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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
Aunt Trudy recovered her savoir-faire almost as soon as the watercolor was back in the trunk. They talked about Kinnell’s mother (Pasadena), his sister (Baton Rouge), and his ex-wife, Sally (Nashua). Sally was a space-case who ran an animal shelter out of a double-wide trailer and published two newsletters each month. Survivors1 was filled with astral info and supposedly true tales of the spirit world; Visitors contained the reports of people who’d had close encounters with space aliens. Kinnell no longer went to fan conventions which specialized2 in fantasy and horror. One Sally in a lifetime, he thought, was enough.
When Aunt Trudy walked him back out to the car, it was four-thirty and he’d turned down the obligatory3 dinner invitation. “I can get most of the way back to Derry in daylight, if I leave now.”
“Okay,” she said. “And I’m sorry I was so mean about your picture. Of course you like it, you’ve always liked your . . . your oddities. It just hit me the wrong way. That awful face.” She shuddered4. “As if we were looking at him . . . and he was looking right back.”
Kinnell grinned and kissed the tip of her nose. “You’ve got quite an imagination yourself, sweetheart.”
“Of course, it runs in the family. Are you sure you don’t want to use the facility again before you go?”
He shook his head. “That’s not why I stop, anyway, not really.”
“Oh? Why do you?”
He grinned. “Because you know who’s being naughty and who’s being nice. And you’re not afraid to share what you know.”
“Go on, get going,” she said, pushing at his shoulder but clearly pleased. “If I were you, I’d want to get home quick. I wouldn’t want that nasty guy riding along behind me in the dark, even in the trunk. I mean, did you see his teeth? Ag!”
* * *
He got on the turnpike, trading scenery for speed, and made it as far as the Gray service area before deciding to have another look at the picture. Some of his aunt’s unease had transmitted itself to him like a germ, but he didn’t think that was really the problem. The problem was his perception that the picture had changed.
The service area featured the usual gourmet6 chow—burgers by Roy Rogers, cones7 by TCBY—and had a small, littered picnic and dog-walking area at the rear. Kinnell parked next to a van with Missouriplates, drew in a deep breath, let it out. He’d driven to Boston in order to kill some plot gremlins in the new book, which was pretty ironic8. He’d spent the ride down working out what he’d say on the panel if certain tough questions were tossed at him, but none had been—once they’d found out he didn’t know where he got his ideas, and yes, he did sometimes scare himself, they’d only wanted to know how you got an agent.
And now, heading back, he couldn’t think of anything but the damned picture.
Had it changed? If it had, if the blond kid’s arm had moved enough so he, Kinnell, could read a tattoo9 which had been partly hidden before, then he could write a column for one of Sally’s magazines. Hell, a four-part series. If, on the other hand, it wasn’t changing, then . . . what? He was suffering a hallucination? Having a breakdown10? That was crap. His life was pretty much in order, and he felt good. Had, anyway, until his fascination11 with the picture had begun to waver into something else, something darker.
“Ah, fuck, you just saw it wrong the first time,” he said out loud as he got out of the car. Well, maybe. Maybe. It wouldn’t be the first time his head had screwed with his perceptions. That was also a part of what he did. Sometimes his imagination got a little . . . well . . .
“Feisty,” Kinnell said, and opened the trunk. He took the picture out of the trunk and looked at it, and it was during the space of the ten seconds when he looked at it without remembering to breathe that he became authentically13 afraid of the thing, afraid the way you were afraid of a sudden dry rattle14 in the bushes, afraid the way you were when you saw an insect that would probably sting if you provoked it.
The blond driver was grinning insanely at him now—yes, at him, Kinnell was sure of it—with those filed cannibal-teeth exposed all the way to the gumlines. His eyes simultaneously15 glared and laughed. And the Tobin Bridge was gone. So was the Boston skyline. So was the sunset. It was almost dark in the painting now, the car and its wild rider illuminated16 by a single streetlamp that ran a buttery glow across the road and the car’s chrome. It looked to Kinnell as if the car (he was pretty sure it was a Grand Am) was on the edge of a small town on Route 1, and he was pretty sure he knew what town it was—he had driven through it himself only a few hours ago.
“Rosewood,” he muttered. “That’s Rosewood. I’m pretty sure.”
