happened？ Probably not； that wasn't their style； but Henry had an idea they would have to before much longer。 You couldn't put the entire Jefferson Tract in Hangar 57。
Did he know anything else？ Maybe； and maybe it was a little more than the men in charge of the helicopters and the firing parties knew。 They clearly believed they were dealing with a contagion； but Henry didn't think it was as dangerous as they seemed to。 The stuff caught； bloomed 。 。 。 but then it died。 Even the parasite that had been inside the woman had died。 This was a bad time of year and a bad place to culture interstellar athlete's foot； if that was what it was。 All that argued strongly for the possibility of a crash landing 。 。 。 but what about the lights in the sky？ What about the implants？ For years people who claimed they'd been abducted bv ETs had also claimed they had been stripped 。 。 。 examined 。 。 。 forced to undergo implants。 All ideas so Freudian they were almost laughable 。 。 。
Henry realized he was drifting and snapped awake so strongly that the unwrapped package of hot dogs tumbled off his lap and into the snow。 No； not just drifting； dozing。 A good deal more light had seeped out of the day； and the world had gone a dull slate color。 His pants were speckled with the fresh snow。 If he'd gone any deeper； he'd've been snoring。
He brushed himself off and stood up； wincing as his muscles screamed in protest。 He regarded the hot dogs lying there in the snow with something like revulsion； then bent down； rewrapped them； and tucked them into one of his coat pockets。 They might start looking good to him again later on。 He sincerely hoped not； but you never knew。
'Jonesy's in the hospital；' he said abruptly。 No idea what he meant。 'Jonesy's in the hospital with Mr Gray。 Got to stay there。 ICU。'
Madness。 Prattling madness。 He clamped the skis to his boots again； praying that his back wouldn't lock up while he was bent over； and then pushed off along the track once more； the snow starting to thicken around him now； the day darkening。
By the time he realized that he had remembered the hot dogs but forgotten Jonesy's rifle （not to mention his own）； he'd gone too far to turn around。
12
He stopped what might have been three quarters of an hour later； peering stupidly down at the Arctic Cat's print。 There was little more than a glimmer of light left in the day now； but enough to see that the track … what was left of it … v
