Chapter 2 2

She seemed to be in a long, cold hall filled with white mist that sloped badly to one side, as people always do in movies like A Nightmare on Elm Street and shows like The Low Light Layer. The kind of hall you walk through.She was naked, and the cold hit her body, making her muscles ache—especially those in her back, neck, and shoulders. I have to get out of here, or I'll get sick.she thinks.The fog and humidity have already made my muscles cramp. It wasn't fog and damp, though she knew it. Also, something happened to Gerald.I can't remember exactly what happened, but I think he may have been ill.

Even though she knew sick wasn't the exact word for it. It was odd, though, that another part of her really hadn't the slightest desire to escape the sloping, fog-filled passageway.This part implies that she would be much better off here.She will regret it if she leaves.So she really stayed for a while. It was the barking dog that finally got her mind going again.The barking sound was extremely unpleasant, low at the low end, but broken into a screech at the high end, and every time the animal howled, it sounded as if it was vomiting a mouth full of sharp bones.She'd heard that cry before, though it might have been nicer--it was much nicer--if she could manage not to remember when it was, where it was, or what happened.

But at least the cry moved her—left foot, right foot... It occurred to her that if she opened her eyes she could see better through the fog.So she opened her eyes.What she saw wasn't the spooky "Low Light Layer" foyer, but the master bedroom of their summer cottage.The villa is located on the north shore of Lake Mark in Cashwick - an area known for Notch Bay.The reason she was cold, she thought, was that she was naked except for a pair of bikini bottoms.Her neck and shoulders ached because she was handcuffed to the head of the bed and her bottom slid off the bed as she passed out.No sloping aisles, no damp fog.Only the dog is real, still howling.Now it sounds like it's close to the house.If Gerald had heard that call--

The thought of Gerald made her twitch.This twist, a complex one.The sensation of spiraling sparks traveled down her spasming biceps and triceps.The sting died away at her elbow.Jessie realized with sentimental, just sober depression that her forearms were mostly numb and her hands were, so to speak, mittens stuffed with mashed potatoes. This should hurt.she thinks.Then she remembered everything... especially the image of Gerald falling headfirst over the edge of the bed.Her husband was under the bed, either dead or unconscious.And she lay in bed, thinking how disturbing it would be to lose all feeling in her lower arm and hand.How can you be so selfish and self-centered?

If he died, it was his own fault. The voice that wasn't talking nonsense said.It tried to say something more honest, and Jessie stopped it, and in her half-awake state, she had a clearer understanding of the files deep in her memory bank.She suddenly recognized whose voice it was—nasal, quick, sarcasm, mocking.The voice belonged to their college roommate, Ruth Neary.Now that Jessie had recognized the voice, she found herself not surprised at all.Ruth was always very generous in having some of her ideas shared.Her proposals often startled Jessie, the brat nineteen-year-old roommate from the Falmouth beachlands.No doubt that is a point of view, or part of it.Ruth always had good intentions, and Jessie never doubted that she really believed sixty percent of what she said.She really did forty percent of what she claimed to have done.When it comes to sexual matters, the percentage may be even higher.Ruth Neary was the first woman she knew who completely refused to shave her legs and armpits; Ruth once filled an obnoxious counselor's pillow with strawberry-scented douche; In general always at every student assembly, in every experimental student play.If all else fails, honey, some handsome fellow might take his clothes off.Returning from a student play, she told a surprised but interested Jesse.The title of the play is Noah and the Parrot Son.I mean, it doesn't always happen that way, but it usually does -- and that's what student-written, student-acted plays are really about, I guess -- so boys and girls can take their clothes off and Kiss and caress in public.

She hadn't thought of Ruth for years.Ruth was in her head now, as in the old days, giving her little words of wisdom.Well, why not?Since graduating from the University of New Hampshire, Ruth Neery has been divorced three times, attempted suicide twice, and gone through drug and alcohol rehab four times.Who else is more qualified to give insanity than she is.What about advice for the disturbed?Good old Ruth, another striking example of how smoothly the love-loving generation passed into middle age. "Jesus, this is exactly what I need. Dear Wenby in hell," she said.The thick babble of her voice frightened her more than the loss of feeling in her hands and forearms.

She tried to pull herself back into a mostly sitting position.She had managed to get into this position just before Gerald did his little diving act (was that horrible egg-cracking sound part of her dream? She prayed it was).When she couldn't move at all, a sudden wave of panic overwhelmed her thoughts about Ruth.Those sharp tingling pains traveled to her muscles, but nothing else happened.Her arms still hung slightly backward, as motionless and lifeless as a sugar elm at the height of a furnace.The groggy feeling in her head was gone—panic beat the numbness, she found, her heart kicked into high gear, but nothing else.A vivid image from a long-ago history textbook flashed before her eyes for a moment: a young woman with shackles on her head and hands, and a group of people standing around her, pointing and laughing at her laugh.The woman is bent over like a fairy-tale witch, her hair draped over her face like a penitent's veil.

