sk.dreamcatcher-第88章

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　　　　'You'll　turn　the　machine…guns　on　us；'　Henry　panted。　'Bodies　go　in　the　barn　。　。　。　barn　gets　doused　with　gasoline　。　。　。　probably　from　Old　Man　Gosselin's　own　pump；　why　waste　government　issue。　。　。　and　then　ploof；　up　in　smoke　。　。　。　two　hundred　。　。　。　four　hundred　。　。　。　it'll　smell　like　a　VFW　pig…roast　in　hell　。　。　。'
　　　　Underhill's　smile　was　gone　and　he　walked　faster　still。　Henry　somehow　found　the　strength　to　trot；　gasping　for　air　and　fighting　his　way　through　knee…high　snowdunes。　The　wind　was　keen　against　his　throbbing　face。　Like　a　blade。
　　　　'But　Owen　。　。　。　that's　you；　right？　。　。　。　Owen？　。　。　。　you　remember　that　old　rhyme　。　。　。　the　one　that　goes　〃Big　fleas　。　。　。　got　little　fleas　。　。　。　to　bite　em　。　。　。　and　so　on　and　so　on　。　。　。　and　so　on　ad　infinitum？〃　that's　here　and　that's　you　。　。　。　because　Kurtz　has　got　his　own　cadre　the　man　under　him；　I　think　his　name　is　Johnson　。　。　。'
　　　　Underhill　gave　him　a　single　sharp　look；　then　walked　faster　than　ever。　Henry　somehow　managed　to　keep　up；　but　he　didn't　think　he　would　be　able　to　much　longer。　He　had　a　stitch　in　his　side。　It　was　hot　and　getting　hotter。　'That　was　supposed　。　。　。　to　be　your　job　the　second　part　of　the　clean…up　。　。　。　Imperial　Valley；　that's　the　code　name　。　。　。　mean　anything　to　you？'
　　　　Henry　saw　it　didn't。　Kurtz　must　never　have　told　Underhill　about　the　operation　that　would　wipe　out　most　of　Blue　Group。　Imperial　Valley　meant　exactly　squat　to　Owen　Underhill；　and　now；　in　addition　to　the　stitch；　Henry　had　what　felt　like　an　iron　band　around　his　chest；　squeezing　and　squeezing。
　　　　'Stop　。　。　。　Jesus；　Underhill　。　。　。　can't　you　。　。　。　？'
　　　　Underhill　just　kept　striding　along。　Underhill　wanted　to　keep　his　last　few　illusions。　Who　could　blame　him？
　　　　Johnson　。　。　。　a　few　others　。　。　。　at　least　one's　a　woman　。　。　。　could　have　been　you　too　if　you　hadn't　tucked　up　。　。　。　you　crossed　the　line；　that's　what　he　thinks　。　。　。　not　the　first　time；　either　。　。　。　you　did　it　before；　at　some　place　like　Bossa　Nova　。　。　。'
　　　　That　earned　Henry　a　sudden　sharp　look。　Progress？　Maybe。
　　　　'In　the　end　I　think　even　Johnson　goes　。　。　。　only　Kurtz　leaves　here　alive　。　。　。　the　rest　nothing　but　a　pile　of　ashes　and　bones　。　。　。　your　fucking　telepathy　doesn't　。　。　。　tell　you　that；　does　it　。　。　。　your　little　parlor…trick　mind…reading　。　。　。　won't　even　。　。　。　fucking　touch　。　。　。　that　。　。　。'
　　　　The　stitch　in　his　side　deepened　and　sank　into　his　right　armpit　like　a　claw。　At　the　same　time　his　feet　slipped　and　he　went　flailing　headfirst　into　a　snowdrift。　His　lungs　tore　furiously　for　air　and　instead　got　a　great　gasp　of　powdery　snow。
　　　　Henry　flailed　to　his　knees；　coughing　and　choking；　and　saw　Underhill's　back　just　disappearing　into　the　wall　of　blowing　snow。　Not　knowing　what　he　was　going　to　say；　knowing　only　that　it　was　his　last　chance；　he　screamed：　'You　tried　to　piss　on　Mr　Rapeloew's　toothbrush　and　when　you　couldn't　do　that　you　broke　their　plate！　Broke　their　plate　and　ran　away！　Just　like　you're　running　away　now；　you　fucking　coward！'　
　　　　Ahead　of　him；　barely　visible　in　the　snow；　Owen　Underhill　stopped。


