sk.dreamcatcher-第116节

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se　on　the　side　of　her　face；　someone　else　the　fact　that　her　blouse　is　buttoned　wrong。　Her　English　is　poor；　but　good　enough　for　her　to　get　across　what　she　wants：　directions　to　the　Quabbin　Reservoir。　These　she　writes　down　（in　Russian）　on　a　slip　of　paper。　That　evening；　when　the　road　across　the　Winsor　Dam　is　closed；　the　Escort　is　found；　abandoned；　in　the　picnic　area　at　Goodnough　Dike。　When　the　car　is　still　there　the　next　morning；　two　Water　Authority　guys　（who　knows；　perhaps　Lorrington　was　one　of　them）　and　two　Forest　Service　rangers　start　looking　for　her。
　　　　Two　miles　up　East　Street；　they　find　her　shoes。　Two　miles　farther　up；　where　East　Street　goes　to　dirt　（it　winds　through　the　wilderness　on　the　east　shore　of　the　Reservoir　and　is　really　not　a　street　at　all　but　a　Massachusetts　version　of　the　Deep　Cut　Road）　they　find　her　shirt　。　。　。　oh…oh。　Two　miles　beyond　the　abandoned　shirt；　East　Street　ends；　and　a　rutty　logging　stripe　…　Fitzpatrick　Road　…　leads　away　from　the　lake。　The　searchers　are　about　to　go　this　way　when　one　of　them　sees　something　pink　hangin　from　a　tree…limb　down　by　the　water。　
　　　　It　proves　to　be　the　lady's　bra。
　　　　The　ground　here　is　damp　…　not　quite　marshy　…　and　they　can　follow　both　her　tracks　and　the　broken　branches　through　which　she　has　pushed；　doing　damage　they　don't　like　to　think　of　to　her　bare　skin。　Yet　the　evidence　of　the　damage　is　there；　and　they　must　see　it；　like　it　or　not　…　the　blood　on　the　branches　and　then　on　the　rocks　is　part　of　her　trail。
　　　　A　mile　from　where　East　Street　ends；　they　e　to　a　stone　building　which　stands　on　an　outcropping。　It　looks　across　the　East　Branch　at　Mount　Pomery。　This　building　houses　Shaft　12；　and　is　accessible　by　car　only　from　the　north。　Why　Ilena　or　Elaina　did　not　just　start　from　the　north　is　a　question　that　will　never　be　answered。
　　　　The　water…bearing　aqueduct　which　begins　at　the　Quabbin　runs　sixty…five　miles　dead　east　to　Boston；　picking　up　more　water　from　the　Wachusett　and　Sudbury　Reservoirs　as　it　goes　（the　latter　two　sources　are　smaller　and　not　quite　so　pure）。　There　are　no　pumps；　the　aqueduct…pipe；　thirteen　feet　high　and　eleven　feet　wide；　needs　none　to　do　its　job。　Boston's　water　supply　is　provided　by　simple　gravity　feed；　a　technique　used　by　the　Egyptians　thirty…five　centuries　before。　Twelve　vertical　shafts　run　between　the　ground　and　the　aqueduct。　These　serve　as　vents　and　pressure…regulation　points。　They　also　serve　as　points　of　access；　should　the　aqueduct　bee　clogged。　Shaft　12；　the　one　closest　to　the　Reservoir；　is　also　known　as　the　Intake　Shaft。　Water　purity　is　tested　there；　and　female　virtue　has　often　been　tested　there；　as　well　（the　stone　building　isn't　locked；　and　is　a　frequent　stopping　place　for　lovers　in　canoes）。
