cb.damnationgame-第37部分

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　　〃The　kennels？〃　he　suggested。　〃Finish　them　off　there。〃　〃Why　not？〃　The　European　led　off　from　the　fence　in　the　direction　of　the　kennels。　Thanks　to　Carys；　the　layout　of　the　Sanctuary　was　as　familiar　to　him　as　the　palm　of　his　own　hand。　Breer　kept　pace　with　him；　stinking　of　blood　already；　a　spring　in　his　heavy　step。　He　had　seldom　felt　so　alive。
　　Life　was　so　good；　wasn't　it？　So　very　good。
　　
　　The　dogs　barked。
　　In　her　room　Carys　pulled　the　pillow　over　her　head　to　shut　out　the　din。　Tomorrow　she'd　pluck　up　her　courage　and　tell　Lillian　that　she　resented　being　kept　awake　half　the　night　by　hysterical　hounds。　If　she　was　ever　going　to　be　healthy　she'd　have　to　start　learning　the　rhythms　of　a　normal　life。　That　meant　going　about　her　business　while　the　sun　shone；　and　sleeping　at　night。
　　As　she　turned　over　to　find　a　portion　of　the　bed　that　was　still　cool　an　image　flashed　into　her　head。　It　was　gone　again　before　she　could　entirely　grasp　it　but　she　caught　enough　to　wake　her　with　a　start。　She　saw　a　man…faceless；　but　familiar…crossing　a　tract　of　grass。　At　his　heels；　a　tide　of　filth。　It　crept　close　behind　him；　in　blind　adoration；　its　waves　sibilant　as　snakes。　She　didn't　have　time　to　see　what　the　waves　contained；　and　perhaps　that　was　a　good　thing。
　　She　turned　over　a　third　time；　and　ordered　herself　to　forget　these　nonsenses。
　　Curiously；　the　dogs　had　stopped　barking。
　　
　　And　what；　after　all；　was　the　worst　he　could　do；　what　was　the　very　worst？　Whitehead　had　tried　on　this　particular　question　so　often　it　felt　like　a　familiar　coat。　The　possible　physical　torments　were　endless；　of　course。　Sometimes；　in　the　clammy　hug　of　a　three…A。M。　sweat；　he　would　deem　himself　worthy　of　them　all…if　a　man　could　die　a　dozen；　two　dozen　times…because　the　crimes　of　power　he　had　mitted　were　not　easily　paid　for。　The　things；　oh；　Jesus　in　Heaven；　the　things　he　had　done。
　　But　then；　damn　it；　who　would　not　have　crimes　to　confess；　when　the　time　came？　Who　would　not　have　acted　out　of　greed；　and　envy；　or　grappled　for　station；　and　having　gained　it；　been　absolute　in　authority　rather　than　relinquish　it？　He　couldn't　be　held　responsible　for　everything　the　corporation　had　done。　If；　once　in　a　decade；　a　medical　preparation　that　deformed　fetuses　had　slipped　onto　the　market；　was　he　to　blame　because　there'd　been　profit　made？　That　kind　of　moral　accounting　was　for　the　writers　of　revenge　fiction：　it　didn't　belong　in　the　real　world；　where　most　crimes　went　punished　only　with　wealth　and　influence；　where　the　worm　seldom　turned；　and　when　it　did　was　immediately　crushed；　where　the　best　a　man　could　hope　was　that　having　risen　to　his　ambition's　height　by　wit；　stealth　or　violence　there　was　some　smidgen　of　pleasure　in　the　view。　That　was　the　real　world；　and　the　European　was　as　familiar　with　its　ironies　as　he　was。　Hadn't　Mamoulian　shown　him　so　much　of　it　himself？　How；　in　all　conscience；　could　the　European　turn　around　and　punish　his　student　for　learning　his　lessons　too　well？
