Chapter 37 37

Time to talk about Raymond-André Hubert.Although it is not an easy topic, I still have to do my best.So pour yourself another cup of coffee, honey.If you have a bottle of brandy handy, maybe you want to mix some with your coffee.The following is the third part. All the clippings are piled on the table next to me.But those articles and pieces of news did not tell everything I wanted to know. I doubt whether anyone really knows anything about what Hubert did.That may be a blessing.Most of what the papers have hinted at, and which have not been revealed, I have learned in the last week from the courteous words of Brenton Millhallan.Brandon was strangely composed and measured in speech.When the connection between Hubert's story and mine became too obvious to ignore, I asked Brandon to come over.

"You think this is the guy, don't you? The guy in your room" he asked. "Blanton," I said, "I know that guy." He sighed, looked down at his hands, and after a while, looked up at me—we were in this room, it was nine o'clock in the morning, and there were no lights to hide his face. "I owe you an apology," he said, "I didn't believe you—" "I know." I said as friendly as I could. "—now I do, God! What do you want to know, Jesse?" I took a deep breath and said, "Everything you can find out." He wondered why. "I mean, if you say, this is your business, I should stop interfering. I think I will accept it. But you are asking me to reopen something that the firm thinks is closed. If anyone knows that I Guardian, and now that I have noticed that I have been inquiring about Hubert this winter, then—"

"You could be in trouble," I said.I really didn't think about it. "Yes," he said, "I'm not particularly worried about that, I'm a big boy and can take care of myself--at least I think I can. I'll remind you, Jesse, that while we're trying to get you as quickly as possible , get out of it painlessly, and you might end up on the front page of the paper. Even that's not the main thing—that's a million miles away from the main one, which is northern New England since World War II The most horrific criminal case that has ever happened. I mean, this thing is pretty gruesome, it's radioactive, and you shouldn't involve yourself in the fallout for no reason."

He laughed a little nervously. "Hell, I shouldn't get involved without a good reason." I stood up, walked over to him, and took his hand with my left. "I can't in any way explain what it's for," I said, "but I think I can tell you how that works, at least as a start. He gently put his hand over mine and nodded. "Three things," I said, "first, I need to know if he's real. Second, I need to know if what he's doing is real. And third, I need to know that I'm never going to wake up again. Came in and found him standing in my bedroom." These words reminded me, Ruth, and I started to cry.Far from being a ruse or a tactic, these tears came spontaneously and I couldn't stop them.

"Help me, Brandon," I said. "Whenever I turn off the light, he's standing across from me in the dark of the room. I'm afraid it's going to go on forever unless the spotlight shines on him." .No one else can help me, I must know the truth, please help me." He let go of my hand, took out a handkerchief from a certain pocket of the eye-catchingly neat suit, wiped my face, and gently wiped away my tears like my mother did.That's what my mother did when I went into the kitchen with a skinned knee and cried—early days, you know, before I was the squeaky wheel in the family.

"Well," he said at last, "I'm going to find out everything I can and get it all over to you... that is, unless or until you tell me to stop. But I have a feeling you'd better Be mentally prepared and put on your seat belt." He discovered quite a few things.Now I want to pass it on to you, Ruth.However, you have to prepare yourself a little bit, he said wearing a seat belt is the right thing to do.If you decide to skip parts of the next few pages, I will understand.Wish I could skip over and not write them.But I have an idea, and that's part of the therapy.I hope that's the last part.

This part of the story -- I guess I could call it "Blanton's Story" -- takes place way back in 1984 or 1985.At that time, cases of brutal cemetery vandalism began to appear in the Lake District of western Maine.Along the state line, into New Hampshire, half a dozen small towns reported similar cases.Things like crooked tombstones, graffiti, and theft of commemorative flags are fairly common.Of course, there are always some smashed pumpkins to clear at the local cemetery on November 1st.But those crimes go farther than these pranks or petty thefts.When Blanton brought me his first report last weekend, he used the word sacrilege.By 1988, the word began to appear on most police crime reports.

