sk.cujo-第66节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


Monsters　and　dogs　and　closets　and　garages　and　dead…end　roads。
Do　we　add　these　up；　teacher？　Subtract　them？　Divide？　Fractionate？
He　threw　his　cigarette　away。
He　did　believe　it　was　Kemp；　didn't　he？　Kemp　had　been　responsible　for　everything。　Kemp　had　wrecked　the　house。　Kemp　had　damn　near　wrecked　his　marriage。　Kemp　had　gone　upstairs　and　shot　his　semen　onto　the　bed　Vic　and　his　wife　had　slept　in　for　the　last　three　years。　Kemp　had　tom　a　great　big　hole　in　the　mostly　fortable　fabric　of　Vic　Trenton's　life。
Kemp。　Kemp。　All　Steve　Kemp's　fault。　Let's　blame　the　Cold　War　and　the　hostage　situation　in　Iran　and　the　depletion　of　the　ozone　layer　on　Kemp。
Stupid。　Because　not　everything　was　Kemp's　fault；　now；　was　it？　The　Zinger's　business；　for　instance；　Kemp　had　had　nothing　to　do　with　that。　And　Kemp　could　hardly　be　blamed　for　the　bad　needle　valve　on　Donna's　Pinto。
He　looked　at　his　old　jag。　He　was　going　to　go　somewhere　in　it。　He　couldn't　stay　here；　he　would　go　crazy　if　he　stayed　here。　He　should　get　in　the　car　and　beat　it　down　to　Scarborough。　Grab　hold　of　Kemp　and　shake　him　until　it　came　out；　until　he　told　what　he　had　done　with　Donna　and　Tad。　Except　by　then　his　lawyer　would　have　arrived；　and；　incredible　as　it　seemed；　the　lawyer　might　even　have　sprung　him。
Spring。　It　was　a　spring　that　held　the　needle　valve　in　place。　If　the　spring　was　bad；　the　valve　could　freeze　and　choke　off　the　flow　of　gasoline　to　the　carb。
Vic　went　down　to　the　jag　and　got　in；　wincing　at　the　hot　leather　seat。　Get　rolling　quick。　Get　some　cool　in　here。
Get　rolling　where？
Camber's　Garage；　his　mind　answered　immediately。
But　that　was　stupid；　wasn't　it？　Masen　had　sent　Sheriff　Bannerman　up　there　with　instructions　to　report　immediately　if　anything　was　wrong　and　the　cop　hadn't　reported　back　so　that　meant　
（that　the　monster　got　him）
Well；　it　wouldn't　hurt　to　go　up　there；　would　it？　And　it　was　something　to　do。
He　started　the　jag　up　and　headed　down　the　hill　toward
Route　117；　still　not　entirely　sure　if　he　was　going　to　turn　left　toward　I…95　and　Scarborough　or　right　toward　Town　Road　No。　3。
He　paused　at　the　stop　sign　until　someone　in　back　gave　him　the　horn。　Then；　abruptly；　he　turned　right。　It　wouldn't　hurt　to　take　a　quick　run　up　to　Joe　Camber's。　He　could　be　there　in　fifteen　minutes。　He　checked　his　watch　and　saw　that　it　was　twenty　past　twelve。
The　time　had　e；　and　Donna　knew　it。
The　time　might　also　have　gone；　but　she　would　have　to　live　with　that　…　and　perhaps　die　with　it。　No　one　was　going　to　e。　There　was　going　to　be　no　knight　on　a　silver　steed　riding　up　Town　Road　No。　3　…　Travis　McGee　was　apparently　otherwise　engaged。
Tad　was　dying。
She　made　herself　repeat　it　aloud　in　a　husky；　choked　whisper：　'Tad's　dying。'
She　had　not　been　able　to　create　any　breeze　through　the　car　this　morning。　Her　window　would　no　longer　go　down；　and　Tad's　window　let　in　nothing　but　more　heat。　The　one　time　she　had　tried　to　unroll　it　more　than　a　quarter　of　the　way；　Cujo　had　left　his　place　in　the　shade　of　the　garage　and　had　e　around　to　Tad's　side　as　fast　as　he　could；　growling　eagerly。