　　I'll　probably　die　in　a　warm　bed；　Whitehead　thought；　with　curtains　partially　drawn　against　a　yellow　spring　sky；　and　surrounded　by　admirers。　〃There　is　nothing　to　fear；〃　he　said　aloud。　The　steam　billowed。　The　tiles；　laid　with　an　obsessive's　precision；　sweated　with　him：　but　coldly；　where　he　was　hot。
　　Nothing　to　fear。
　　
　　36
　　From　the　door　of　the　doghouse　Mamoulian　watched　Breer　at　work。　It　was　an　efficient　slaughter　this　time；　not　the　trial　of　strength　he'd　had　with　the　dog　at　the　gate。　The　fat　man　simply　opened　the　cages　and　then　the　throats　of　the　dogs　one　by　one；　using　his　long…bladed　knife。　Cornered　in　their　cells　the　dogs　were　easy　prey。　All　they　could　do　was　turn　and　turn；　snapping　uselessly　at　their　assassin；　somehow　knowing　the　battle　was　lost　before　it　was　truly　entered。　They　dropped　turds　as　they　slumped　down；　slashed　necks　and　flanks　spurting；　brown　eyes　turned　up　to　look　at　Breer　like　painted　saints。　He　killed　the　pups　too；　tearing　them　from　their　mother's　lap　and　cracking　their　heads　open　in　his　hand。　Bella　fought　back　with　more　vehemence　than　the　other　dogs；　determined　to　inflict　as　much　damage　as　she　could　on　the　killer　before　she　too　was　killed。　He　returned　the　favor；　mutilating　her　body　after　he'd　silenced　her；　wounds　in　return　for　the　wounds　she'd　given　him。　Once　the　clamor　was　over；　and　the　only　movement　in　the　cages　was　the　twitch　of　a　leg　or　the　splash　of　a　bladder　giving　vent；　Breer　pronounced　himself　finished。　They　went　together　toward　the　house。
　　There　were　two　more　dogs　here；　the　last　of　them。　The　Razor…Eater　made　short　work　of　them　both。　By　now　he　looked　more　like　an　abattoir　worker　than　a　sometime　librarian。　The　European　thanked　him。　It　had　been　easier　than　he'd　expected。
　　〃I　have　business　inside　the　house　now；〃　he　told　Breer。
　　〃Do　you　want　me　to　e？〃　〃No。　But　you　could　open　the　door　for　me；　if　you　would。〃　Breer　went　to　the　back　door　and　punched　out　the　glass；　then　reached　through　and　unlocked　it；　letting　Mamoulian　into　the　kitchen。
　　〃Thank　you。　Wait　here　for　me。〃　The　European　disappeared　into　the　blue　gloom　of　the　interior。　Breer　watched　him　go；　and　once　his　master　was　out　of　sight；　entered　the　Sanctuary　after　him；　blood　and　smiles　wreathing　his　face。
　　
　　Though　the　pall　of　steam　muffled　the　sound；　Whitehead　had　the　impression　that　somebody　was　moving　around　in　the　house。　Strauss；　probably：　the　man　had　bee　restless　recently。　Whitehead　let　his　eyes　drift　closed　again。
　　Somewhere　close　by；　he　heard　a　door　opening　and　closing；　the　door　of　the　antechamber　beyond　the　steam　room。　He　stood　up；　and　quizzed　the　gloom。
　　〃Marty？〃　There　was　no　answer　from　Marty　or　anybody　else。　The　certainty　of　having　heard　a　door　at　all　faltered。　It　wasn't　always　easy　to　judge　sound　here。　Nor　vision。　The　steam　had　thickened　considerably；　he　could　no　longer　see　across　to　the　other　side　of　the　room。
　　〃Is　there　somebody　there？〃　he　asked。
　　The　steam　was　a　dead；　gray　wall　in　front　of　his　eyes。　He　cursed　himself　for　letting　it　get　so　heavy。
