Chapter 7 Chapter VII

It's hard to tell if we're all overjoyed to see each other.My dad was making instant coffee, but as soon as he saw me wake up, he put down the can and whistled softly. I nod.I walked downstairs, my feet were so swollen that I couldn't lift my left arm as high as my head, and my chest was cold.There may be dark circles around my eyes. But the look of Dodge surprised me even more.There was hardly a hair on his head, he was much thinner, and he had a red spot on his face that reminded me of a fire in a tuyere.I could tell at a glance that he might have a strange disease and was undergoing chemotherapy.I guess, he may have been used to the disgusting eyes of others, because he said, "ah, I know what you mean."

"Where is the disease?" He gestured, meaning it was neither here nor there. "Thank you for the telegram," I said. "Son, if you have something that other people won't do to you, don't talk about it." He looked weak, which is to say, he didn't look very energetic.But I don't know if he is uncomfortable. "Are you on chemotherapy?" "It stopped a few days ago. The nausea is unbearable." He took a few steps forward and hugged me lightly, not too tight, as if afraid of contagion. "I heard a joke," he said, "that this Jewish family was waiting in the hospital lobby. The doctor came up to them. The kid was rich, with a big voice, and he talked like a dude." I My father sometimes reminded me the same way he used to remind my mother: Roots are in Hell's Kitchen, and you're fucking damned.He was always different in his sham, pronouncing "bird" as "guy" casually.

He went on. "'I bring you,' said the doctor, 'good news and bad news. The bad news is that your father has an incurable disease. The good news is that his disease is not cancer.' The family said in unison, 'Thank God.' " We laughed together.When we calmed down again, he handed me an undrinked cup of coffee and made another himself. "We have bad news, too," he said. "incurable disease?" "Tim, who the hell knows? Sometimes I think I'll know when I get it. If I really knew what's wrong, I might find a cure. I'm telling you, I hate doctors prescribing Those pills. I hate myself when I take my pills."

"So how was your sleep?" "I've always felt very light," he said.Then, he nodded. "My boy, I can handle anything but the middle of the night." It was a polite enough sentence for him.He shut up immediately. "What happened to you?" he asked. I unconsciously told him about the roadside battle. "Where did you leave that dog?" he asked. "Buried in the yard." "Before you go to bed?" "yes." "Educated." We've been in the kitchen all morning.We tried to sit in the living room after I finished frying a few eggs, but Patty's furniture wasn't meant for old dockers.After a while, we went back to the kitchen.Another gray day outside.He looked out of the window and shivered.

"How the hell do you like this place?" he said. "It's like the Back Coast in winter in Ireland." "No, I like it." I told him. "real?" "I first came here after I got kicked out of Exeter. Come to think of it, we were both drunk?" "Can I forget then?" I was glad to see him smile. "The morning you went back to New York, I decided to come here for the summer. I talked about this town before. Once I got here, I didn't want to leave. One night after being here for a week, I went to a family on the side of the road. Going to the ballroom. There's a pretty girl over there, and I've been staring at her. But I'm not up to it. She's dancing with her own gang. I'm just watching. Towards the end, I plucked up my courage and walked down the dance floor to her side and looked her straight in the eyes and she looked at me and we walked out the door together. Fuck that bunch of boys with her Didn't even fart. So, we both crossed the highway, out in the woods, and lay down together, Dodge, and I had sex with her. I think it was only six minutes from the time I walked up to her to the time I fucked her The scene. It made a deeper impression on me than anything I've done before."

What I said gave him a lot of fun.He reached out, out of habit, for the bourbon glass, but found it wasn't there. "So, it's your luck to be here," he said. "In a way." "How are you?" he asked. "You don't look very happy about beating the hooligan. Are you afraid he'll come back?" His eyes widened at the thought that Studi might decide to come back. There was a look of joy. "There's a lot to say," I said, "but I don't know if I should pour it all out." "About your wife?" "There are some."

"I said, if I lived another ten years, I wouldn't say anything, but since I can't, I have to tell you. I believe you married the wrong woman. Marry Tiline. She may be a vengeful pearl bird, but I like her. She's pretty, and she's tiny." "Is this your blessing?" "For years, I've kept stuff on my mind. It could cause internal rot. That chatter guy said one of the causes of cancer is a bad environment." "What do you want to tell me?" "The boy who marries a rich woman will reap the consequences." "I used to think you liked Patty." They used to like to drink together.

"I like how smart she is. If other rednecks had guts like her, they could run the world. But I don't like what she does to you. Some women should wear a T-neck , printed on the chest: 'Come on around. I'll make you a fag.'” "thanks." "I said, Tim — it's just rhetorical. It's not personal." "You used to worry about me, didn't you?" "Your mother is so weak. She spoiled you. Yes," he said, looking at me with ice blue eyes, "I worry about you." "Maybe, you don't need to. I've been in prison for three years and never had a fall. They call me 'Iron Jaw.' I never play with men."

"Not a bad job. I used to think about this kind of thing." "I say, Dodge," I said, "where's the good in that? You feel like I'm a man? I'm not. What am I protecting? You're a conservative fanatic. You're going to put all gay men All in concentration camps, including your son if he's gay. It's because you were lucky enough to be born with tiger eggs in your hands." "Let's have something to drink. You don't have much appetite." "Are you okay drinking?" He gestured with his hands. "Just a drink now and then."

I got out two glasses and poured bourbon.He poured more water into the wine.This, if nothing else, was sufficient proof that he was ill. "You misunderstood me," he said, "do you think I've been alone in a furnished room for twenty-five years and thought nothing of it? Then you're fucked. Don't even ask. You're an errand from hell. Now people have a gay revolution. I watch them. They're everywhere." "Well, I know that." I said. "Ha, ha," he said, pointing at me.Apparently, the moment he got drunk, it was like an angel that turned him on, "My son won."