To those who discovered and investigated those crimes, the crimes themselves seemed anomalous.However, the criminal's usual method is normal enough, organized, and the purpose is very clear.Someone—perhaps two or three, but more likely a single person—has broken into the basement or mausoleum of a town cemetery with as much efficiency as a skilful burglar into a house or shop.Apparently, he was equipped with a drill, a screw cutter, a heavy-duty hacksaw, and maybe a winch — something Blanton says many four-wheeled vans have these days. The criminals always targeted the crypts and mausoleums as catacombs, never touching individual graves.Almost all the crimes were committed in winter, when the ground was too hard to dig and the bodies were preserved until heavy frost seeped into the ground.Once the criminal was inside, he used cutters and electric drills to open the coffins.Methodically he removed the jewels that had been worn by the body for burial, and he used pliers to remove the gold teeth and gold-filled false teeth.

These actions are despicable, but at least they are understandable.However, theft is only the first move of this guy.He tore out the eyes of the dead, ripped off the ears, and cut the throats. In February 1989, two bodies at Chelton Memorial Cemetery were found without their noses—he had apparently chiseled them off with a hammer and chisel.The police officer who discovered it told Blanton: "It's easy to do that - it's like a freezer in there, they're probably snapped off like popsicles. The real question is what does the guy do with two frozen noses Put them on a keychain? Maybe mix them in nachos and pop them in the microwave? What do you do?"

Almost all of the desecrated bodies were found missing hands, feet, and some arms and legs.In several cases, the criminal also took the head and sexual organs of the corpse.Forensic evidence shows that his main work was done with axes and butcher knives, and more delicately with various scalpels.He's not bad either, a "talented amateur specialist."A Cumberland County sheriff's aide told Brandon: "I wouldn't want him to take my gallbladder, but I'd like someone to have a mole removed from my arm, and I'd trust him, he's a talented guy. layman." In several cases, he opened the stomach or head of the corpse and filled it with animal waste.The police uncovered cases of sexual abuse more frequently.As far as stealing gold teeth, jewels, limbs, etc., he was no different from other criminals.But when it comes to using sexual equipment to make love to the dead, it's hard to praise him as a gentleman.

This is perhaps a very lucky thing for me. In the month or so since my escape from the lake house, I have learned a great deal about the way things are handled in the Country Police.But that was nothing compared to what I was told last week.One of the most astonishing things is how cautious and tactful the town police are.I think when you call everyone in the area by first name, and you're related to many of them, it's as natural to act cautiously as it is to breathe. The way they handled my case was one example of this strange, complicated prudence, and Hubert was another.Remember, the investigation went on for seven years, and by the time the case was over, many people were involved—two state police departments, four county sheriffs, thirty-one aides. God knows how many local cops and officers there are.The case was on the front page of the file they opened.By 1989, they even had a name for him—Rudolph, after the famous actor Valentino, and they were talking about Rudolph in the District Court, waiting to testify in other cases.People exchanged ideas on the Rudolph case at law enforcement seminars in Ortesta, Derry and Waterville, talking about him over coffee breaks.A police officer told Brandon: "We sure do, we guys keep bringing Rudolphs home. You got the latest details on the case at the backyard meeting, maybe you'll talk to another department Discuss it with your buddies while watching your kids play a game of little baseball. Because, you never know when you’re going to put things together in a new way and you’re done.” But here's the real surprise.Those cops had known for years that a living monster—in fact, a ghoul—was prowling the western part of the state, and the story didn't make the papers until Hubert was caught.Looking at it in a certain way, I found this quirky and kind of creepy.But on a larger scale, I find it fascinating.In many large cities, I think, the law enforcement struggle