The　sweat　had　now　stopped　rolling　down　Tad's　face　and　neck。　There　was　no　more　sweat　left。　His　skin　was　dry　and　hot。　His　tongue；　swelled　and　dead…looking；　protruded　over　his　bottom　lip。　His　breathing　had　grown　so　faint　that　she　could　barely　hear　it。　Twice　she　had　had　to　put　her　head　against　his　chest　to　make　sure　that　he　still　breathed　at　all。
Her　condition　was　bad。　The　car　was　a　blast　furnace。　The　metalwork　was　now　too　hot　to　touch；　and　so　was　the　plastic　wheel。　Her　leg　was　a　steady；　throbbing　ache；　and　she　no　longer　doubted　that　the　dog's　bite　had　infected　her　with　something。　Perhaps　it　was　too　early　for　rabies　…　she　prayed　to　God　it　was　…　but　the　bites　were　red　and　inflamed。
Cujo　was　not　in　much　better　shape。　The　big　dog　seemed　to　have　shrunk　inside　his　matted　and　blood…streaked　coat。　His　eyes　were　hazy　and　nearly　vacant；　the　eyes　of　an　old　man　stricken　with　cataracts。　Like　some　old　engine　of　destruction；　now　gradually　beating　itself　to　death　but　still　terribly　dangerous；　he　kept　his　watch。　He　was　no　longer　foaming；　his　muzzle　was　a　dried　and　lacerated　horror。　It　looked　like　a　gouged　chunk　of　igneous　rock　that　had　been　coughed　out　of　the　hotbed　of　an　old　volcano。
The　old　monster；　she　thought　incoherently；　keeps　his　watch　still。
Had　this　terrible　vigil　been　only　a　matter　of　hours；　or　had　it　been　her　whole　life？　Surely　everything　that　had　gone　before　had　been　a　dream；　little　more　than　a　short　wait　in　the　wings？　The　mother　who　had　seemed　to　be　disgusted　and　repulsed　by　all　those　around　her；　the　well…meaning　but　ineffectual　father；　the　schools；　the　friends；　the　dates　and　dances　…　they　were　all　a　dream　to　her　now；　as　youth　must　seem　to　the　old。　Nothing　mattered；　nothing　was　but　this　silent　and　sunstruck　dooryard　where　death　had　been　dealt　and　yet　more　death　waited　in　the　cards；　as　sure　as　aces　and　eights。　The　old　monster　kept　his　watch　still；　and　her　son　was　slipping；　slipping；　slipping　away
The　baseball　bat。　That　was　all　that　remained　to　her　now。
The　baseball　bat　and　maybe；　if　she　could　get　there；　something　in　the　dead　man's　police　car。　Something　like　a　shotgun。
She　began　to　lift　Tad　into　the　back；　grunting　and　puffing；　fighting　the　waves　of　dizziness　that　made　her　sight　gray　over。　Finally　he　was　in　the　hatchback；　as　silent　and　still　as　a　sack　of　grain。'
She　looked　out　of　his　window；　saw　the　baseball　bat　lying　in　the　high　grass；　and　opened　the　door。
In　the　dark　mouth　of　the　garage；　Cujo　stood　up　and　began　to　advance　slowly；　head　lowered；　down　the　crushed　gravel　toward　her。
It　was　twelve　thirty　when　Donna　Trenton　stepped　out　of　her　Pinto　for　the　last　time。
Vic　turned　off　the　Maple　Sugar　Road　and　onto　Town　Road　No。　3　just　as　his　wife　was　going　for　Brett　Camber's　old　Hillerich　&　Bradsby　in　the　weeds。　He　was　driving　fast；　intent　on　getting　up　to　Camber's　so　he　could　turn　around　and　go　to　Scarborough；　some　fifty　miles　away。　Perversely；　as　soon　as　he　had　made　his　decision　to　e　out　here　first；　his　mind　began　dolefully　telling　him　that　he　was　on　a　wild　goosechase。　On　the　whole；　he　had　never　felt　so　impotent　in　his　life。