"Good at dancing," I said. "I remember," he said, "Costello, don't you?" "good." "I'm sure I don't know what that means," he said. "Six months ago they told me to stop drinking and it would kill me. So I stopped drinking. Now, when I go to sleep, the elves come from The wooden part of the house came out and played in circles around my bed. Then they taught me to dance, and I danced all night.” He coughed, and the sound of his cough was laced with a hollow sound in his lungs.He wanted to laugh, but the funny suddenly turned into a cough. "Tough guys don't dance, I tell them. 'Hey, believers,' the elves replied, 'and keep dancing.'" He stared at the bourbon in his glass as if it contained a family of elves.He sighed. "My illness made me less religious," he said, "and I thought about homosexuality, and you know what I believe? Half of them have courage. For weaklings, It takes a lot more courage to be gay. Otherwise, they marry a little mouse, too timid to be a lesbian. Then they both become psychoanalysts and raise a bunch of smart people who can play video games Little fella. Get gay, I say, if you're a coward. Throw a gay party. I'm blaming those who don't. They're guys, but they don't have guts. You're a man, Tim. You Part of my body. You have the privilege." "I've never heard you say so much before. Never in my life." "That's because we're both strangers." "You look like a stranger today," I said.This is real.Gone was the thick white hair on top of his big head, which had been white as ivory and cream before.But now, there is only one big bald head left.He looked more like a Russian general than an Irish waiter. "I want to talk to you now," he said. "I may have come too close, but that's what I said at Frankie Freelod's funeral: Tim was everything to me." I am very touched.Sometimes for several months, sometimes every six months, we only talk once.But our relationship still looks good.I hope so.Now, he has confirmed it. "Yes," he said, "I got up early this morning and borrowed the widow's car. I was thinking along the way, this time I must tell you face to face. die before your care." Embarrassed, I followed his lead.Just now he mentioned "the widow's car". "Did you have an affair with Freelord's wife?" I asked. Dad looked shy, which is not often the case. "Not recently," he said. "How could you do such a thing? With your friend's wife!" "Frankie's been drinking all day for the last ten years. His thing doesn't work, and he's not interested in his wife." "Friend's wife?" I smiled in our family way, tenor. "Only once or twice. She needed it. I only did it out of pity for her." I laughed until tears flowed down my face. "I don't know who's kissing her right now," I sang.It would be wonderful to let your father guard his own spirit.Suddenly, I feel like crying. "You're right, boy," he said, "and I hope and pray that Frankie never knows about it." He looked at the wall. "When you're older, you'll feel as if Something's gone wrong. You're in the box, and the walls keep closing in. So you're doing things you haven't done before." "How long ago did you know you were sick?" "Forty-five years ago, when I was hospitalized at St. Vincent's Hospital." "It would have been too long if I had cancer and had no symptoms." "No doctor can diagnose it," he said. "Let me see, it's a circuit of disease with two switches." "what do you mean?" "Two terrible things happened before this strange sickness. The first was the pulling of the trigger; the second was the firing of the gun. I have been wandering with the trigger pulled for forty-five years." "Is it because you haven't recovered from the bullet?" "No. Because my eggs were aborted long ago." "You? What are you talking about?" "Tim, I stopped and felt blood in my shoes and St. Vincent's Hospital was right in front of me. I should have gone after the bad guy who shot me. But when I saw the hospital I was scared gone." "My God, you've chased him six blocks away." "It wasn't much. I was in great shape. When I stopped, my test came. I didn't have the guts to chase him anymore, I didn't have the guts. In the course of things, something would make him fall. Poured. I didn't follow through. Instead, the pour stopped. At this moment, I clearly heard someone in my head speaking to me. I admit, this is God or Superman speaking to me for the first time. The voice said , 'You're timid, boy. This is the real test. Follow it to the end.' But I went into St. Vincent's