has not been very successful.But here in the East, they seem to be doing a good job. Of course, you could argue that it took them seven years to catch a lunatic like Hubert, and the job could have been improved.But what Blanton had learned showed that, to me, they were working very quickly.He explains that demons (they really use that word) are at work in small country towns.There, stretched budgets force police to deal only with the worst ongoing problems—crimes against the living, not the dead.Cops say they are only aware of at least two car theft rings and four shoplifting rings operating in the western half of the state.And murderers, wife beaters, thieves, speeders and drunks.To make matters worse, there are drugs, which are bought, sold, and cultivated.People keep hurting each other and killing each other for it.According to Blanton, the Sheriff of Norwich didn't even use the word cocaine anymore—he called it a heroin idiot.In his written reports, he writes as a sea idiot.I understood what he was trying to say.As a small-town cop, trying to police an entire monster exhibit in a four-year-old Leigh-Lymouth patrol car seemed impossible.Whenever the speed of the car reaches 70 kilometers per hour, the car seems to be falling apart.At this time, your task is to list the order of things, and the guy who likes to play games with the dead is far away from the forefront of the main purpose. I listened carefully to all this.I agree, but not completely. "Some things feel true, but some things feel a little selfish," I said, "I mean the things Hubert did... well, it wasn't just playing games with the dead, was it? Or am I wrong?" "You're absolutely right," he said. What neither of us wanted to say outright was that over the course of seven years this freak had slipped from town to town performing oral sex acts on the dead.I think it's more important to end that guy's behavior than catching teenage girls stealing cosmetics at the local grocery store, or finding out who's growing marijuana in the woodlands behind a Baptist church. And, importantly, no one forgot about him, and there was an exchange of ideas all the time.Demons like Rudolph are deeply disturbing to the police for a variety of reasons.The main reason is that a crazy guy who could do something like that to the dead would probably do it to the living.The cops still worry about the missing limbs—what would he want them for?An unnamed memo stating: "Rudolph may indeed be the leader of the cannibals," Blanton said, lingered only briefly in the Oxford County Sheriff's office before being destroyed.Not because the idea was considered a creepy joke - which it wasn't, but because the Chief feared it would leak to the press. As long as local law enforcement has the resources and the time, they will send someone to watch certain cemeteries.There are many, many cemeteries in western Maine.I imagine that by the time this case was finally settled, watching graveyards had become almost a hobby for some of the fellows.The theory is that if you keep rolling the dice over time, sooner or later you're bound to get the number you want.Very importantly, that's exactly what happened in the end. Early last week—about ten days ago, in fact—Castle County Executive Norris Ridgwick and one of his deputies parked their car in the doorway of an abandoned warehouse close to their hometown cemetery, which is a A branch road to the back gate of the cemetery.It was two o'clock in the morning, and they were preparing to evacuate back for the night, when the deputy John Rapovante heard the sound of a motor.Because it was a snowy night, the guy didn't have his headlights on, so they didn't see it until the van pulled up to the door.Deputy Rapovante tried to grab the guy as soon as he got out of the car and started pulling at the iron gate of the cemetery, but the officer stopped him. "Ridgewick is a funny-looking fool," Blanton said, "but he knows the value of arresting people in good faith. He doesn't forget the court when it matters, and he gets it from his predecessor, Alan Pangborn." Learned these. That means he learned from the masters." Ten minutes after the van pulled through the gate, Ridgewick and Rapovante drove behind, their headlights off, and followed the rut of the van.Until the guy's destination was indeed found out—the basement of the town embedded in the mountain.Both were thinking about Rudolph, but neither said it aloud.Rapovante said it was like bringing bad luck to a pitcher in baseball who didn't score on the