Chapter 16 Chapter Eight Long Live the Bull 2

7 By the time the last question was asked and all the statements signed, it was already dark.Rosie's head was spinning with an unreal feeling, like she'd just taken one of those full-day exams she used to take in high school. Gerstasson, holding a pile of papers before his chest like a sacrament, went to prepare his desk work.Rosie stood up and walked over to Bill, who was already on his feet.Gert goes to the bathroom. "Ms. McClendon?" Hale called her from where he sat. Rosie's tiredness was suddenly frightened away by the sudden fear.Bill was too far away to hear anything Hale might have to say to her.He would tell her, in a low, mysterious tone, that she should, for her own future, stop all the stupid things she did to her husband before it was too late; Shut your mouth firmly.He'd remind her that what was going on here was a family dispute, something like this—

"I'll get him," said Hale mildly. "I don't know if I can make you believe me, but anyway, I want you to listen to me. I'm going to get him. I promise you." She opened her mouth and looked at him. "I'm going to catch him because he's a murderer, crazy, and he's dangerous. Another reason I'm doing it is that I don't like the way you look at this room, you jump up whenever there's a sound, Even when I moved my arm you seemed startled." "I don't……" "That's what you are. You can't hide yourself, and you will show it sooner or later. But it's okay, because I know why you are like this. If I were a woman, after what you went through..." His voice trailed off Go down and look at her with inquiring eyes. "Have you ever thought about how lucky you are to be alive?"

"Yes." Rossi said.Her legs were shaking.Bill stood in the doorway, watching her with obvious concern.She forced a small smile at him and raised a finger: wait another minute. "You're lucky," said Hale.He watched the house, and Rosie followed his gaze.At one desk, a police officer is taking notes on a crying boy in a school jacket.At another desk, next to a French window, a uniformed police officer and a detective are looking through a stack of photographs, their heads close together.The detective took off his jacket, revealing a .38 caliber police pistol at his waist.In front of a bank of monitors, Gerstasson is poring over his report with a young man in a blue suit.According to Rossi, the young man was only about sixteen years old.

"You know a lot about the police," Hale said, "but most of what you know is wrong." She didn't know how to answer this sentence, it didn't matter, he didn't seem to ask her to answer. "You want to know what was my greatest motive in trying to get him, Ms. McClendon?" She nodded. "I'm going to catch him because he's a cop, and in God's name he's a cop hero. But when he's on the front page of his hometown paper again, he'll be 'the late Norman Daniels', or appearing in public in an orange prison uniform."

"Thank you for saying that," Rossi said. "It means a lot to me." He brought her to Bill.Bill held out his arms to her.She hugged him tightly and closed her eyes. Hale called her, "Ms. McClendon?" She opened her eyes and saw Gert back in the room, waving to her.She looked at Hale shyly, but without panic, and said, "Call me Rosie if you want." He flashed a curt smile. "Would you like to hear something that might change your less-than-friendly reaction to the city?" "I thought . . . maybe. "Let me guess," Bill said, "you've got trouble with the police in Rosie's hometown."

Hale smiled gloomily. "Exactly. They weren't too keen on faxing us the blood tests and fingerprints they had on Daniels. We had to deal with the police lawyers—the police defenders. !" "They're going to protect him," Rossi said, "and I know they will." "It's still the same. It's an instinctive reaction, just like when a policeman is disarmed and his instinct tells him to give up all attempts and obey the murderer. When they think about it seriously, they will believe that all this is true. real." "Do you believe that?" Gert asked.

He thought about it carefully, then nodded: "Yes, I believe it." "Is it okay to have the police protect Rosie until this is over?" Bill asked. Hale nodded again: "Rosie, we have set up a sentry outside your residence on Ivy Street." She looked at Gert, Bill, and Halle in turn, and once again frustration and fear ran through her body.The odds were always against her, she was beginning to feel manipulated, she was about to be hit from the other direction. "Why? Why? He doesn't know where I live, and he can't possibly know! That's why he went to see me at the picnic, where he thought I'd go. Cynthia didn't tell him my address, did she?"

"She said no." Hale emphasized the word "say," but the difference was so slight that Rosie didn't realize it.Gage and Bill sensed it, and they exchanged a look. "You see, it did! Gert didn't say anything, did he, Gert?" "No, ma'am," Gert said. "Well, even so, I still want to be a bit safer. Let's not talk about this issue. I have already arranged our people in front of your building, and there are at least two cars in the residential area. You get scared again, but when a madman is also a policeman, he is not a normal madman. Best not to rely on luck."

"If you really think so, so be it," Rosie whispered. "Ms. Kenshaw, where are you going, I'll send you—" "Ettinger Wharf," Gert said, adjusting his long bathrobe. "I'm going to have a fashion show after the concert." Hale giggled, and stretched out his hand to Bill: "Mr. Steiner, nice to meet you." Bill shakes his hand. "Me too. Thank you for everything." "It's my job." He looked from Gert to Rosie. "Good night, girls." He looked at Gert quickly again, with a light smile that made him look ten years younger. five years old. "I see what you mean," he said, laughing.Gert thought about it, and laughed with him.