and grabbed the orderly by the collar. You're welcome, kid, and suddenly felt the first switch in the cancer circuit be flipped." "You're crazy." He took a long swig of bourbon and water. "I wish I was crazy. Then I wouldn't get cancer. I have research on this, I'll tell you. If you look for it, you can find statistics that have never been made public. Mental health in asylums The possibility of a patient getting cancer is often half that of an ordinary person. My analysis is this: either you go crazy physically or you go crazy mentally. Cancer is a good medicine for mental illness. Mental illness is a wonderful cure for cancer. Most people don't know it How hard it is to deal with them. My whole life tells me that. I have no excuses." I didn't say anything, I stopped arguing with him.It's hard for me to judge what he said.Why does his enthusiasm for me always seem to come first from the snow-covered fields?I may have been a seed in Douglas Madden, but it was a seed in him when he no longer despised his own body.In a way, I am a flawed seed.The wounds of my past have been buried in my heart, and the wounds I have not touched for a long time are aching.No wonder my father is always cold to me.It suggested to me that in the days to come—if I lived—I would tremble with rage at the thought of this conversation. But all the same, I love my father, a damn love.He casts a long shadow over my understanding of him. I felt a great fear again, because now again I thought I had killed those two women.There have been countless times over the past few years when I've wanted to punch Patti Lahren with my empty fist.But every time I hold back, every time I hold back I feel like I'm going to get sick.Isn't that so?Yes, like my father, I have been living in bad conditions.I thought again of the idea that had prompted me to climb the tower.Do I hope to prevent the first switch from being turned off that night? That's when I felt, I gotta be honest with Big Mike.Need to tell him all about the killing of two people and the plastic bags hidden in the dark, dank basement under the house.I couldn't take it any longer.But I don't have the guts to tell him that straight up, instead I'm going to drizzle him a little. "Do you believe in fatalism?" I asked him. "Oh," he replied, "what fatalism?" He was glad to change the subject.My father worked in bars for many years and was trained not to be surprised by any problems, even the ones you mention are huge. "Let's just say football," I said, "can God find a winning team?" Apparently, Dodge has struggled with this problem all his life.It can be seen from his eyes that he is wondering if he should leak this useful knowledge.Then, he nodded, "I think if God bets on the game, he wins eighty percent of the time." "How do you know this number?" "We can think of it this way. On the night of the game, he goes around where the players are sleeping and takes a good look. 'Pittsburgh can win.' he said naturally. 'The Jazz can't.' He decided that Pittsburgh was worth More than three. So he bet on Pittsburgh. I'm sure he won four out of five bets." "But why win four out of five times?" "Because of football," my father said, "people say football is round. It's unrealistic to say that you can win more than four out of five times. If he wants to go from 80 percent to 9 percent Nineteen, then he'd have to count it a million times. It's not worth it. He's got a lot of other things to do." "But why did you say four out of five times?" My father thinks this is an important question. "Sometimes," he told me, "a football forecaster might get lucky for a month or so and he'll be seventy-five percent sure of his predictions. I think he May have found a passage to a higher realm." I thought of Harper, "Can some people have a longer luck?" My father shrugged. "Not necessarily. These passages are not easy to maintain." He got the metaphors mixed up, but he didn't care. "This is a dangerous move." "And what about the loser?" "Those people are also on the passage, but the things in it flow in the opposite direction. Their premonition is 180 degrees compared to God." "It might be the law of averages." "The Law of Equalities," he said obnoxiously, "to mess with the brain, that's the most fucked-up idea I know. A pile of horse manure. The passage either makes you rich or fools you. Greedy people are cured by the passage. " "What if the bet comes out fifty to fifty?" "Then you have nothing to