4

For　a　moment　he　only　stood　there；　his　back　to　Henry；　who　knelt　panting　like　a　dog　in　the　snow　with　melting；　icy　water　running　down　his　burning　face。　Henry　was　aware　in　a　way　that　was　both　distant　and　immediate　that　the　scratch　on　his　leg　where　the　byrus　was　growing　had　begun　to　itch。
　　　　At　last　Underhill　turned　around　and　came　back。　'How　do　you　know　about　the　Rapeloews？　The　telepathy　is　fading。　You　shouldn't　be　able　to　get　that　deep。'
　　　　'I　know　a　lot；'　Henry　said。　He　got　to　his　feet　and　then　stood　there；　gasping　and　coughing。　'Because　it　runs　deep　in　me。　I'm　different。　My　friends　and　I；　we　were　all　different。　There　were　four　of　us。　Two　are　dead。　I'm　in　here。　The　fourth　one　。　。　。　Mr　Underhill；　the　fourth　one　is　your　problem。　Not　me；　not　the　people　you've　got　in　the　barn　or　the　ones　you're　still　bringing　in；　not　your　Blue　Group　or　Kurtz's　Imperial　Valley　cadre。　Only　him。'　He　struggled；　not　wanting　to　say　the　name　…　Jonesy　was　the　one　to　whom　he　had　been　the　closest；　Beaver　and　Pete　were　great；　but　only　Jonesy　could　run　with　him　mind　for　mind；　book　for　book；　idea　for　idea；　only　Jonesy　also　had　the　knack　of　dreaming　outside　the　lines　as　well　as　seeing　the　line。　But　Jonesy　was　gone；　wasn't　he？　Henry　was　quite　sure　of　that。　He　had　been　there；　a　tiny　bit　of　him　had　been　there　when　the　redblack　cloud　passed　Henry；　but　by　now　his　old　friend　would　have　been　eaten　alive。　His　heart　might　still　beat　and　his　eyes　might　still　see；　but　the　essential　Jonesy　was　as　dead　as　Pete　and　the　Beav。
　　　　'Jonesy's　your　problem；　Mr　Underhill。　Gary　Jones；　of　Brookline；　Massachusetts。'
　　　　'Kurtz　is　a　problem；　too。'　Underhill　spoke　too　softly　to　be　heard　over　the　howling　wind；　but　Henry　heard　him；　anyway　…　heard　him　in　his　mind。
　　　　Underhill　looked　around。　Henry　followed　the　shift　of　his　head　and　saw　a　few　men　running　down　the　makeshift　avenue　between　the　campers　and　trailer　boxes　…　no　one　close。　Yet　the　entire　area　around　the　store　and　the　barn　was　mercilessly　bright；　and　even　with　the　wind　he　could　hear　revving　engines；　the　stuttery　roar　of　generators；　and　men　yelling。　Someone　was　giving　orders　through　a　bullhorn。　The　overall　effect　was　eerie；　as　if　the　two　of　them　had　been　trapped　by　the　storm　in　a　place　filled　with　ghosts。　The　running　men　even　looked　like　ghosts　as　they　faded　into　the　dancing　sheets　of　snow。
　　　　'We　can't　talk　here；'　Underhill　said。　'Listen　to　me；　and　don't　make　me　repeat　a　single　word；　buck。'
　　　　And　in　Henry's　head；　where　there　was　now　so　much　input　that　most　of　it　was　tangled　into　an　inprehensible　stew；　a　thought　from　Owen　Underhill's　mind　suddenly　rose　clear　and　plain：　Buck。　His　word。　I　can't　believe　I　used　his　word。
　　　　'I'm　listening；'　Henry　said。


5

The　shed　was　on　the　far　side　of　the　pound；　as　far　from　the　barn　as　it　was　possible　to　get；　and　although　the　outside　was　as　brilliantly　lit　as　the　rest　of　this　hellish　concentration　camp；　the　inside　was　dark　and　smelled　sweetly　of　old　hay。　And　something　else；　something　a　little　more　acrid。
　　　　There　were　four　men　and　a　woman　sitting　with　their　backs　against　the　shed's　far　wall。　They　were　all　dressed　in　orange　hunting　togs；　and　they　were　passing　a　joint。　There　were　only　two　windows　in　the　shed；　one　facing　in　toward　the　corral；　the　other　facing　out　toward　the　perimeter　fence　and　the　woods　beyond。　The　glass　was　dirty；　and　cut　the　merciless　white　glare　of　the　sodium　lights　a　little。　In　the　dimness；　the　faces　of　the　pot…smoking　prisoners　looked　gray；　dead　already。
　　　　'You　want　a　hit？'　the　one　with　the　Joint　asked。　He　spoke　in　a　strained；　miserly　voice；　holding　the　smoke　in；　but　he　held　the　joint　out　willingly　enough。　It　was　a　bomber；　Henry　saw；　big　as　a　panatela。
　　　　'No。　I　want　you　all　to　get　out　of　here。'　They　looked　at　him；　unprehending。　The　woman　was　married　to　the　man　currently　holding　the　joint。　The　guy　on　her　left　was　her　brother…in…law。　The　other　two　were　just　along　for　the　ride。
　　　　'Go　back　to　the　barn；'　Henry　said。　
　　　　'No　way；'　one　of　the　other　men　said。　'Too　crowded　in　there。　We　prefer　to　be　more　exclusive。　And　since　we　were　here　first；　I　suggest　that　if　you　don't　want　to　be　sociable；　you　should　be　the　one　to…'
　　　　'I've　got　it；'　Henry　said。　He　put　a　hand　on　the　tee…shirt　knotted　around　his　leg。　'Byrus。　What　they　call　Ripley。　Some　of　you　may　have　it　。　。　。　I　think　you　do；　Charles…'　He　pointed　at　the　fifth　man；　burly　in　his　parka　and　balding。
　　　　'No！'　Charles　cried；　but　the　others　were　already　scrambling　away　from　him；　the　one　with　the　Cambodian　cigar　（his　name　was　Darren　Chiles　and　he　was　from　Newton；　Massachusetts）　being　careful　to　hold　onto　his　smoke。
　　　　'Yeah；　you　do；'　Henry　said。　'Major　league。　So　do　you；　Mona。　Mona？　No；　Marsha。　It's　Marsha。'
　　　　'I　don't！'　she　said。　She　got　up；　pressing　her　back　against　the　shed　wall　and　looking　at　Henry　with　large；　terrified　eyes。　Doe's　eyes。　Soon　all　the　does　up　here　would　be　dead；　and　Marsha　would　be　dead；　as　well。　Henry　hoped　she　could　not　see　that　thought　in　his　mind。　'I'm　clean；　mister；　we're　all　clean　in　here　except　you！'
　　　　She　looked　at　her　husband；　who　was　not　big；　but　bigger　than　Henry。　They　all　were；　actually。　Not　taller；　maybe；　but　bigger。
　　　　'Throw　him　out；　Dare。'
　　　　'There　are　two　types