first team. Ridgewick had the deputy park the patrol car near the side of the hill leading to the basement.He said he wanted to give the guy all the rope he needed to hang himself.It turned out that Rudolph got enough rope to hang himself on the moon, revealing his true colors.When finally Ridgewick and Rapovante came in with guns and flashlights, they were on their way Raymond Andre Hubert was next to an open coffin with one foot inside and one foot outside , with an ax in one hand and his own dick in the other, facing the mouth of the dead body.Rapovante said it looked like he was ready to do the job with either an ax or a dick. I think they must have been frightened to death by Hubert when they saw him for the first time in the light of the torch.I wasn't surprised at all—though I thought I could imagine better than most what it would be like to run into a monster like him in the basement of a cemetery at two o'clock in the morning.Among other things, Hubert suffers from acromegaly, a condition in which the hands, feet, and face grow continuously when the pituitary gland is in an abnormal state, and it is this condition that makes his forehead bulge and his lips purse.He also had two unnaturally long arms that hung down to his knees. There was a fire in Castle County about a year ago—it burned most of the city.These days the prefect puts most of the key prisoners in the Cumberland or Northam jails.However, neither Chief Ridgwick nor Deputy Rapovante wanted to drive down snow-covered roads at three o'clock in the morning, so they took him back to the warehouse that had been converted for police work these days. "They claim it's late at night and there's snow on the road," said Blanton, "but I know there's more to it than that. I don't think Mr. Ridgwick wants to get out of the way before he's at least tapped himself." Give the pinata to anyone else. Anyway, Hubert isn't messing around - he's sitting in the back of the patrol car, babbling like a chickadee, and looks like he escaped from some part of the graveyard story Something — both of them swear it's true, and he's singing the song "Happily Together." Ridgewick radioed up front and had some temps pick them up.He and Rapovante left after making sure Bert was chained tight, the lieutenants armed with muskets and enough fresh coffee to drink.They drove back to their hometown cemetery to find the van.Ridgewick put on gloves and sat on a heavy green plastic bag.Police like to call the bags "evidence blankets" when they use them in cases.They drove back to town.Ridgewick drove the van with all the windows open.He said the van still stinks like a butcher's shop after a six-day power outage. Ridgwick saw clearly for the first time what was behind the van under the arc lights as it pulled into the town parking lot.Storage compartments along the sides of the vehicle contained some rotting limbs, and a wicker box, much smaller than the one I had seen.There is a craftsman's toolbox full of thieves' tools.Ridgewick opened the crate to find six penises strung together on a twisted length of jute, and he knew immediately what it was for: a necklace.Hubert later admitted to wearing it when he went out on tours of his cemetery.He said he would never get caught if he wore it on his last outing. "It brings me strength and good luck," he said.Considering how long it took to get him, Ruth, I think you'd think he had a point. The scariest thing, however, is the sandwich served on the guest table.What sticks out between the two slices of bread is apparently a human tongue, smeared generously with the bright yellow mustard that children love. "Ridgwick fights to get out of the van before he vomits," Blanton said. "A good thing—if he vomits as soon as he sees this evidence, the state troopers will give him a new ass hole. But On the other hand, if he hadn't vomited, I would have expected him to be fired for psychological reasons." Shortly after sunrise, they handed over Hubert to Cumberland.Ridgewick turns around in the front seat of the patrol car and reads to Hubert his rights through the French Open (this is the second or third time he's done this - Ridgwick, apparently, really methodical), Hubert interrupted him, saying that he "may have done something bad to my parents, I'm very sorry".By then they had established from papers in Hubert's wallet that he lived in Morton, a small farming town across the river in Cumberland.Once Hubert was securely locked up in his new place of detention, Ridgewick informed the Cumberland