do with the channel. You're a computer. Just look at the newspaper. The computer predicts five hundred against five hundred." "Okay," I said, "that's called a prediction. I'd rather call it a coincidence." He looked troubled.I stood up and poured some more wine into the glass. "Pour more water into my glass," he said. "Coincidence," I said, "what do you think it is?" "I said it all," he said, "tell me about it." "Well," I said, "I think of it as a channel. The difference is that it's a communication network. I believe we receive other people's thoughts. Often we don't realize it, but we do. " "Wait. Are you saying people can send and receive wireless messages? Telepathy? Didn't realize it?" "You can call it whatever you want." "Well," he said, "I want to ask, why not realize it?" "Once," I said, "I was in Fairbanks, Alaska. You felt it. It was because of the comm." "Yes," he said, "almost to the North Pole. What were you doing in Fairbanks?" "Scam. No big deal." Actually, after Madeleine and I broke up, I went out there to deal cocaine.In the same month, I drove back from Alaska and went to Florida to do the same business, but I was caught by the police.I sold two kilos of cocaine.Because I paid my lawyer a lot of money, he used his eloquence to the fullest to get me to only three years in jail (and on a show of hands). "I got into an argument with a kid in Fairbanks one night," I told him, "and he was a loser. I woke up the next morning and saw his face in my mind. He The facial expression was ugly. At this point, the phone rang. It was the same guy. His voice was the same as his looks. He wanted to meet me that afternoon. Throughout the day, I ran into the same people I met the day before, and they had Angry, happy, just as I thought. It was as accurate as a dream. Towards the end of the day, I met the worldly guy. But I wasn't nervous about it at the time. Because it started at noon , I see him very clearly in my mind. He looks worn out. It's true, when I see him, he's just that virtuous, more timid fellow than I am." My father giggled. "Let me tell you, Dodge," I said, "I think Alaskans drink to keep people from living in their heads." He nodded. "North. Ireland, Scandinavia, Soviet Union. Drunk as mud." He shrugged. "I still don't see how this has anything to do with what you're arguing about." "I mean, people don't want to live in each other's heads. It's horrible, it's cruel, animal-like. Coincidence is the signal that they're transitioning into that." "What caused this state?" Dodge asked. "I can't tell." I said.I took a deep breath. "If you think about it, there are worse things than my father's contempt." I imagine that when something important and unexpected is about to happen, people break away from their usual quarrels.Their minds began to move closer together.It's as if the upcoming event creates a space and we start moving towards that space.Startling coincidences follow with frantic speed.It is like some natural phenomenon. I got the feeling he was thinking about his past.Did he experience something similar to this the morning of the shooting? "What impending event are you referring to?" he asked. "Evil event." He was cautious this time. "What kind of evil event?" "Like, murder." He was thinking about what I said.Then, he shook his head as if to say, "I don't like what you said." He looked at me. "Tim," he said, "do you remember the waiter's handbook?" It was my turn to answer this time, and I nodded.The first time I worked as a waiter, he handed me a time sheet. "Son," he said, "remember these. In New York, on the street, midnight to one o'clock is a good time for nasty peepers, one to two for fire, two to three for robbery, three Bar fight from 1:00 to 4, suicide from 4 to 5, car accident from 5 to 6.” It’s stuck in my head like a typed timetable.It's useful. "There's nothing strange about murder," he said. "I didn't mean New York," I said, "here." "You mean it's a very special thing that murders happen here?" I saw his thoughts wander between the clammy Cape Cod air and the smell of blood. "Well," he said, "well. I admit it." He didn't look very happy. "Then what are we talking about?" "Caught up in so many coincidences, there's no way out," I said. "Well, according to your analysis, now you may be very close to something unpleasant," he said. "Closer than you think." He didn't say anything for a long time. "Someone committed suicide last week," I said, "although