　　　　On　the　lowest　of　the　eight　steps　leading　up　to　the　door；　they　find　the　woman's　jeans；　neatly　folded。　On　the　top　step　is　a　pair　of　plain　white　cotton　underpants。　The　door　is　open。　The　men　look　at　each　other；　but　no　one　speaks。　They　have　a　good　idea　of　what　they're　going　to　find　inside：　one　dead　Russian　lady；　hold　the　clothes。
　　　　But　they　don't。　The　circular　iron　cover　over　the　top　of　Shaft　12　has　been　moved　just　enough　to　create　a　crescent　moon　of　darkness　on　the　Reservoir　side。　Beyond　it　is　the　crowbar　the　woman　used　to　shift　the　lid　…　it　would　have　been　leaning　behind　the　door；　where　there　are　a　few　other　tools。　And　beyond　the　crowbar　is　the　Russian　woman's　purse。　On　top　of　it　is　her　billfold；　open　to　show　her　identification　card。　On　top　of　the　billfold　…　the　apex　of　the　pyramid；　so　to　speak　…　is　her　passport。　Poking　out　of　it　is　a　slip　of　paper；　covered　with　chicken…scratches　that　have　to　be　Russian；　or　Cyrillic；　or　whatever　they　call　it。　The　men　believe　it　is　a　suicide　note；　but　upon　translation　it　proves　to　be　nothing　but　the　Russian　woman's　directions。　At　the　very　bottom　she　has　written　When　road　ends；　walk　along　shore。　And　so　she　did；　disrobing　as　she　went；　unmindful　of　the　branches　which　poked　and　the　bushes　which　scratched。
　　　　The　men　stand　around　the　partially　covered　shaft…head；　scratching　their　heads　and　listening　to　the　babble　of　the　water　as　it　starts　on　its　way　to　the　taps　and　faucets　and　fountains　and　back…yard　hoses　of　Boston。　The　sound　is　hollow；　somehow　dank；　and　there's　good　reason　for　that：　Shaft　12　is　a　hundred　and　twenty…five　feet　deep。　The　men　cannot　understand　why　she　chose　to　do　it　the　way　she　did；　but　they　can　see　what　she　did　all　too　clearly；　can　see　her　sitting　on　the　stone　floor　with　her　feet　dangling；　she　looks　like　a　nakedy　version　of　the　girl　on　the　White　Rock　labels。　She　takes　a　final　look　over　her　shoulder；　perhaps；　to　make　sure　her　billfold　and　her　passport　are　still　where　she　put　them。　She　wants　someone　to　know　who　passed　this　way；　and　there　is　something　hideously；　unassuageably　sad　about　that。　One　look　back；　and　then　she　slips　into　the　eclipse　between　the　partially　dislodged　cover　and　the　side　of　the　shaft。　Perhaps　she　held　her　nose；　like　a　kid　cannonballing　into　the　munity　swimming　pool。　Perhaps　not。　Either　way；　she　is　gone　in　less　than　a　second。　Hello　darkness　my　old　friend。