The Road Virus was heading north, all right, coming up Route 1 just as he had. The blond’s left arm was still cocked out the window, but it had rotated enough back toward its original position so that Kinnell could no longer see the tattoo. But he knew it was there, didn’t he? Yes, you bet.
The blond kid looked like a Metallica fan who had escaped from a mental asylum17 for the criminally insane.
“Jesus,” Kinnell whispered, and the word seemed to come from someplace else, not from him. The strength suddenly ran out of his body, ran out like water from a bucket with a hole in the bottom, and he sat down heavily on the curb18 separating the parking lot from the dog-walking zone. He suddenly understood that this was the truth he’d missed in all his fiction, this was how people really reacted when they came face-to-face with something which made no rational sense. You felt as if you were bleeding to death, only inside your head.
“No wonder the guy who painted it killed himself,” he croaked19, still staring at the picture, at the ferocious21 grin, at the eyes that were both shrewd and stupid.
There was a note pinned to his shirt, Mrs. Diment had said. “I can’t stand what’s happening to me.” Isn’t that awful, Mr. Kinnell?
Yes, it was awful, all right.
Really awful.
He got up, gripping the picture by its top, and strode across the dog-walking area. He kept his eyes trained strictly22 in front of him, looking for canine23 land mines. He did not look down at the picture. His legs felt trembly and untrustworthy, but they seemed to support him all right. Just ahead, close to the belt of trees at the rear of the service area, was a pretty young thing in white shorts and a red halter. She was walking a cocker spaniel. She began to smile at Kinnell, then saw something in his face that straightened her lips out in a hurry. She headed left, and fast. The cocker didn’t want to go that fast, so she dragged it, coughing, in her wake.
The scrubby pines behind the service area sloped down to a boggy25 acre that stank26 of plant and animal decomposition27. The carpet of pine-needles was a road-litter fallout zone: burger wrappers, paper soft-drink cups, TCBY napkins, beer cans, empty wine-cooler bottles, cigarette butts28. He saw a used condom lying like a dead snail29 next to a torn pair of panties with the word TUESDAY stitched on them in cursive girly-girl script.
Now that he was here, he chanced another look down at the picture. He steeled himself for further changes—even for the possibility that the painting would be in motion, like a movie in a frame—but there was none. There didn’t have to be, Kinnell realized; the blond kid’s face was enough. That stone-crazy grin. Those pointed30 teeth. The face said, Hey, old man, guess what? I’m done fucking with civilization. I’m a representative of the real generation X, the next millennium31 is right here behind the wheel of this fine, high-steppin’ mo-sheen.
Aunt Trudy’s initial reaction to the painting had been to advise Kinnell that he should throw it into the Saco River. Auntie had been right. The Saco was now almost twenty miles behind him, but . . .
“This’ll do,” he said. “I think this’ll do just fine.”
He raised the picture over his head like a guy holding up some kind of sports trophy32 for the postgame photographers and then heaved it down the slope. It flipped33 over twice, the frame catching34 winks35 of hazy36 late-day sun, then struck a tree. The glass facing shattered. The picture fell to the ground and then slid down the dry, needle-carpeted slope, as if down a chute. It landed in the bog24, one corner of the frame protruding37 from a thick stand of reeds. Otherwise, there was nothing visible but the strew38 of broken glass, and Kinnell thought that went very well with the rest of the litter.
He turned and went back to his car, already picking up his mental trowel. He would wall this incident off in its own special niche39, he thought . . . and it occurred to him that that was probably what most people did when they ran into stuff like this. Liars40 and wannabees (or maybe in this case they were wannasees) wrote up their fantasies for publications like Survivors and called them truth; those who blundered into authentic12 occult phenomena41 kept their mouths shut and used those trowels. Because when cracks like this appeared in your life, you had to do something about them; if you didn’t, they were apt to widen and sooner or later everything would fall in.
Kinnell glanced up and saw the pretty young thing watching him apprehensively42 from what she probably hoped was a safe distance. When she saw him looking at her, she turned around and started toward the restaurant building, once more dragging her cocker spaniel behind her and trying to keep as much sway out of her hips43 as possible.