the man may have committed suicide. I believe I stole his woman the night it happened." Tell him anything, and he won't pass it on to other people's ears.This may be one of the great benefits of having cancer.He may be like a tomb, receiving messages but never sending them out.Is my father now on the side of the elves and not on our side? "There's a lot more to tell," I said, "and it's not public yet. Two women were murdered in this town last week." "My God," he said.The news was startling enough, even for him. "Who did it?" "I don't know. I know vaguely, but I'm not sure." "Did you see the victim? Can you vouch for your facts?" I don't want to answer.As long as I keep my mouth shut, we'll still be drinking in the kitchen: I can make his visit a safe and secure way to satisfy his old drinking pleasure, or I can give him a senseless intellectual space accompanied by wine. The thrill of roaming.But my next sentence seemed to take both of us out of the water.Dripping and clear-headed, we came to another beach of wine. I think it took me a long time to answer the question my father asked so many times: "Did you see the victim?" "I see," I said, "they're in the basement." "Oops!" His glass was empty.I saw him reach out for the bourbon bottle and pull it back.He turned his glass upside down. "You did it, Tim?" he asked. "No." I picked up the glass and drank the wine in the glass. "I don't think I did it," I said, "but I don't know." We began to talk in detail, one by one.I told him everything that happened from the night I went drinking at Wangfutai Restaurant to now, everything I can think of.But I admit (and I do feel the word should be used) that when I said that Patty Laren was one of the two women who were killed, my father let out a cry that was like a man falling out of a window and being killed. When the spikes on the wall were cut through, it was like shouting out loudly. I can't describe his expression at that moment.Those two pink blotches on his face were now creeping up his head and chin.Previously, the two red blotches had appeared only on the protruding cheeks, making his once pink face look very pale.This phenomenon is an illusion that his condition has improved.I think so.As much as he hated the police, he looked like a policeman—any director would have cast him as the precinct police captain or the detective chief, so much like him, he couldn't help playing what he should have done in life, whether he wanted to or not. positive role played.Under his questioning, I had to tell everything.What a qualified examiner he is. Finally, I finished talking (we talked from morning till afternoon. Just had a couple of sandwiches and a few beers).He finally spoke, "There are two questions that are confusing me about this. One, are you innocent or guilty. It's hard for me to believe you're innocent, but you're my son." He paused, frowning Say, "I mean, I also have a hard time believing the second—that you're guilty." "You mean," I told him, "that I might have done it. You just said it! And the reason: You kill people, too. In fact, you might have killed a man or two in the union days .” Dodge did not respond.He said, "Good people kill for justice, or for honor, not for money. Small people kill for money. Greedy drug addicts kill for money. But you are not that kind of person. You can in her will Got some money?" "I have no idea." "If she does leave you a lot of money, you're going to be out of luck." "She may have spent all her money. She has been refusing to tell me how much money she has. I suspect she has no money, and Patti Lahren has made a few investments in previous years and they have all turned out poorly. We may bankrupted." "I really hope so," he said.He looked at me with those cold blue eyes. "The problem was the manner of the murder. That's my second question. Why? Why would anyone kill these two women? If you did, then you and I, Tim, would have to admit defeat, That's what I thought. Our seed is too horrible to keep it going." "You talk about things like that calmly." "That's because I don't believe you would do such an atrocious thing. I'm just bringing it up as an option, so just say what you have." He has an excellent instinct and always knows what to do.It annoyed me that this intuition played out in a very specific way, as if we were not discussing a matter of life and death but a family quarrel.Differences of thought.No, kill that kid, said Dodge Madden.No, said the