and Morton police of what Hubert had told them. On the way back to Castle County, Rapovante asked Ridgwick what he thought the police officers who searched the Hubert home would find."I don't know, but I hope they remember to wear their gas masks," Ridgewick said. What they found and the conclusions they reached were published in the papers in the following days.Of course, as the work progresses, more and more content will be published in the newspaper.By sunset on Hubert's first day in prison, the state troopers and the Maine State Attorney General were fairly aware of what had happened at the farmhouse on Kingston Road.The couple whom Hubert called "Mum and Dad"—actually his stepmother and her legal husband—are indeed dead.It had been months since they died, although Hubert continued to speak of the "bad thing" as if it had only happened a few hours earlier.He scalped both and ate most of "Daddy". Human body parts were strewn about the house, some rotting and maggot-ridden despite the cold weather.Others are carefully processed and pickled.Most of the processed human bodies are male sex organs.On a shelf by the basement steps, police found about fifty round jars containing eyes, lips, fingers, big toes and testicles.Hubert was a real canner.The house was still full—and I did say full—of stolen items.Most were stolen from summer camps and cottages.Hubert called them “my stuff”—apparatus, tools, gardening gear, and enough lingerie to supply Victoria’s women’s clothing department.Apparently he likes to wear lingerie. Police are still trying to recover body parts from Burt's grave robbery and other activities.They believe he may have killed as many as a dozen people in the past five years.All the bums who hitchhiked in his van were killed by him.Hubert himself was of little help in solving the case.It's not that he doesn't want to talk, it's that he talks too much.According to Brandon, he has confessed to three major crimes, including the premeditated assassination of George Bush.He seems to believe that Bush is actually Dana Carvey, the guy who played Mrs. Church on Saturday Night Live. He has been in and out of various psychiatric institutions since the age of fifteen, when he was arrested for performing an illicit sexual act on his cousin.The cousin was only two years old at the time.Of course, he himself was the victim of a sexually perverted family.Apparently, his father, as well as his stepmother and stepfather, had attacked him.What do people always say?Not a family, do not enter a door. He was sent to Gage Point, a kind of drug rehab clinic, transitional institution, and mental institution for teenagers in Hancock County, and he was released as a healer at the age of nineteen, in 1973. thing. He spent the second half of 1975 and most of 1976 in a psychiatric rehabilitation center in Augusta.This time it was the result of Hubert's brutality with animals.Ruth, I know maybe I shouldn't joke about these things, I don't know what else to do.Sometimes I feel like if I don't joke around, I'm going to start crying.Once I start crying, I can't stop.He stuffed cats into trash cans and blasted them to pieces with a large detonator.That's what he does... Every now and then, if he needs to break his routine, he'll nail a puppy to a tree. In 1979, he raped and blinded a six-year-old boy.He was therefore sent to Mount Julut, this time for life imprisonment.But when it came to politics and government spending cuts, he was "cured" again in 1984 and was discharged.Blanton thinks — and I think so — that this second cure has less to do with the wonders of modern science or psychology than it does with state budget cuts for mental health.In any case, Hubert went back to live with his stepmother and her legal husband.The state government also forgot about him.He took his driving test and got a perfectly legitimate license - a fact I found most surprising of all, from a certain point of view. Sometime in late 1984 or early 1985, he began cruising local cemeteries with this license. He is a busy man.In winter he went to the crypt and the mausoleum.In the fall and spring, he broke into seasonal camps and cottages all over Maine, taking whatever he liked—you know, “my stuff.”Apparently, he's a big fan of framed photos.They found four boxes of framed photographs in the attic of his Kingston Road home.Blanton said they were still counting, and the total might be more than seven hundred. To what extent were they involved in what happened before Hubert got rid of "Mom and