You think I’m crazy, don’t you, pretty girl? Kinnell thought. He saw he had left his trunk lid up. It gaped44 like a mouth. He slammed it shut. But I’m not crazy. Absolutely not. I just made a little mistake, that’s all. Stopped at a yard sale I should have passed up. Anyone could have done it. You could have done it. And that picture—
“What picture?” Rich Kinnell asked the hot summer evening, and tried on a smile. “I don’t see any picture.”
He slid behind the wheel of his Audi and started the engine. He looked at the fuel gauge45 and saw it had dropped under a half. He was going to need gas before he got home, but he thought he’d fill the tank a little farther up the line. Right now all he wanted to do was to put a belt of miles—as thick a one as possible—between him and the discarded painting.
* * *
Once outside the city limits of Derry, Kansas Street becomes Kansas Road. As it approaches the incorporated town limits (an area that is actually open countryside), it becomes Kansas Lane. Not long after, Kansas Lane passes between two fieldstone posts. Tar20 gives way to gravel46. What is one of Derry’s busiest downtown streets eight miles east of here has become a driveway leading up a shallow hill, and on moonlit summer nights it glimmers47 like something out of an Alfred Noyes poem. At the top of the hill stands an angular, handsome barn-board structure with reflectorized windows, a stable that is actually a garage, and a satellite dish tilted48 at the stars. A waggish49 reporter from the Derry News once called it the House that Gore50 Built . . . not meaning the vice5 president of the United States. Richard Kinnell simply called it home, and he parked in front of it that night with a sense of weary satisfaction. He felt as if he had lived through a week’s worth of time since getting up in the Boston Harbor hotel that morning at nine o’clock.
No more yard sales, he thought, looking up at the moon. No more yard sales ever.
“Amen,” he said, and started toward the house. He probably should stick the car in the garage, but the hell with it. What he wanted right now was a drink, a light meal—something microwaveable—and then sleep. Preferably the kind without dreams. He couldn’t wait to put this day behind him.
He stuck his key in the lock, turned it, and punched 3817 to silence the warning bleep from the burglar-alarm panel. He turned on the front-hall light, stepped through the door, pushed it shut behind him, began to turn, saw what was on the wall where his collection of framed book covers had been just two days ago, and screamed. In his head he screamed. Nothing actually came out of his mouth but a harsh exhalation of air. He heard a thump51 and a tuneless little jingle53 as his keys fell out of his relaxing hand and dropped to the carpet between his feet.
The Road Virus Heads North was no longer in the puckerbrush behind the Gray turnpike service area.
It was mounted on his entry wall.
It had changed yet again. The car was now parked in the driveway of the yard sale yard. The goods were still spread out everywhere—glassware and furniture and ceramic54 knickknacks (Scottie dogs smoking pipes, bare-assed toddlers, winking55 fish), but now they gleamed beneath the light of the same skullface moon that rode in the sky above Kinnell’s house. The TV was still there, too, and it was still on, casting its own pallid56 radiance onto the grass, and what lay in front of it, next to an overturned lawn chair. Judy Diment was on her back, and she was no longer all there. After a moment, Kinnell saw the rest. It was on the ironing board, dead eyes glowing like fifty-cent pieces in the moonlight.
The Grand Am’s taillights were a blur57 of red-pink watercolor paint. It was Kinnell’s first look at the car’s back deck. Written across it in Old English letters were three words: THE ROAD VIRUS.
Makes perfect sense, Kinnell thought numbly58. Not him, his car. Except for a guy like this, there’s probably not much difference.
“This isn’t happening,” he whispered, except it was. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened to someone a little less open to such things, but it was happening. And as he stared at the painting he found himself remembering the little sign on Judy Diment’s card table. ALL SALES CASH, it had said (although she had taken his check, only adding his driver’s license59 ID number for safety’s sake). And it had said something else, too.
ALL SALES FINAL.
Kinnell walked past the picture and into the living room. He felt like a stranger inside his own body, and he sensed part of his mind groping around for the trowel he had used earlier. He seemed to have misplaced it.
He turned on the TV, then the Toshiba satellite tuner which sat on top of it. He turned to V–14, and all the time he could feel the picture out there in the hall, pushing at the back of his head. The picture that had somehow beaten him here.
“Must have known a shortcut,” Kinnell said, and laughed.