Her name was Mrs. Burlingame.She is being punished for hurting her husband.she thinks.They're punishing this lady because they can't catch the guy who actually hurt him... that guy sounds like my college roommate. But is hurt the right word?Was it possible that she was sharing a room with a dead person right now?And, with or without dogs, is it possible that the notch of the lake is completely uninhabited?If she started to cry, would the loon answer her?Or is it just that and nothing else? It was probably that thought, with its strange echoes of Poe's poem "The Raven," that made her suddenly realize what was going on here, what she had put herself in, a blinding, blinding terror Suddenly it came to her.For twenty seconds or so (if she had been asked how long the terror lasted, she would have given it at least three minutes, perhaps closer to five), she was completely seized by terror.There was still a sliver of rational awareness deep within her, but it was helplessness—just a frustrated bystander watching the woman writhe on the bed, listening to her hoarse, horrifying cries.Her head bobbed from side to side, her hair fluttering with it, her movements signaling defiance.

Where her neck met her left shoulder, she felt a sharp pain like a glass thorn, and the pain stopped her movement.It's a muscle spasm and it hurts.Jesse groaned, resting his head on the mahogany rung of the headboard.The muscles she had pulled stiffened into tense bends, hard as stone to the touch.Compared with this excruciating pain, the pinprick-like feeling that her forceful movements caused her forearm and palm to spread was nothing.She found that leaning against the bed only added stress to overstretched muscles. Without thinking about it, Jesse moved instinctively.She pressed her heels against the coverlet, lifted her hips, and moved herself with her feet.Her elbows were bent, and the pressure on her shoulders and upper arms was relieved.After a while, the muscle spasm in her deltoid began to relax.She let out a long, heavy breath of relief.

Outside, the wind was blowing.She noticed that the wind speed had escalated, far above the breeze level—the wind whimpered among the pines on the hillside between the house and the lake.Just beyond the kitchen (another universe, as far as Jessie was concerned), the door she and Gerald had forgotten to close banged against the bulging frame: once, twice.Three times, four times, it was the only sound.That's all and nothing else.The dog had stopped barking, at least temporarily.The chainsaw also stopped whining.Even the loon seemed to take a coffee break in between. The lake loon was taking a coffee break, perhaps a mallard flirting with some hens on the cool water.The image produced a dry, low, husky sound in her throat.In a less obnoxious situation, the sound could be described as a chuckle.It took away the last trace of her fear: she was still afraid, but at least she was able to control her thoughts and actions again.It also left an unpleasant metallic tang on her tongue.