11

Old　Mr　Beckwith's　final　words　on　the　subject　before　driving　on　down　the　road　in　his　mail…truck　had　been　these：　Way　I　heard　it；　the　folks　in　Boston'll　be　drinking　her　in　their　morning　coffee　tight　around　Valentine's　Day。　Then　he'd　given　Jonesy　a　grin。　I　don't　drink　the　water　myself；　I　stick　to　beer。
　　　　In　Massachusetts；　as　in　Australia；　you　say　that　beah。


12

Jonesy　had　paced　around　his　office　twelve　or　fourteen　times　now。　He　stopped　for　a　moment　behind　his　desk　chair；　absently　rubbing　his　hip；　then　set　off　again；　still　counting；　good　old　obsessive…pulsive　Jonesy。
　　　　One　。　。　。　two　。　。　。　three　。　。　。
　　　　The　story　of　the　Russian　woman　was　certainly　a　fine　one；　a　superior　example　of　the　Small　Town　Creepy　Yarn　（haunted　houses　where　multiple　murders　had　taken　place　and　the　sites　of　terrible　roadside　accidents　were　also　good）；　and　it　certainly　cast　a　clear　light　on　Mr　Gray's　plans　for　Lad；　the　unfortunate　border　collie；　but　what　good　did　it　do　him　to　know　where　Mr　Gray　was　going？　After　all　。　。　。
　　　　Back　to　the　chair　again；　forty…eight；　forty…nine；　fifty；　and　wait　a　minute；　just　wait　a　goddam　minute。　The　first　time　he'd　gone　around　the　room；　he'd　done　it　in　just　thirty…four　paces；　hadn't　he？　So　how　could　it　be　fifty　this　time？　He　wasn't　shuffling；　taking　baby　steps；　anything　like　that；　so　how…
　　　　You've　been　making　it　bigger。　Walking　around　it　and　making　it　bigger。　Because　you　were　restless。　It's　your　room；　after　all。　I　bet　you　could　make　it　as　big　as　the　Waldorf…Astoria　ballroom；　if　you　wanted　to　。　。　。　and　Mr　Gray　couldn't　stop　you。
　　　　'Is　that　possible？'　Jonesy　whispered。　He　stood　by　his　desk　chair；　one　hand　on　the　back；　like　a　man　posing　for　a　portrait。　He　didn't　need　an　answer　to　his　question；　eyesight　was　enough。　The　room　was　bigger。
　　　　Henry　was　ing。　If　he　had　Duddits　with　him；　following　Mr　Gray　would　be　easy　enough　no　matter　how　many　times　Mr　Gray　changed　vehicles；　because　Duddits　saw　the　line。　He　had　led　them　to　Richie　Grenadeau　in　a　dream；　later　he　had　led　them　to　Josie　Rinkenhauer　in　reality；　and　he　could　direct　Henry　now　as　easily　as　a　keen…nosed　hound　leads　a　hunter　to　the　fox's　earth。　The　problem　was　the　lead；　the　goddam　lead　that　Mr　Gray　had。　An　hour　at　least。　Maybe　more。　And　once　Mr　Gray　had　chucked　the　dog　down　Shaft　12；　there　went　your　ballgame。　There'd　be　time　to　shut　off　Boston's　water　supply　…　theoretically　…　but　could　Henry　convince　anyone　to　take　such　an　enormous；　disruptive　step？　Jonesy　doubted　it。　And　what　about　all　the　people　along　the　way　who　would　drink　the　water　almost　immediately？　Sixty…five　hundred　in　Ware；　eleven　thousand　in　Athol；　over　a　hundred　and　fifty　thousand　in　Worcester。　Those　people　would　have　weeks　instead　of　months。　Only　days　in　some　cases。
　　　　Was　there　any　way　to　slow　the　son　of　a　bitch　down？　Give　Henry　a　chance　to　catch　up？
　　　Jonesy　looked　up　at　the　dreamcatcher；　and　as　he　did；　something　in　the　room　changed　…　there　was　a　sigh；　almost；　the　sort　of　sound　ghosts　are　reputed　to　make　at　séances。　But　this　was　no　ghost；　and　Jonesy　felt　his　arms　prickle。　At　the　same　time　his　eyes　filled　with　tears。　A　line　from　Thomas　Wolfe　occurred　to　him　…　o　lost；　a　stone；　a　leaf；　a　unfound　door。　Thomas　Wolfe；　whose　thesis　had　been　that　you　can't　go　home　again。
　　　　'Duddits？'　he　whispered。　The　hair　on　his　neck　had　stiffened。　'Duddie；　is　that　you？'
　　　　No　answer　。　。　。　but　when　he　looked　at　the　desk　where　the　useless　phone　had　stood；　he　saw　that　something　new　had　been　added。　Not　a　stone　or　a　leaf；　not　an　unfound　door；　but　a　cribbage　board　and　a　deck　of　cards。
　　　　Someone　wanted　to　play　the　game。


13

Hurt　pretty　much　all　the　time　now。　Mumma　know；　he　tell　Mumma。　Jesus　know；　he　tell　Jesus。　He　don't　tell　Henry；　Henry　hurts　too；　Henry　tired　and　make　sad。　Beaver　and　Pete　are　in　heaven　where　they　sitteth　at　the　right　hand　of　God　the　Father　all　mighty；　maker　of　heaven　and　earth　forever　and　ever；　Jesus'　sake；　hey　man。　That　makes　him　sad；　they　were　good　friends　and　played　games　but　never　made　fun。　Once　they　found　Josie　and　once　they　saw　a　tall　guy；　he　a　cowboy；　and　once　they　play　the　game。
　　　　This　a　game　too；　only　Pete　used　to　say　Duddits　it　doesn't　matter　if　you　win　or　booze　it's　how　you　play　the　game　only　this　ti