son, put him in a mental hospital.I want to shake my father's mind. "I can do it," I said to him, "I can tell you. I said I could do it. The spirits are torturing me. If I did it, I'm in a coma In the mood. Probably the elf sent me to do that." Big Mike gave me a disgusted look. "That's what half the murderers in the world say. Fuck, don't listen to them, I say, what's the use if they tell the truth? They're a lightning rod, the bullshit that leaves everyone else in the air Take it back. So they're too dangerous to have them with people." He shook his head. "You want to know what I think? I hope and pray you didn't do it because, really, I can't live without you, I can't even turn on you." "You're running around with me. First one choice, then another." "You big fool," he said, "and now I'm trying to figure it out." "Have a drink," I said, taking a sip of bourbon. "That's right," he said, ignoring what I just said. "The second question is related to the first. Why do people cut off their heads? All you're doing is trying to avoid a life in prison and a mental institution. Go and live the rest of your life. For such a horrible crime, even the death sentence--at least, they will hang you in this state. So, you must be a madman. But I don't believe you are." "Thank you," I said, "but I believe the murderer is not mad." "Then why would a sane person cut off a person's head?" he repeated. "There's only one reason. He's playing tricks to get you into a trap." He grinned like a physicist proving same assumptions. "Could there be a body in the pit at the edge of that marijuana field?" "No, unless that foot table is removed." "Can it hold two corpses?" "Absolutely impossible." "We may analyze the reason for cutting off the head. Some people will do anything for some benefits." "You mean..." But he didn't want to transfer the results of his thought process to me. "Well, I mean, someone cut off the heads so they could go in the hole. Someone wants you to confess the crime." "It must be one of the two," I said. "Possibly," he said, "but I can think of a few others." He tapped his middle finger on the table. "Were the two women shot in the head?" he asked. "From their heads, can you see how they were killed?" "I don't know," I said, "I didn't look carefully." "Where's their necks?" "I can't bear to watch." "So, you don't know if the head was cut off with a hacksaw or a knife or something?" "yes." "Do you think we should look at those two heads again?" "I can't bother them anymore." "Tim, we must investigate clearly, for our own sake." I feel ten years older all of a sudden, and I want to cry. "Daddy," I said, "I can't see them. That's my wife, for God's sake." He just remembered.His memory was poor due to the fever caused by the brain functioning. "Okay," he said at last, "I'll go down and have a look." After he left, I went into the bathroom and threw up.I really want to cry.Now that I am alone, I am no longer afraid of breaking down in front of my father, but the tears have dried up.I shower, get dressed, sprinkle some shaving lotion on my face, and head back to the kitchen.He sat there, looking pale.All pink is gone.His cuffs are wet.I realized he must have washed his hands in the basement sink. "It's not your wife..." he began. "Jessica," I said, "Oakwood. Laurel Oakwood." "Yeah," he said, "that one. Her head was cut off with a knife, maybe with a machete, right off the bat. Patty was different. The guy didn't know how he did it, with the knife The head was cut off bit by bit." "Are you sure?" "You want to see for yourself?" "No." Somehow, I saw it.I don't know if I saw it in my imagination or actually saw it in his retina.But I did see Jessica's neck.The marks of the knife on the neck were neatly brushed, and the flesh near the knife edge was a little purple, which may have been caused when the knife was cut down violently. I don't have to imagine Patty's neck anymore.I'll never forget that bloody, rotten neck. My father opened his hand.Particle bomb fragments in the palm of the hand. "Here's from Oakwood's head," he said. "I wouldn't be willing to dig him in the basement. But I've seen stuff like this before. It's a fragment of a 22-gauge bullet." Well, it's a flat-headed bullet. I mean, it's a bullet that explodes on sight of blood. If it hits the head, one will suffice. And maybe a silencer." "A shot in her mouth?" "That's right," he said. "Her lips look purple, as if someone had pried it open. Possibly with the barrel of a gun. There are also marks of gunpowder charring near the hole in the palate. The bullet hole is small. Exactly the size of a 22-gauge bullet. There's no bullet exit on the outside of the head. That's all I can get out of it." He gestured at the shrapnel. Tough guys dance.You better believe it.There's only so much that can be pulled out.My calves were shaking.I had to barely lift the glass to my mouth with both hands at the same time.