sk.cujo-第29节

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　from　the　seventy…nine…cent　plastic　jobs　that　his　dad　sometimes　bought　him　at　the　Bridgton　Pharmacy　where　he　always　got　Time　magazine　on　Wednesday　evenings　（you　had　to　play　carefully　with　the　seventy…nine…cent　trucks　because　they　were　MADE　IN　TAIWAN　and　had　a　tendency　to　fall　apart）　to　the　flagship　of　his　line；　a　great　yellow　Tonka　bulldozer　that　came　up　to　his　knees　when　he　was　standing。
He　had　various　'men'　to　stick　into　the　cabs　of　his　trucks。　Some　of　them　were　round…headed　guys　scrounged　from　his　PlaySkool　toys。　Others　were　soldiers。　Not　a　few　were　what　he　called　'Star　Wars　Guys'。　These　included　Luke；　Han　Solo；　the　Imperial　Creep　（aka　Darth　Vader）；　a　Bespin　Warrior；　and　Tad's　absolute　favorite；　Greedo。　Greedo　always　got　to　drive　the　Tonka　dozer。
Sometimes　he　played　Dukes　of　Hazzard　with　his　trucks；　sometimes　B。　J。　and　the　Bear；　sometimes　Cops　and　Moonshiners　（his　dad　and　mom　had　taken　him　to　see　White　Lightning　and　White　Line　Fever　on　a　double　bill　at。　the　Norway　Drive…In　and　Tad　had　been　very　impressed）；　sometimes　a　game　he　had　made　up　himself。　That　one　was　called　Ten…Truck　Wipe…Out。
But　the　game　he　played　most　often　…　and　the　one　he　was　playing　now　…had　no　name。　It　consisted　of　digging　the　trucks　and　the　'men'　out　of　his　two　playchests　and　lining　the　trucks　up　one　by　one　in　diagonal　parallels；　the　men　inside；　as　if　they　were　all　slant…parked　on　a　street　that　only　Tad　could　see。　Then　he　would　run　them　to　the　other　side　of　the　room　one　by　one；　very　slowly；　and　line　them　up　on　that　side　bumper…to…bumper。　Sometimes　he　would　repeat　this　cycle　ten　or　fifteen　times；　for　an　hour　or　more；　without　tiring。
Both　Vic　and　Donna　had　been　struck　by　this　game。　It　was　a　little　disturbing　to　watch　Tad　set　up　this　constantly　repeating；　almost　ritualistic　pattern。　They　had　both　asked　him　on　occasion　what　the　attraction　was；　but　Tad　did　not　have　the　vocabulary　to　explain。　Dukes　of　Hazzard；　Cops　and　Moonshiners；　and　Ten…Truck　Wipe…Out　were　simple　crash…and…bash　games。　The　no…name　game　was　quiet；　peaceful；　tranquil；　ordered。　If　his　vocabulary　bad　been　big　enough；　he　might　have　told　his　parents　it　was　his　way　of　saying　Om　and　thereby　opening　the　doors　to　contemplation　and　reflection。
Now　as　he　played　it；　he　was　thinking　something　was　wrong。
His　eyes　went　automatically　…　unconsciously　…　to　the　door　of　his　closet；　but　the　problem　wasn't　there。　The　door　was　firmly　latched；　and　since　the　Monster　Words；　it　never　came　open。　No；　the　something　wrong　was　something　else。
He　didn't　know　exactly　what　it　was；　and　wasn't　sure　he　even　wanted　to　know。　But；　Iike　Brett　Camber；　he　was　already　adept　at　reading　the　currents　of　the　parental　river　upon　which　he　floated。　just　lately　he　had　gotten　the　feeling　that　there　were　black　eddies；　sandbars；　maybe　deadfalls　hidden　just　below　the　surface。　There　could　be　rapids。　A　waterfall。　Anything。
Things　weren't　right　between　his　mother　and　father。
It　was　in　the　way　they　looked　at　each　other。　The　way　they　talked　to　each　other。　It　was　on　their　faces　and　behind　their　faces。　In　their　thoughts。
He　finished　changing　a　slant…parked　row　of　trucks　on　one　side　of　the　room　to　bumper…to…bumper　traffic　on　the　other　side　and　got　up　and　went　to　the　window。　His　knees　hurt　a　little　because　he　had　been　playing　the　no…name　game　for　quite　a　while。　Down　below　in　the　back　yard　his　mother　was　hanging　out　clothes。　Half　an　hour　earlier　she　had　tried　to　call　the　man　who　could　fix　the　Pinto；　but　the　man　wasn't　home。　She　waited　a　long　time　for　someone　to　say　hello　and　then　slammed　the　phone　down；　mad。　And　his　mom　hardly　ever　got　mad　at　little　things　like　that。
As　he　watched；　she　finished　hanging　the　first　two　sheets。　
She　looked　at　them　。。。　and　her　shoulders　kind　of　sagged。　She　went　to　stand　by　the　apple　tree　beyond　the　double　clothesline；　and　Tad　knew　from　her　posture…her　legs　spread；　her　head　down；　her　shoulders　in　slight　motion　…　that　she　was　crying。　He　watched　her　for　a　little　while　and　then　crept　back　to　his　trucks。　There　was　a　hollow　place　in　the　pit　of　his　stomach。　He　missed　his　father　already；　missed　him　badly；　but　this　was　worse。
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