That's adrenaline, baby, or that glandular secretion that comes out of your body when you stick your arms and legs out and start climbing.If someone asked you what panic is, you can now explain it clearly. It's an emotional void that makes you feel like you're sucking a mouthful of coins. Her forearm sizzled, and the tingling finally reached her fingers.Jess opened and closed his hands several times, frowning as he did so.She could hear the faint sound of the chains of the handcuffs hitting the bedposts.She took a moment to wonder if she and Gerald had gone mad - and it certainly seemed so now, though she had no doubt that millions of people around the world were Playing a similar game.She had read about sexually liberated people who hung themselves in closets and masturbated until the blood supply to the brain dwindled to zero.Such information only served to reinforce her belief that men were not so much given penises by God as to suffer for them. But if that had been just a game (and nothing more), why did Gerald feel the need to buy a pair of real handcuffs?That seems like an interesting question, doesn't it? Maybe.But, I guess, that's not really important at the moment, what do you think, Jesse? asked Ruth Neary in her head.It is quite amazing that the human brain can work in several different thought tracks at the same time.She found herself in one of the tracks wondering what was going on with Ruth.The last time she saw her was ten years ago.Jessie hadn't heard from her for at least three years.Their last exchange was a postcard showing a young man in a gorgeous red velvet suit with ruffled collars, his mouth open and his tongue provocatively sticking out. Someday, my prince will stick out his tongue.The postcard said so.New era punchlines.Jesse remembers thinking, Victorians had Anthony Trollope, Beats had H. L. Mencken; and we got hung up on dirty postcards, and those pasted-up quips like, Actually, I do own the road.The postcard, vaguely postmarked with the state of Arizona, conveyed the message that Ruth had joined a lesbian commune.Jesse wasn't too surprised to hear the news.It even occurred to her that, with her old friend's ability to rage one moment and be astonishingly cuddly (sometimes all at the same time), perhaps she had at last found a hole in the game board of life, a hole Drilled out to accept her own oddly shaped screw. She had put Ruth's postcards in the upper left drawer of her desk, where she kept all sorts of weird letters that probably never got answered.Since then, and until now, she has never thought of her old roommate.Ruth Neary longed for a transmission that a Harley-Davidson had never mastered by any standard, not even the one on Jessie's old, benign, colorful Ford.After Ruth spent three years at the University of New Hampshire, she was still getting lost on campus.She grilled something on the electric hot plate, forgot about it, and burned the thing, and she always screamed when it happened.It was truly a miracle that she did it so often and never set their dormitory—or the whole house—on fire.It was odd that this convincing, not nonsense voice in Jesse's head turned out to be Ruth's. The dog started barking again.It doesn't sound like it's getting close, but it's not going far either.Its owner was not hunting birds, that was for sure.No hunter wants to be associated with such a chattering and barking dog.Also, if the owner took the dog out for a simple afternoon stroll, how could the barking come from the same place for five minutes? Because your previous judgment was correct, whispered in her head.There is no master.The voice was not Ruth's or Mrs. Burlingame's.And certainly not the voice she thought she had (whatever that was).The voice was very young and very frightened.It was Ruth's voice, strangely familiar.It was just a stray dog ​​out there by himself.It can't help you, Jesse, it can't help you. However, this estimate may be too discouraging.She didn't know it was a stray dog, did she?Certainly not.Until then, she refuses to believe it. "If you don't like it, sue me," she said in a low, hoarse voice. Meanwhile, there was the problem of Gerald.In her panic and subsequent pain, he seemed to escape her mind. "Jerrod?" Her voice still sounded dry, as if it didn't really come from here. She cleared her throat and tried to ask again, "Jerrod!" No echo.Not saying a word.There is no response at all. But that doesn't mean he's dead.So keep calm, woman—don't pass out in pain again. She is indeed keeping her composure, thank you very much.She had no intention of falling into a coma again.But there was still a deep depression in her head that felt like some kind of deep homesickness.True, Gerald's failure to answer her didn't mean he was dead, but at least it did mean he was unconscious. And, maybe dead.Ruth Neary added.I don't want to disappoint you, Jesse—really—but you can't hear him breathe, can you?I mean, usually you can hear unconscious people breathing.They're breathing that heavy, aren't they? "Damn, how would I know?" she said, but it was stupid to say so.She knows because she spent most of high school as a passionate volunteer nurse's aide.It didn't take long to figure out exactly what sounds dead people make.The dead man made no sound at all.Ruth had known these things from around the time she was at Portland City Hospital—Jessie herself sometimes referred to those times as the bedpan years—but even if Ruth didn't, the voice would have known it.Because the voice was not Ruth, it was her own.She had to keep reminding herself of that, because the voice itself was so weird. " Like those voices you've heard before.The young voice muttered, the voices you've heard since that dark day. However, she didn't want to think about it.Never want to think about it.Didn't she have enough problems? But Ruth's voice was right.Unconscious people—especially those who have been knocked unconscious by a blow to the head—often do grunt.That means... "He may be dead," she murmured, "yes, it is." Leaning to the left, she moved carefully, paying attention to the muscles in the lower part of the neck on this side, which used to spasm so excruciatingly.She hadn't moved as far as the handcuffs around her right wrist would allow when she suddenly saw a pink, plump arm and half a hand—the last two fingers, actually.She knew it was his right hand because there was no wedding ring on the middle finger.She could see the white crescents in his nails.Gerald was always proud of his hands and nails.She hadn't realized how vain he was until now.It's funny how little you know sometimes.Even when you think you know everything, you still know very little. I think so, but I'm going to tell you something, darling: You can pull down the visor at this moment, because I don't want to see any more.No, not at all.But refusing to look was a luxury she couldn't afford, at least not yet. Jessie continued to move with great care, while