He hadn’t been able to see much of the blond in this version of the picture, but there had been a blur behind the wheel which Kinnell assumed had been him. The Road Virus had finished his business in Rosewood. It was time to move north. Next stop—
He brought a heavy steel door down on that thought, cutting it off before he could see all of it. “After all, I could still be imagining all this,” he told the empty living room. Instead of comforting him, the hoarse60, shaky quality of his voice frightened him even more. “This could be . . .” But he couldn’t finish. All that came to him was an old song, belted out in the pseudo-hip style of some early fifties Sinatra clone: This could be the start of something BIG . . .
The tune52 oozing61 from the TV’s stereo speakers wasn’t Sinatra but Paul Simon, arranged for strings62. The white computer type on the blue screen said WELCOME TO NEW ENGLAND NEWSWIRE. There were ordering instructions below this, but Kinnell didn’t have to read them; he was a Newswire junkie and knew the drill by heart. He dialed, punched in his MasterCard number, then 508.
“You have ordered Newswire for [slight pause] central and northern Massachusetts,” the robot voice said. “Thank you very m—”
Kinnell dropped the phone back into the cradle and stood looking at the New England Newswire logo, snapping his fingers nervously63. “Come on,” he said. “Come on, come on.”
The screen flickered64 then, and the blue background became green. Words began scrolling66 up, something about a house fire in Taunton. This was followed by the latest on a dog-racing scandal, then tonight’s weather—clear and mild. Kinnell was starting to relax, starting to wonder if he’d really seen what he thought he’d seen on the entryway wall or if it had been a bit of travel-induced fugue, when the TV beeped shrilly67 and the words BREAKING NEWS appeared. He stood watching the caps scroll65 up.
NEN- Thursday- AUGUST- Transmission #19- 8:40P- A ROSEWOOD WOMAN HAS BEEN BRUTALLY68 MURDERED WHILE DOING A FAVOR FOR AN ABSENT FRIEND. 38-YEAR-OLD JUDITH DIMENT WAS SAVEGELY HACKED69 TO DEATH ON THE LAWN OF HER NEIGHBOR’S HOUSE, WHERE SHE HAD BEEN CONDUCTING A YARD SALE. NO SCREAMS WERE HEARD AND MRS. DIMENT WAS NOT FOUND UNTIL EIGHT O’CLOCK, WHEN A NEIGHBOR ACROSS THE STREET CAME OVER TO COMPLAIN ABOUT LOUD TELEVISION NOISE. THE NEIGHBOR, MATTHEW GRAVES, SAID THAT MRS. DIMENT HAD BEEN DECAPITATED. “HER HEAD WAS ON THE IRONING BOARD,” HE SAID. “IT WAS THE MOST AWFUL THING I’VE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE.” GRAVES SAID HE HEARD NO SIGNS OF A STRUGGLE, ONLY THE TV AND, SHORTLY BEFORE FINDING THE BODY, A LOUD CAR, POSSIBLY EQUIPPED WITH A GLASSPACK MUFFLER, ACCELERATING AWAY FROM THE VICINITY ALONG ROUTE ONE. SPECULATION70 THAT THIS VEHICLE MAY HAVE BELONGED TO THE KILLER—
Except that wasn’t speculation; that was a simple fact.
点击
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1
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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gourmet
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| n.食物品尝家；adj.出于美食家之手的 | |
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cones
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| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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authentically
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| ad.sincerely真诚地 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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19
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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21
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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boggy
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| adj.沼泽多的 | |
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stank
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| n. (英)坝，堰，池塘 动词stink的过去式 | |
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decomposition
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| n. 分解, 腐烂, 崩溃 | |
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28
butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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33
flipped
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| 轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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strew
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| vt.撒；使散落；撒在…上，散布于 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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44
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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45
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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46
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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47
glimmers
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| n.微光，闪光( glimmer的名词复数 )v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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48
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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49
waggish
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| adj.诙谐的，滑稽的 | |
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50
gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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51
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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52
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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53
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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54
ceramic
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| n.制陶业，陶器，陶瓷工艺 | |
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55
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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56
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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57
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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58
numbly
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| adv.失去知觉，麻木 | |
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59
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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60
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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61
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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62
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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63
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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64
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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66
scrolling
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| n.卷[滚]动法，上下换行v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的现在分词 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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67
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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68
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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69
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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