我感到我没勇气走向帕蒂那颗脑袋。 他告诉我，帕蒂的情况与杰西卡一样。“她脸上，头顶上都没有枪伤，也没有青肿的痕迹。我想，子弹可能是打在心脏上，她很快就死了。” “你怎么会这么想呢？” “只是一种猜测。我不知道。可能是把刀刺进她的心脏。她的脑袋除了向我证明她是谁以外，什么也没告诉我。”他皱皱眉，好像忘了一个更重要的细节。“不不——它还告诉我一件事。想要弄清真相得找个验尸官来，但我猜你妻子——”他现在也说不出帕蒂·拉伦这个名字来——“是在另外那个女人死了二十四小时到四十八小时之后被害的。” “嗯，这可以找出证据来。”我说。 “不，”他说，“我们永远不会知道。” “为什么？”我问道。 “蒂姆，”他说，“我们必须把这两颗人头毁掉，”他抬起手阻止我继续问下去，“我知道要付出的代价有多大。”他说。 “那么我们永远也找不到凶手了。”我漏嘴说了一句。 “我们能肯定是谁干的，我认为。我们只是拿不出证据罢了。”他的脸色又有所好转，变得微红了，“如果你想要得到满意的结果，我们不得不想别的方法。” “据我推算，”他说，“我觉得不可能只有一个凶手。用大砍刀的人是不会摆弄小刀子的。” “玩大砍刀的通常不可能有22号手枪和特制的子弹跟消声器。” “我得好好琢磨琢磨。”他说。 我俩谁也没吱声。我自己在思考着。我的四肢开始麻木起来，就像在十一月林子里走了好长一段路，刚刚坐下来喘口气似的。 “我的分析是这样的，”他说，“有人故意选你大麻地边那个洞来藏杰西卡的脑袋。这就直接牵连到你，使你没法说这事儿与你无关。然后，有人把头弄走了。这是为什么？”他握紧双拳好像在开车。“这是因为有人决定要杀帕蒂。这个人想肯定一下，以后两颗人头都要埋在这儿。他不想让你或者第一个凶手回去毁掉证据。或者假设你吓坏了。你可能会向警察报告这件事。所以，第二个人，他把人头弄走了。” “或者是她，”我说，“弄走了那颗人头。” “或者是她，”我父亲说，“尽管我不知道你的意思。”当我再也没什么可讲时——我是一时兴奋才讲了那么多——他说，“嗯，我琢磨有两个主犯。一个是杀杰西卡的，另一个杀了帕蒂。第一个把杰西卡的头放在那儿是想坑你，第二个把人头弄走了，目的是想过后再把两颗人头一块埋在那儿。到那时，或者在不久以后，你就得承担两次凶杀的罪名了。” “你可真能琢磨。”我说。 “在人们干这些事时，”我父亲说，“他们会相信，他们正清晰地注视着整个场面，即使他们正做的事儿只是在汤里多放一份调料。” “那么谁是厨师呢？” “沃德利，就他一个。在和你谈话时，他可能早就知道帕蒂已经死了。可能是他杀死了帕蒂，一直在骗你呢。” “我可真看不出来。” “他瞧不起你。我并不责怪他。可能他听说杰西卡的人头没了，他想你能知道在哪儿。所以，他想要帕蒂的头。他想你会用杰西卡的人头搪塞一下，说那是帕蒂的。这样，他就会得到他想要的东西了——两颗人头。” “你不能不重复那个词吗？” “人头？” “它叫我受不了。” “没别的可以替换。” “就说她们名字吧。” “那不准确，除非我们找到了她们的尸体。” “就说她们名字吧。” “我说，”他说，“你跟你妈一样爱胡思乱想。” “要是我奶奶、姥姥，那成天在爱尔兰的泥炭地里挖泥炭，我也不在乎。一点不假，我跟我妈一样爱胡思乱想。” “行啦，行啦，”他说，“你妈赢了一个球。祝她安息吧。”他打了个嗝。波旁威士忌、啤酒和身上的病一起生效了。“把酒瓶子递给我。”他说。 “你想得太多了，”我说，“为什么沃德利不知道杰西卡在哪儿呢？要是雷杰西干的，沃德利肯定会知道。蜘蛛是他们俩的联系人。” “假设他们在联系的过程中出了点差错。在这种情况下，人们知道什么，不知道什么都是叫人吃惊的。”他用指关节敲着桌面。“我说，沃德利不知道杰西卡在哪儿，他想让你把她带给他。” “我想沃德利已经把她们俩放在洞子里了。根据已经发生的事情来推测，蜘蛛和斯都迪在跟踪我。要不是那样，当我回到地洞那儿时，他们可能就在那儿，在我一手拎一颗人头出来时，他们就会把我抓住了。他们可能是最叫人恶心的下贱小人，想让一个公民蒙受不白之冤。” 我这番话触动了他。我父亲扬扬眉表示同意。“这些听起来不像那么回事，”他说，“他们寻思你到了洞那儿，可发送信号器告诉他们你把车停住了。怪不得在你往回走时，他们要火冒三丈了。” “我想，我们有个事例可以用来控告沃德利。”我说。 “涉及帕蒂，你弄到了一些线索，但是，谁杀了杰西卡呢？” “可能也是沃德利干的。” “你可能喜欢用加消声器的22号手枪。但你见过希尔拜先生玩大砍刀吗？” “也许是斯都迪？” "possible." “你认为是谁？”我问道。 我父亲当侍者时，扮演了多少回私人侦探、刑事律师和名誉高级法院的法官呢？他把手放在嘴角，好像拿不准是不是该从橡皮膏似的嘴上把真话剥下来。 现在他把手移开。“我不喜欢这个雷杰西，”他说，“也不喜欢你描述他的方式。他可能就是凶手。” “你认为是他杀了杰西卡？” “他可能会使用杀伤力很强的22号手枪和大砍刀。他是唯一能同时使用这两件武器的人。这小子是个武器狂。他可能还在地下室里藏有燃烧弹呢。他会琢磨出怎样杀你的方法，把头上沾有毒药的竹签子埋在你走的小路上。我见过这号人。'谈到武器，'他们说，'我感到非常熟悉。我是复兴时期的人。'” “嗯，可你憎恨警察。” “叫你说着了，一点不错。只是，有些不可信。这个家伙是草原上的一条狼。先是职业军人后来又成了警察！我把他给看透了，他是个彻头彻尾的专捉毒品犯的便衣警察。他并不是什么代理警察局长。那只是个幌子罢了。他是毒品管理局一个排解纠纷的人。我敢肯定，在局里，他们都很怕他。他一来，他们就吓得尿裤子。” “我很难相信你说的这番话。” “我比你更了解警察。有多少年了，星期三晚上我用钱哄走黑手党，星期四用钱把警察请回门？我了解警察。我明白他们的心理。我这样想，为什么像雷杰西这样雄心勃勃的家伙能在科德角猫下呢？” “这儿是捉毒品狂的中心。” “这比佛罗里达差远了。他们可以把他派到那儿去。他们在骗他。你得懂警察的心理。没一个警察愿意和一个让他感到不舒服的职业警察打交道。你下的命令不能叫人不高兴，不然你就会多个敌人。合法带枪的家伙有很多机会干掉你，根本用不着在你背后开枪。所以，当警察不得不和狂人打交道时，他们并不会想法子解雇他。他们给他戴上假官帽。让他当蒙大拿州特温爱克斯的全权人物。在马萨诸塞州、尿都……不，”他以决定的口气说，“我一点也不喜欢雷杰西。所以我们得把那两颗人头处理掉。”我开始和他争论起来，他说的话又把我给顶了回来。“如果他们在你的地下室里找到了那两个塑料袋，”他说，“那你就走上绝路了。你是个容易命中的目标。你要是把人头挪走，那会更糟。他们一看到你钻进了汽车，就会跟踪你的。” “那我去把妻子埋掉算了。” “不，你不能埋。这件事我去干。我用你的船、你的渔具和工具箱。船上还有多余的锚吗？” "No." “那我就用船上那个。把帕蒂和杰西卡绑在一起。” 这回该轮到我说声“我的妈呀！”了。 “喂，”道奇说，“你看我像个心黑手狠的人；我看你呢，就像个活靶子。” “我得跟你去。这是我起码要做的事。” “要是我一个人出去的话，那我只是个出去钓鱼的老家伙。他们不会扫我第二眼的。可你！他们会看着你的。他们会调来海岸警备队。当他们发现船上有两个没身子的女人时，你怎么说呢？'噢，'你会说，'我刚找到它们。声音告诉我往哪儿看。''对，'他们会说，'你是贞德姑娘。第二个贞德。'”他摇摇头，“蒂姆，我的孩子，你就在这儿待着吧。我只去几个小时。在这期间，你怎么不去打个电话？” “给谁打？” “飞机场。你可能会问出杰西卡到这儿的时间。” “你是怎么知道那就是她到镇上的第一个晚上，或是他的？” 我耸耸肩，我不知道。 可是，当他走进地下室时，我一动不动地坐在椅子上。要不是他在地下室楼梯上喊我，我是绝不会动一下的。“蒂姆，我把小船划到你的大船那儿。出去走走。我想把它们带到离房子远远的地方。” 我看见的是精灵，可他看到的是真人。好啦，他去冒险了，可至少我还能出去走走吧。 我穿上派克大衣，从前门走出去，来到商业大街。现在是下午，街上人很少。但我知道，我不能在街上溜达太长时间。街上静得很，静得就像是洒在地上的阳光，它们从头顶上灰色云团的缝隙中飘落下来。我知道，海滩上会有由阳光和阴影交织而成的图案。在听到我们那艘二十尺长的捕鲸者号船的马达发动的突突声(帕蒂的船)后，我转向了空荡荡的海滩，走在沙子上。那只小船，被丢在停泊处，轻轻漂荡着。看不到海岸警备人员，只有几艘钓鱼船往镇码头方向开来，我父亲正驾驶着捕鲸者号朝海湾驶去。我深深地吸了口气，拖着微微作痛的双脚，踩着沙子往回走。 回到屋后，我感到吃惊的是，出去走一圈使我精神了许多。我按照道奇的建议，决定打几个电话。我先给机场打了一个。我运气不错，在检票处工作的那个姑娘是我的酒友。她正好当班。所以我可以问她杰西卡·庞德或劳雷尔·奥克伍德和朗尼·潘伯恩在过去的几个星期里是否来过或离开普罗文斯敦。几分钟后她告诉我，十五天前杰西卡·庞德乘下午的航班来的，九天以前乘早晨第一趟班机回去的。她在机场预定过来往机票，从普罗文斯敦到波士顿，由波士顿到旧金山，由旧金山到圣巴巴拉。根本没有名叫潘伯恩的旅客。但那位姑娘回想起来了，庞德离开那天早晨她在值班，警察局长雷杰西开车送她到机场。“照顾好这位妇人，他告诉我。”姑娘说。 “他俩看上去很友好吗？”我问。 “蒂姆，那天我因为头一天晚上酒喝得太多了，没看清。”她边想边说，“我猜，他们很近乎。” 嗯，这些话打开了可能性的栅门。如果杰西卡·庞德独自一人到这儿有一个星期，然后又飞到圣巴巴拉，又从那儿回到这儿，那么问题就是：她是和潘伯恩一起为沃德利工作还是她自己？ 