protecting her neck and shoulders, as she moved to the left as far as the handcuffs would allow.It wasn't very far—another two or three inches at most—but the angle leveled off enough that she could see part of Gerald's forearm, part of his right shoulder, and a bit of his head, which she wasn't quite sure about. , but she thought, she could still see tiny drops of blood on the fringes of his thinning hair.At least technically possible, she thought, this last bit was just imagination.she hoped so. "Gerald?" she whispered softly. "Jerald, can you hear me? Say yes." no answer.There is no sound.She could feel that deep nostalgia again, that welling up like an unstoppable wound. "Jerald?" she whispered again. Why do you call him softly?He is dead.That person took you to Aruba for a weekend and surprised you—Aruba, that was a great place.Another time at a New Year's Eve party, he hung your alligator leather shoes from his ears... that person is dead.So why on earth are you calling him softly? - "Jerrod!" she screamed his name this time. "Jerrod, wake up!" Her own scream almost brought her into panic and shock again, and the scariest thing was not that Gerald still didn't move and didn't answer, but that she realized that she was still in panic. There, fear was there, closing restlessly towards her waking mind, like a woman surrounded by carnivorous animals who has somehow left her friends and lost herself in the depths of a lonely dark wood. out of the way. You are not lost.said Mrs. Burlingame.But Jesse didn't believe the voice.Its controls sound fake, its rationality is superficial.You know where you are. Yes, she knows.She was at the end of a winding, rutted camping road that parted from Lane Bay two miles south of here.It was a corridor of red and yellow fallen leaves that she and Gerald had driven.It is a silent confirmation of the fact that for three weeks, when the leaves first started to turn yellow and then fell, the road to the end of Notch Cove, Lake Mark in Cashwick was seldom used, or at all. No one used it.This end of the lake is almost entirely occupied by Lixia people.As far as Jesse knew, probably no one had been here since Labor Day.The road was five miles in length, along the cliffs, then around Lane Bay, until it reached State Highway 117, where there were some settlers. I am here alone, my husband lying dead on the ground, and I am handcuffed to the bed.I could scream so hard I could turn blue, but it wouldn't do me any good.No one can hear.The guy with the chainsaw was probably the closest to me, he was at least four miles away, maybe on the other side of the lake.The dog might have heard me yelling, but it was almost certainly a stray dog.Gerald's dead, which is a pity - I never intended to kill him, if that's what I did - but, at least, he died relatively quickly.My death will not be quick.If no one in Portland starts worrying about us -- and there's no real reason people should worry about us, at least for a while... She shouldn't think so.The thought brought the terrifying thing closer.If she didn't get rid of this set of thoughts, she would soon see the thing's glassy, ​​terrifying eyes.No, she definitely shouldn't think so.The annoying thing is, once you start thinking like this, it's hard to stop. But perhaps you deserve it—Mrs. Burlingame's passionate voice spoke suddenly and loudly.Maybe.Because you did kill him, Jesse.You can't kid yourself, I won't let you do that.I'm sure he's not in very good shape.I'm also sure it's going to happen anyway - having a heart attack at the office, or trying to smoke a cigarette on the way home one night when the ten-wheeler behind me honks.Tell him to turn into the right lane to give way.But sooner or later you can't wait, can you?Oh no, not you, not Tom Mechter's youngest daughter, Jesse.You can't just lie there and let him blow off, can you?Jesse Burlingame said 'no one can handcuff me'.You've got to kick him in the stomach and groin, don't you?You have to do this when his thermostat is well over redline.Honey, let's cut to the chase: you murdered him.So maybe you deserve to be here, handcuffed to a bed, maybe— "Huh, that's nonsense," she said.She felt a nameless relief that she heard the other voice--Ruth's--from her mouth.She sometimes (well... maybe often closer to the truth) hates Mrs. Burlingame's voice, hates and dreads it.She realized that it was often silly and flirtatious, but it was also very firm, very hard to say no to. Mrs. Burlingame was always eager to convince her that she had bought the wrong dress.Or at the end-of-summer party that Jerrod throws every year for the other partners of the firm and their wives, she uses the wrong person when it comes to catering (except when Jessie really throws the party. Jerrod is that kind of Virtue, wandering around, complaining, hum, how can such a thing happen, and then all the credit goes to myself).Mrs. Burlingame was always insisting that she had to lose six pounds.Even with all her ribs exposed, the voice was still chattering.Leave your ribs alone!It screamed in a tone of terror that it thought was just and benign.Look at your breasts, and if they're not enough to make you gag, look at your butt. "Nonsense again," she said, trying to be firm, but now she heard a slight quiver in her voice, which was not good.Not good at all. "He knows I mean it. . . and he knows it. So whose fault it is?" However, is that really true?In a sense yes—she saw that he was determined to ignore what she saw in her face and what her voice said, because that would ruin the game.But, looking at it another way—a more fundamental way, she knew it wasn't right at all.For during the last ten or twelve years of their life together he would not listen to her except about meals, or where they should be at such and such nights at such and such times.He has almost culminated in making this his second career.The only exceptions are unkind comments about his weight or drinking.He heard what she had to say on these topics, and though he didn't like to hear them, he dismissed them as part of some mysterious law of nature: fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, wives gotta fly. nagging. So what exactly could she expect from this man?Wait for him to say, ok, honey, I'll let you go right away.By the way-chow, thank you for waking me up? Yes, she suspected that there was something naive about her, some kind of innocent, innocent little girl who would expect such things. The chainsaw, which had been roaring and whining for quite some time, suddenly fell silent, and so did the dogs, the loons, and even the wind, at least temporarily, and the silence felt thick, literally like a deserted room. The vacant house in the house is like the dust that has accumulated for ten years.She couldn't hear the engine of a car or truck, not even the leaves in the forest.Now the speaking voice was her own alone. Oh God, I'm all alone here.I am alone.