Dad"?It's impossible to tell, but they must have been involved in a lot.Because Burt didn't make the slightest effort to cover up what he did.As for the neighbors, their motto seems to be, "they pay the bills, don't mingle, no harm to us".That makes the thing horribly perfect, don't you think?It's a New England gothic novel published by Paranormal Psychological Journal. They found another, larger crate in the basement.Brandon was given a copy of the photo the police had taken documenting this particular find.But at first he hesitated to show me them.Hmm...that's actually a little bit milder.This is the one, and only place, where he succumbs to the temptation that all men seem to feel—you know what I mean, as John Wayne playing the hero of the West. "Come on, little woman, look into the desert and wait till we pass all those dead Indians. I'll let you know when we do." "I'm willing to accept that Hubert is probably in the house with you," he said, "and if I don't give that thought a little thought, I'll be a damned ostrich with my head in the sand. Everything There's a story for it. But answer me: Why do you go on with it, Jess? What's the good in knowing?" I don't know how to answer that question, Ruth.But I do know one thing: nothing I do will make things worse.So I persevered.Blanton realized that the little woman would not return to the carriage until she had seen the dead Indian with her own eyes.So, I saw those photos.The longest photo I've seen is marked "State Police Exhibit 217" in the corner.Watching it is like watching a videotape of your worst nightmare that someone somehow made.The photo shows a square wicker box, opened so that the photographer can get a picture of its contents, which are piles of bones mixed with jewellery: some worthless, some valuable Liancheng, some stolen from the summer house, some undoubtedly peeled from the cold hands of the corpses in the small town freezer. That photo was so eye-catching, with no cover-up, as police evidence photos always do.I looked at the picture and went back to the lake house - it happened instantly and without delay.Not memories, do you understand?Here I am, handcuffed, helpless, watching the shadows of trees pass over his grinning face, listening to myself telling him that he scares me.Then he bent over to get the case, never leaving my face with those fiery eyes.I saw him—I saw it—reaching into the box with his distorted hand, and I saw that hand begin to stir bones and jewels, and I heard them make a sound like a dirty rattling sound from the board. You know what haunts me the most?I think it's my father, that's my dad, back from the dead, coming to do what he wanted to do. "Go ahead," I told him, "Yeah, but promise me that you'll have to unlock me afterwards and let me go. Just promise me this." I think I would have said the same if I had known who he really was.Ruth, what do you think?I know I will say the same.do you understand?I'll let him put his dick - the dick he's stuffed down a dead man's rotting throat - into me, as long as he assures me that I won't die tragically of muscle spasms and convulsions, which is what it is Waiting for me.As long as he promises to set me free. Jessie paused for a moment, her breathing so heavy and fast she almost gasped.She looked at the words on the screen—these unbelievable, unspeakable confessions—and felt a sudden, strong urge to erase them.Not because she was embarrassed to let Ruth read it.She was really embarrassed, but that wasn't the main reason.What she really didn't want to do was have to deal with these things again. They don't exist until they are out of your hands.thought Jesse.She reached out with her black-gloved right index finger, touched the clear key—stroked it, actually—and withdrew her hand.It's true, isn't it? "Yes," she said, in that grunt she'd used to in handcuffed captivity—only now, at least, she wasn't talking to Mrs. Burlingame or Ruth in her head. Nothing else, may God have mercy on her.She didn't want to press the clear key to erase the fact, no matter how terrifying some people—including herself, in fact—would find that fact to be.She wants to let it exist.Maybe she'll decide never to send the letter (she doesn't know if it's fair to burden a woman she hasn't seen in years with all the pain and madness).But she won't clear it.Which meant that it was best to write it now, while the last of her courage and strength was still there. Jessie leaned forward, and she began typing again. Blanton said, "Jessie, there's one thing