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！
und Lulubelle's Subaru saw a cloud of circling birds half a mile away； and when he reached them； he found not a dismembered woman but a dismembered dog。 Little was left but bones and teeth； the predators and scavengers had had their day； and there's not much meat on a Jack Russell terrier to begin with。 The Axe Man most definitely got Frank； Lulubelle's fate is probable； but far from certain。
Perhaps； I thought； she is alive。 Singing 'Tie a Yellow Ribbon' at The Jailhouse in Ely or 'Take a Message to Michael' at The Rose of Santa Fe in Hawthorne。 Backed up by a three…piece bo。 Old men trying to look young in red vests and black string ties。 Or maybe she's blowing GM cowboys in Austin or Wendover…bending forward until her breasts press flat on her thighs beneath a calendar showing tulips in Holland； gripping set after set of flabby buttocks in her hands and thinking about what to watch on TV that night； when her shift is done。 Perhaps she just pulled over to the side of the road and walked away。 People do that。 I know it； and probably you do； too。 Sometimes people just say fuck it and walk away。 Maybe she left Frank behind； thinking someone would e along and give him a good home； only it was the Axe Man who came along； and 。 。 。
But no。 I met Lulubelle； and for the life of me I can't see her leaving a dog to most likely roast to death or starve to death in the barrens。 Especially not a dog she loved the way she loved Frank。 No； L。T。 hadn't been exaggerating about that； I saw them together； and I know。
She could still be alive somewhere。 Technically speaking； at least； L。T。's right about that。 Just because I can't think of a scenario that would lead from that car with the door hanging open and the rearview mirror lying on the floor and the dog lying dead and crow…picked two rises away； just because I can't think of a scenario that would lead from that place near Caliente to some other place where Lulubelle Simms sings or sews or blows truckers； safe and unknown； well； that doesn't mean that no such scenario exists。 As I told L。T。； it isn't as if they found her body； they just found her car； and the remains of the dog a little way from the car。 Lulubelle herself could be anywhere。 You can see that。
I couldn't sleep and I felt thirsty。 I got out of bed； went into the bathroom； and took the toothbrushes out of the glass we keep by the sink。 I filled the glass with water。 Then I sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and drank the water and thought about the sound that Siamese cats make； that weird crying； how it must sound good if you love them； how it must sound like ing home。
THE ROAD VIRUS HEADS NORTH
I actually have the picture described in this story； how weird is that？ My wife saw it and thought I'd like it （or at least react to it）； so she gave it to me as a 。 。 。 birthday present？ Christmas present？ I can't remember。 What I can remember is that none of my three kids liked it。 I hung it in my office； and they claimed the driver's eyes followed them as they crossed the room （as a very small boy； my son Owen was similarly freaked by a picture of Jim Morrison）。 I like stories about pictures that change； and finally I wrote this one about my picture。 The only other time I can remember being inspired to write a story based on an actual picture was 'The House on Maple Street；' based on a black…and…white drawing by Chris Van Allsburg。 That story is in Nightmares and Dreamscapes。 I also wrote a novel about a picture that changes。 It's called Rose Madder； and is probably the best read of my novels （no movie； either）。 In that story； the Road Virus is named Norman。
Richard Kinnell wasn't frightened when he first saw the picture at the yard sale in Rosewood。
He was fascinated by it； and he felt he'd had the good luck to find something which might be very special； but fright？ No。 It didn't occur to him until later （'not until it was too late；' as he might have written in one of his own numbingly successful novels） that he had felt much the same way about certain illegal drugs as a young man。
He had gone down to Boston to participate in a PEN/New En…gland conference titled 'The Threat of Popularity。' You could count on PEN to e up with such subjects； Kinnell had found； it was actually sort of forting。 He drove the two hundred and sixty miles from Derry rather than flying because he'd e to a plot impasse on his latest book and wanted some quiet time to try to work it out。
At the conference； he sat on a panel where people who should have known better asked him where he got his ideas and if he ever scared himself。 He left the city by way of the Tobin Bridge； then got on Route 1。 He never took the turnpike when he was trying to work out problems； the turnpike lulled him into a state that was like dreamless； waking sleep。 It was restful； but not very creative。 The stop…and…go traffic on the coast road； however； acted like grit inside an oyster…it created a fair amount of mental activity 。 。 。 and sometimes even a pearl。
Not； he supposed； that his critics would use that word。 In an issue of Esquire last year； Bradley Simons had begun his review of Nightmare City this way： 'Richard Kinnell； who writes like Jeffrey Dahmer cooks； has suffered a fresh bout of projectile vomiting。 He has titled this most recent mass of ejecta Nightmare City。'
Route 1 took him through Revere； Malden； Everett； and up the coast to Newburyport。 Beyond Newburyport and just south of the Massachusetts…New Hampshire border was the tidy little town of Rosewood。 A mile or so beyond the town center； he saw an array of cheap…looking goods spread out on the lawn of a two…story Cape。 Propped against an avocado…colored electric stove was a sign reading YARD SALE。 Cars were parked on both sides of the road； creating one of those bottlenecks which travellers unaffected by the yard sale mystique curse their way through。 Kinnell liked yard sales； particularly the boxes of old books you sometimes found at them。 He drove through the bottleneck； parked his Audi at the head of the line of cars pointed toward Maine and New Hampshire； then walked back。
A dozen or so people were circulating on the littered front lawn of the blue…and…gray Cape Cod。 A large television stood to the left of the cement walk； its feet planted on four paper ashtrays that were doing absolutely nothing to protect the lawn。 On top was a sign reading MAKE AN OFFER…YOU MIGHT BE SURPRISED。 An electrical cord； augmented by an extension； trailed back from the TV and through the open front door。 A fat woman sat in a lawn chair before it； shaded by an umbrella with CINZANO printed on the colorful scalloped flaps。 There was a card table beside her with a cigar box； a pad of paper； and another hand…lettered sign on it。 This sign read ALL SALES CASH； ALL SALES FINAL。 The TV was on； tuned to an afternoon soap opera where two beautiful young people looked on the verge of having deeply unsafe sex。 The fat woman glanced at Kinnell； then back at the TV。 She looked at it for a moment； then looked back at him again。 This time her mouth was slightly sprung。
Ah； Kinnell thought； looking around for the liquor box filled with pa