我给镇上房地产代理商打了个电话，我跟她最熟。但她只给了我那个波士顿律师的名字。据她所知，那块房地产并没出售。然后，我又给那个律师的办公室打个电话，我自报名字是朗尼·奥克伍德。当律师接电话时，我说，“思韦特先生，我母亲，奥克伍德女士不得不到欧洲去处理一件紧急事情，她让我和你取得联系。” “嗯，你给我挂个电话，我真高兴。在过去几个星期里，我们却在翘首而望，盼望你母亲来。她早该到我这儿来了，来送银行担保支票。” “是的，我知道。”我说。 “那太好了。请替我给她捎个口信。现在我担心房价将要上涨一些。或者价格一定会涨。要是我们得不到她准信儿的话，你知道，没粮草我是守不住城堡的。许诺毕竟是许诺。我们得见到她的支票。上星期，又有人出价了。” “我马上和她取得联系。” “你必须和她取得联系。事情总是这样：多少年过去了，某幢房地产除了罚金和税收以外什么也没得到。突然，谁都想马上把它买下来，在同一个星期内。”他咳嗽起来。 “思韦特先生，她会跟你取得联系的。” “我希望这样。你母亲是个漂亮女人。” 我马上把电话挂了。我是在扮演她儿子的角色，我知道的东西太少，不敢和他谈下去。 但我的猜测得到了一些证实。劳雷尔·奥克伍德可能打算为自己买下那幢房子。这是不是会阻止沃德利，所以也涉及了帕蒂·拉伦？ 我问自己这样一个问题：帕蒂·拉伦会对想做这种事的女人怎么样呢？ “她会杀她。”这毫无疑问是我得到的回答。 这样一来，如果帕蒂·拉伦杀了杰西卡，用22号手枪加消音器，那么雷杰西干吗要把受害者的脑袋割下来呢？是想把她最容易认出来的部分留在我的大麻地里？难道帕蒂·拉伦恨我都恨到了那种地步，或者是雷杰西恨我恨到了那种程度？ 打完电话后，我对事态的发展过程比刚才清楚了一些，气也就更大了，目的感也更加明确了。我觉得身上有了点儿父亲的勇气，这可能吗？我不得不相信，乐观主义是我最危险的嗜好，因为我现在想看看，我几年前给玛蒂琳拍的裸体照和最近给帕蒂·拉伦拍的裸体照。这个欲望可够古怪的了。在这个时候，想想淫猥的照片，然后再看看它们，可真叫人感到精神振奋。再说，我有着古典性格。 我上了楼，从卷宗箱里抽出一个装有照片的信封。原来里面装着三张帕蒂的裸体照，玛蒂琳的两张。这两个女性，我真感到可怕，都把腿劈得老大，显示出她们下身灵魂的金光。It's true.可现在信封里装有十张光纸相片。五个人头齐刷刷地被剪了下来。 我知道，我也相信，就在这时，我父亲已经选好了位置——他已到了深水区——准备把两个人头和锚链投入海里。他用绳把人头绑在锚链上。我知道，鬼城的袭击立即把我打趴下来。这是我一生中遭到的最强烈的攻击。 “操蛋、丑恶、讨厌。”第一个声音尖叫道。“胜利属于盗尸人，蠢货。”第二个声音说。 “是蒂米灵巧的手指，击败了那些凶手。” “把那个残忍的草包打残废了。割开装满脓血的酒瘤。” “喂，蒂米，闻闻臭屎，舔舔鼻涕。” “你是个侵略狂，你是个抢劫犯，你是个叛徒。” “把他带进来——他偷走了我的房子。” “你是个抢夺犯，你在我的床上嫖过。” “把这个家伙的肠子掏出来。嚼烂他的鸡巴。” “他跟他爹干的。一对疯子。随时准备下手的杀人狂。” “你杀了杰西卡！”我耳朵里有个声音在嚎叫着。 “道奇杀了帕蒂！”另一个耳朵里的恶婆子尖叫道。 “为什么？为什么我们要杀头？”我大声问道。 “噢，乖乖，你爹在找治他病的药方呢。那就是药方。闻闻血腥味。” “那是他，”我大声说，“那我呢？” “你也有病，你这个收买贼赃的家伙。你让我们的符咒给镇住了。” “滚吧，你们这群臭婊子！”我喊道。 我独自站在三楼的书房里，黄昏灰淡淡的玫瑰色阳光从窗子射进来。我眼睛看着大海，耳朵贴在鬼城的沙滩上，双脚，据我所知，站在海湾的海底。在我脑海中，我看见了两颗系在锚链上的人头慢慢地坠入海底，金黄色的头发上下漂动着，就像两朵海花。它们穿过水的栅栏沉到海底。我相信，我知道铁锚碰到海底时，因为一切吵闹声都停止了。我耳朵里那些喊叫声是不是在欢迎帕蒂·拉伦的头呢？我站在那儿，浑身都被冷汗打湿了。 现在我的四肢分别哆嗦起来。我身体有一部分在颤抖，有一部分则一动不动。这种现象我可从没经历过。这时我感到有个念头向我注意力的中心移来，它那强大的势力让我难以抵抗，好像思维和我是一扇门的正反两面似的。这时，我再也忍不住了；我必须去仔细地检查一下我的手枪(帕蒂的手枪)。那是22号手枪。 这听起来真叫人难以相信，可你知道吗，在过去五天里，我竟然没想过这件事。可现在，传票已经到了；我不得不检查一下那支22号手枪。 它还在那个老地方，在她那边儿的床头柜里。手枪仍然放在盒子里。有人打开过，盒子里面有股难闻的气味。最近有人用过这把枪，放回去时没擦。是我干的？子弹壳从枪膛里弹了出来，子弹夹里少了颗子弹。 我并不感到自己有罪。我感到愤怒。证据离我越近，我就越感到气愤。这支手枪使我感到极为愤怒，这好像我是个刑事律师，别人并没事先打好招呼就向我提出一个叫人讨厌的证人。确实，我感到自己无罪，怒火满胸。他们竟敢这样干？他们是谁呢？是什么事叫我心乱如麻？奇怪的是，别人——其中包括我父亲——越觉得是我杀了他们，最起码杀了其中一个，我就越觉得不是我干的。 The phone rang. 我觉得是玛蒂琳打来的。 “感谢上帝，是你，亲爱的。”她说，然后就开始哭起来。 她那种圆润而干哑的嗓音，能用立体声表现所受的痛苦。她的感情不久就汇成了一条忧伤的小河，向你哭诉着多年来失去真正爱情的痛苦和躺在不应该躺的床上性交时，狂热的海誓山盟。“噢，乖乖，”她极力控制自己说道，“噢，亲爱的。”然后又呜呜哭了起来。我可能是在听一位妇女的哀嚎，因为她刚刚得知她丈夫死了。 “亲爱的，”她终于说话了，“我原以为你死了。我心里冷冰冰的。”她又哭了起来。“我刚才害怕，没接电话。” "why?" “蒂姆，别出去。把门锁好。” 我想不起来她以前曾哭得这样厉害。“出了什么事？”我恳求地问。 她慢慢地平静下来。她说的每一句话里都有她的悲痛、恐惧和狂怒。有时，我真不知道她是不是能因为恐惧或愤怒而说不出话来。 她找到一些照片。我最后才听明白。她往他的橱柜里放新洗好的衣服，无意中看到一个上了锁的盒子。她以前从没见过这个盒子。他在卧室里放一个上锁的盒子这件事让她很生气。要是他真有什么秘密的话，他干吗不把它放在地下室里？所以，她把盒子砸开了。 她的恐惧随着哭泣声传给了我。就是在电话里，我都能听到她浑身的颤抖声。 “玛蒂琳，别这样，”我说，“说清楚点儿。你必须说清楚点。那些照片里面有谁？” “帕蒂·拉伦，”她说，“全都是帕蒂·拉伦的。是裸体照，很放荡。”她哽咽得说不出话来。“那些照片比你拍我的还要糟。我真不知道能不能忍受下去。我一看到这些照片，就想到你可能死了。” “照片里有我吗？” "No." “那么，你怎么会这么想呢？” 她的哭声发生了变化。这好像从马背上摔下来的年轻姑娘的啜泣声，不管这个姑娘是多么害怕，受了多大刺激，她还是得重新骑上去。所以玛蒂琳迫使自己在脑子里重新回顾那些照片。然后，她说，“亲爱的，他把照片里所有的人头都剪掉了。” “你最好离开那幢房子。”我告诉她。 “我相信，他决定杀你。” “玛蒂琳，离开那幢房子吧。你的处境比我还要危险得多。” “我真想让一把火把他房子给烧了。”她说，然后又吃吃地笑了起来。这比她的忧伤更叫人心烦。“但我不能。我可能会把邻居家也给烧了。” “那有可能。” “但当那些枪烧化了时，你想想他的脸色吧。” “你仔细听着。在他收藏的武器中有大砍刀吗？” “有好几把呢，”她说，“还有几把大刀片。但他只使一把剪子。”她开始哧哧地笑起来。 “你发现大刀片丟没丢？” “我不清楚，”她说，“我不知道他究竟收藏了多少武器。” “你认识22号短枪吗？” “是把手枪？” "right." “他收藏了各种手枪。”我不提这件事了。 “玛蒂琳，我不想让你到我这儿来。” “我不知道还能不能走出去。我把他给我买的几件睡衣都撕碎了，我现在简直瘫了一样。” “喂，”我说，“你能走，一定能。” “不行，”她说，“什么也不管用。” “玛蒂琳，要是你不能来，我开车去接你。” “不行，”她说，“他快回来了，会碰上咱俩的。” “那你就收拾一下，钻到你的车里。” “我不想开车。”她说，“我一宿没睡。自从你到这儿来我一直没睡。” "why?" “因为我爱你。”她说。 “好啦。”我说。 “什么好啦？” “这不假，”她说，“我们俩都爱你。这不难理解。”她实际上已经从忧伤之中挣脱出来，能欢快地笑出声来。“你是个魔鬼，”她说，“只有魔鬼在这样的时刻能奏出叫人愉快的曲调。” “你要是不想开车，”我说，“就叫辆出租车，到普罗文斯敦。” “坐五十英里出租车？不行，”她说，“我可不想让出租汽车公司把钱都挣去。”好嘛，她还是那样让人感到放心地节俭。 “我需要你，”我告诉她，“我认为帕蒂·拉伦已经死了。” “你认为？” “我知道她已经死了。” “好吧，”她停了一会儿说，“我来。要是你需要我，我就来。” “我需要你。”我说。 “要是他来了怎么办？” “那咱俩就在这儿正视他。” “在哪儿我也不想看到那个人。”她说。 “有可能他也怕你。” “你最好还是信我的话，”玛蒂琳说，“他是害怕我。今天早晨，他离开家以前，我告诉他别回头。我说，'要是用上十年的话，你这个肮脏的丧门星，我就从后面开枪打死你。'这他相信。我能看到他的脸。类似这样的事他会相信的。” “那我更相信了，”我说，“要是你知道什么是22号手枪。” “噢，”她说，“请别这么快就完全理解我。” “这是谁说的？”我问。 “安德鲁·盖德。” “安德鲁·盖德？你从来就没有读过他的作品。” “可不要告诉别人。”她说。 “用你的车。你能开。” “我会到你那儿的。可能我会叫辆出租车。但我是会到你那儿的。”她问了我的住址，谈到我父亲会和我们在一起时，就更坚定了决心。 “有个男人我可以跟他生活在一起。”她说完便把电话挂上了。 我算了算，不到一小时她就会收拾完，路上再用一小时。但根据玛蒂琳的习惯，可能这个习惯十多年来一直没变，她得让我等上四五个钟头。我琢磨着是不是开车去迎她，但我决定不能这样做。我们在这儿力量才会强大。 现在，我听到小船往吊柱靠拢的哗啦声，然后就是沉重的脚步声。他绕到前门，用几年前他第一次来串门时帕蒂·拉伦给他的钥匙打开门，走了进来。帕蒂·拉伦死了。这个想法就像每隔十五分钟就打一次的电报，注入我脑子里，但只有“皮”没有“瓤”，就像装电文的信封，里面没字。确实，没有感情。是的，玛蒂琳，我自言自语说，我会迷恋着你，可现在不行。 父亲来到厨房。我看了他一眼，往杯里倒了些波旁威士忌，烧点开水为他冲咖啡。他看上去很疲倦，但颊骨外的红润仍然覆盖着整个脸膛。他看上去很善良。 “你干得不赖。”我说。 “非常好。”他像一位老渔民那样眯着眼看我。“你知道，我的船离岸有三里远时，我突