you have to remember and accept—no concrete proof. Yes, I know your ring is gone, and maybe you got it right the first time—someone Pickpocketing cops could have taken them." "What about Exhibit 217?" I asked. "And that wicker box?" He shrugged, and I suddenly had what poets call an epiphany.He insisted that the crate might just be a coincidence.It's not easy to insist like that, but the main thing is the fact that a monster like Hubert can affect the lives of women he knows and likes.The look I saw on Brenton Millhallan's face that day was simple enough: He was going to ignore the whole mass of substantive evidence and focus on the lack of concrete evidence.He was going to insist that the whole thing was a mere figment of my imagination, using Hubert's case as an explanation for my particularly vivid fantasies while I was handcuffed to my bed. That insight then gave rise to a second one, an even clearer one: I can think so too.I can grow to believe that I'm wrong...but if I succeed at that, my life will be ruined.Those voices will start coming back - not just your voice or baby's, Nora Calligan's, but my mom's, my sister's, my brother's, and my middle school buddy, I'm at the doctor's office The voices of people who met for ten minutes, and God only knows how many.I think most of it will be the sound of that kind of scary unknown object. Ruth, I can't live with this because, in the two months since my ordeal at the lake house, I've remembered many things that I've spent years repressing.The most important part of those memories, I think, came between my first and second surgery on my hand.I was "on medication" almost all the time (that's the technical hospital term for "completely out of my mind"), and the recollection goes like this: Between the eclipse and my brother Will's birthday party about Two years—the birthday he fingered me while playing croquet.Maybe Will's behavior became some kind of occasional rough therapy.I think it's possible.Don't people say that?Did Our Ancestors Invent Cooking After Eating Leftovers from Forest Fires?Even though I got away with some kind of treatment that day, I don't think it was Will's behavior, but when I retracted my arm and punched Will in the mouth... at this point, none of that matters.What matters is that after that day on the platform, a kind of bass chorus and ego preoccupied me for the two years I spent there.A dozen voices judged every word I said, everything I did.Some voices are friendly and help me.Mostly, though, the voices of people who feared, confused, thought that Jessie was a useless little piece of shit who deserved every bad thing that happened to her and paid double for every good thing she got.For two years I could hear those voices, Ruth, and when they asked, I forgot them.Instead of stopping gradually, they stopped suddenly. How could such a thing happen?I have no idea.In a sense, I don't care either.I figured I might care if the change made things worse.But no - it made a big difference.In the two years between the eclipse and the birthday party, I was in a fugue state.My conscious mind split into squabbling fragments.My real epiphany was this: If I let the lovely, friendly Brenton Millhallan run his course, I would end up walking back where I came from—split personality avenue to madhouse lane.This time, I didn't have the shockingly rude therapy of slapping my little brother.This time I had to do it myself, just like I had to break free of Gerald's goddamn handcuffs. Brandon was watching me, trying to gauge the impact of his words.他一定是判断不了，因为他又说了一遍。这次是以稍稍不同的方式说的：“你得记住，不管情况看上去怎样，你可能是错的。我想，你得听从这一事实，无论用什么方法，确切地说，你决不会知道的。” "No, I won't listen." 他扬起了眉毛。 “还有一个非常好的机会让我确切查明事情真相。你要帮帮我，布兰顿。” 他又开始挂上了那种不太愉快的笑容，那种笑我打赌他甚至不知道是属于他的本领之一，那种笑表达的意思是：你容不了她们，又杀不得她们。 哦，我该怎么做呢？ “带我去见于伯特。”我说。 “噢，不。”他说，“这种事我绝对不会——也不能做的，杰西。” 我不给你讲随后一小时的绕圈子谈话了。将那谈话归结为知识深奥的陈述吧。 “你疯了，杰西。” “别再试图干涉我的生活了，布兰顿。”我想用报社这一武器在他面前挥舞——我几乎确信这是一件可以让他屈服的事，可是最终我不需要那样做。我不得不做的就是哭。从某种意义上来说，写那件事使我觉得自己令人难以置信的庸俗。可是换一种方式看，我把它认做是另一种症状，表明在这种特别的方形舞中，小伙子和姑娘之间出了什么不对头的事情。你看，直到我哭了起来，他才完全相信了我是当真的。 让这长话变得稍短一些吧。他拿起电话，很快打了四五个电话，然后带回来这个消息：第二天于伯特将在康伯兰县的区法庭因一些次要的指控受到传讯——主要的指控是偷窃。他说，如果我是当真的，如果我戴上有面纱的帽子，他将带我去。我立刻同意了。尽管布兰领的神情表明他相信自己在犯一生中最大的错误，但他还是信守了诺言。 杰西又停了下来。当她再次开始打字时，她打得非常缓慢。她透过屏幕看到了昨天的情景。头天夜里积起的六英寸白雪预示着雪还会下。她在前面的道上看到了蓝色的闪光物，感觉到布兰顿的比默车放慢了车速。 我们到达听证会时迟到了，因为在路上有部翻了的铰接式卡车——那是条市区旁道。布兰顿没说出来，但是我知道他是希望，我们到达那儿时太晚了，于伯特已经被带回他位于县监狱最安全的四室了。可是法庭门口的卫士说听证会仍在进行，尽管就要结束了。布兰顿为我打开门时，贴近我的耳朵低声说道：“杰西，放下面罩，别打开。”我放下了面罩，布兰顿用一只手搂着我的腰，领我进去了。法庭……” 杰西停了下来，她向窗外看去，看到了逐渐变暗的下午时光。她的灰色眼睛大睁着，茫然若失。 回忆——