　　〃Martin？〃　he　said　again。　Though　there　was　neither　sight　nor　sound　to　confirm　his　suspicions；　he　knew　he　wasn't　alone。　Somebody　was　very　close；　and　yet　not　answering。　When　he　spoke　he　reached；　inch　by　tremulous　inch；　across　the　tiles　to　the　towel　folded　at　his　side。　His　fingers　investigated　the　fold　while　his　eyes　stayed　fixed　on　the　steam…wall；　in　the　towel　was　a　gun。　His　grateful　fingers　located　it。
　　This　time　more　quietly；　he　addressed　the　invisible　visitor。　The　gun　gave　him　confidence。
　　〃I　know　you're　there。　Show　yourself；　you　bastard。　I　won't　be　terrorized。〃　Something　moved　in　the　steam。　Eddies　began；　and　multiplied。　Whitehead　could　hear　the　double　thump　of　his　heart　in　his　ears。　Whoever　it　was　（let　it　not　be　him；　oh；　Christ；　let　it　not　be　him）　he　was　ready。　And　then；　without　warning；　the　steam　divided；　killed　by　a　sudden　cold。　The　old　man　raised　the　gun。　If　it　was　Marty　out　there；　and　he　was　playing　some　sick　joke；　he　was　going　to　regret　it。　The　hand　that　held　the　gun　had　begun　to　tremble。
　　And　now；　finally；　there　was　a　figure　in　front　of　him。　It　was　still　indecipherable　in　the　mist。　At　least　it　was　until　a　voice　he'd　heard　a　hundred　times　in　his　vodka…sodden　dreams　said：　〃Pilgrim。　〃　The　steam　shrank　back。　The　European　was　there；　standing　in　front　of　him。　His　face　had　scarcely　conceded　the　seventeen　years　since　last　they'd　met。　The　domed　brow；　the　eyes　set　so　deep　in　their　orbits　they　glinted　like　water　at　the　bottom　of　a　well。　He　had　changed　so　little；　as　though　time…in　awe　of　him…had　passed　him　by。
　　〃Sit　down；〃　he　said。
　　Whitehead　didn't　move；　the　gun　was　still　pointed　directly　at　the　European。
　　〃Please；　Joseph。　Sit　down。〃　Might　it　be　better　if　he　sat？　Might　the　death　blows　be　avoided　by　a　feigned　meekness？　Or　was　it　melodrama　to　think　that　this　man　would　stoop　to　blows？　What　kind　of　dream　have　I　been　living　in；　Whitehead　chided　himself；　to　think　he'd　e　here　to　bruise　me；　to　bleed　me？　Such　eyes　have　more　than　bruising　on　their　mind。
　　He　sat　down。　He　was　aware　of　his　nakedness；　but　he　didn't　much　care。　Mamoulian　wasn't　seeing　his　flesh；　he　looked　deeper　than　fat　and　bone。
　　Whitehead　could　feel　the　stare　in　him　now；　it　stroked　his　heart。　How　else　was　he　to　explain　the　relief　he　felt；　seeing　the　European　at　last？
　　〃It's　so　long　。　。　。〃　was　all　he　could　say：　a　limping　banality。　Did　he　sound　like　a　hopeful　lover；　longing　for　a　reconciliation？　Perhaps　that　wasn't　so　far　from　the　truth。　The　singularity　of　their　mutual　hatred　had　the　purity　of　love。
　　The　European　studied　him。
　　〃Pilgrim；〃　he　murmured　reproachfully；　glancing　at　the　gun；　〃there's　no　need。　Or　use。〃　Whitehead　smiled　and　laid　the　gun　down　on　the　towel　beside　him。
　　〃I　was　afraid　of　you　ing；〃　he　said；　by　way　of　explanation。　〃That's　why　I　bought　the　dogs。　You　know　how　I　loathe　dogs。　But　I　knew　you　loathed　them　more。〃　Mamoulian　put　his　finger　to　his　lips　to　hush　Whitehead's　talk。
　　〃I　forgive　the　dogs；〃　he　said。　Whom　was　he　forgiving：　the　animals　or　the　man　who'd　used　them　against　him？
　　〃Why　did　you　have　to　e　back？〃　Whitehead　said。　〃You　must　have　known　I　wouldn't　wele　you。〃　〃You　know　why　I　came。〃　〃No　I　don't。　Really。　I　don't。〃　〃Joseph；〃　Mamoulian　sighed。　〃Don't　treat　me　like　one　of　your　politicians。　I'm　not　to　be　paid　off　i