He　was　moving　the　jag　along　at　better　than　sixty；　so　intent　on　the　road　that　he　was　past　Gary　Pervier's　before　he　realized　that　Joe　Camber's　station　wagon　had　been　parked　there。　He　slammed　on　the　jag's　brakes；　burning　twenty　feet　of　rubber。　The　jag's　nose　dipped　toward　the　road。　The　cop　might　have　gone　up　to　Camber's　and　found　nobody　home　because　Camber　was　down　here。
He　glanced　in　the　rearview　mirror；　saw　the　road　was　empty；　and　backed　up　quickly。　He　wheeled　the　jag　into　Pervier's　driveway　and　got　out。
His　feelings　were　remarkably　like　those　of　Joe　Camber　himself　when；　two　days　before；　Joe　had　discovered　the　splatters　of　blood　（only　now　these　were　dried　and　maroon…colored）　and　the　smashed　bottom　panel　of　the　screen　door。　A　foul；　metallic　taste　flooded　Vic's　mouth。　This　was　all　a　part　of　it。　Somehow　it　was　all　a　part　of　Tad's　and　Donna's　disappearance。
He　let　himself　in　and　the　smell　hit　him　at　once　…　be　bloated；　green　smell　of　corruption。　It　had　been　a　hot　two　days。　There　was　something　halfway　down　the　hall　that　looked　Iike　a　knocked…over　endtable；　except　that　Vic　was　mortally　sure　that　it　wasn't　an　endtable。　Because　of　the　smell。　He　went　down　to　the　thing　in　the　hall　and　it　wasn't　an　endtable。　It　was　a　man。　The　man　appeared　to　have　had　his　throat　cut　with　an　extremely　dull　blade。
Vic　stepped　back。　A　dry　gagging　sound　came　from　his　throat。　The　telephone。　He　had　to　call　someone　about　this。
He　started　for　the　kitchen　and　then　stopped。　Suddenly　everything　came　together　in　his　mind。　Them　was　an　instant　of　crushing　revelation；　it　was　like　two　half　pictures　ing　together　to　make　a　three…dimensional　whole。
The　dog。　The　dog　had　done　this。
The　Pinto　was　at　Joe　Camber's。　The　Pinto　had　been　there　all　along。　The　Pinto　and　
'Oh　my　God；　Donna　…'
Vic　turned　and　ran　for　the　door　and　his　car。
Donna　almost　went　sprawling；　that　was　how　bad　her　legs　were。　She　caught　herself　and　grabbed　for　the　baseball　bat；　not　daring　to　look　around　for　Cujo　until　she　had　it　tightly　in　her　hands；　afraid　she　might　lose　her　balance　again。　If　she　had　had　time　to　look　a　little　further　…　just　a　little　…　she　would　have　seen　George　Bannerman's　service　pistol　laying　in　the　grass。　But　she　did　not。
She　turned　unsteadily　and　Cujo　was　running　at　her。
She　thrust　the　heavy　end　of　the　baseball　bat　at　the　Saint　Bernard；　and　her　heart　sank　at　the　unsteady　way　the　thing　wiggled　in　her　hand　…　the　handle　was　badly　splintered；　then。　The　Saint　Bernard　shied　away；　growling。　Her　breasts　rose　and　fell　rapidly　in　the　white　cotton　bra。　The　cups　were　blood　streaked；　she　had　wiped　her　hands　on　them　after　clearing　Tad's　mouth。
They　stood　staring　at　each　other；　measuring　each　other；　in　the　still　summer　sunlight。　The　only　sounds　were　her　low　rapid　breathing；　the　sound　of　Cujo　growling　deep　in　his　chest；　and　the　bright　squawk　of　a　sparrow　somewhere　near。　Their　shadows　were　short；　shapeless　things　at　their　feet。
Cujo　began　to　move　to　his　left。　Donna　moved　right。　They　circled。　She　held　the　bat　at　the　point　where　she　believed　the　split　in　the　wood　to　be　the　deepest；　her　palms　tight　on　the　rough　texture　of　the　BIack　Cat　friction　tape　the　handle　had　been　wrapped　with。
Cujo　tensed　down。
'e　o