8 On the steps outside, Bill, Gert, and Rosie hug each other.The air was humid and there was a mist over the lake.The fog was very thin, not thicker than the dust around the street lamps and the smoke above the gravel roads.But Rosie guessed that in another hour they would be thick enough to cut with a knife. "Would you like to go back to the sisters' house tonight, Rosie?" Gert asked. "They won't be back from the concert in over two hours, and we can enjoy all the popcorn." Rosie, unwilling to go back to the sisters' home, turned to Bill and asked, "If I go home, will you come with me?"

"Of course," he replied quickly, taking her hand, "I'd love to. Don't worry about accommodation—I can sleep on any sofa." "You haven't seen my sofa yet," she said.She knew the couch wasn't a problem because she wouldn't let Bill sleep on it.Her bed was a single, which meant they would be a squeeze, but she figured they'd get along just fine and the small space might add more to her life. "Thank you again, Gert," she said. "It's okay." Gert hugged her briefly and firmly, then turned around and kissed Bill loudly on the cheek.At that moment a police car swerved over and stopped. "Take care of her, friend." "I will." Gert walked over to the car, stopped and pointed to Bill's Harley parked in a parking area marked "Police Only" and said, "Damn fog, stop driving that thing." "I'll be careful, ma'am, I promise." She curled one huge fist, pretending to be angry.Bill's eyes were half-closed, his chin stuck out, and a look of suffering was on his face.Rosie laughed.She never imagined that she would be standing on the steps of the police station and laughing, but many things happened today that she did not expect. Lots and lots of things. 9 Despite all the unpleasant things that had happened, Rosie thought it was as good to be back on Ivy Street as it had been this morning to go to the country.She crossed the street next to Bill, and the last three blocks were like driving through a cotton dream world as the Harry drove through the fog without hindrance.The fog-shrouded snowy beams of Harry's headlights shot into the foggy world like searchlights.When Bill finally drove onto Ivy Street, the buildings on the street were ghostly shadows, and Bryant Park was a huge, empty blank slate. Captain Hale has parked his car in front of Building 897 as promised, with the words "providing service and protection" written on the body.There was an open space in front of the car, and Bill drove the motorcycle into the open space, put it in neutral, and turned off the engine. "You're shaking." He helped her out of the car. She nodded, trying not to chatter her teeth as she spoke. "Dampness is worse than cold." She thought both were uncomfortable, but she didn't know which was worse. "Okay, let me take you somewhere dry and warm." He put away his helmet, locked Harry, and put the key in his pocket. "What a brilliant idea." He took her hand and walked down the sidewalk to the front steps of an apartment building.As they passed the police car, Bill waved to the officers inside.The policeman greeted them lazily from behind the car window, and the dim light of the street lamps cast a dim light on his ring.His partner had apparently fallen asleep. Rosie took the key out of her purse, inserted it into the lock and opened the front door.She had a vague idea of ​​what she was doing, her good feeling had disappeared, and the initial sense of fear weighed her down like a huge iron block.There was a heavy weight in her stomach and a worsening headache, and she didn't know why. She must have seen something just now, something strange.What would that be?She was so absorbed in the question that she didn't hear the soft opening and closing of the police car's front door, or the faint sound of footsteps on the pavement behind them. "Rosie?" Bill's voice came from the darkness.They were standing in the porch, but she couldn't see at all the painting hanging on the right wall, or the coat rack with its brass base and brass coat hooks, even though it stood by the stairs.Why is it so dark here? Of course it was because the ceiling light was turned off.She was thinking about another question that puzzled her even more: why the policeman sitting in the passenger seat of the police car maintained such an uncomfortable posture, but could sleep so soundly.He rests his chin on his chest and pulls his hat over his eyes like a hooker in a thirties movie.Why did he sleep like a dead pig when he was on duty, disregarding his major responsibilities?The object of his surveillance may appear at any time.Hale would be very angry if he found out, and he'd talk to the uniformed cop right away. "Rosie? What happened?" The footsteps behind them became more and more urgent. She rewound her thoughts and played it again like a video tape.She saw Bill standing behind the police car and waving to the people in the car, greeted him silently, and the policemen in the car waved to them, the rings on their hands glowing faintly under the street lights.She was some distance away from him and couldn't read the writing, but she suddenly realized what it was.How many times had she seen the words on the ring imprinted on her scarred skin, like the seal of the US food sanitation inspection agency on food.That is "service, loyalty, public interest". The footsteps behind them grew faster, the door slammed shut, someone was panting in the dark, and Rosie smelled English leather. 10 Norman's mind went blank.He took off his shirt and washed the blood from his face and chest at the sink in the kitchen of the Sisters' House.He looked up to take the towel from the hanging rod, and the afterglow of the setting sun shone orange-yellow into his eyes.He didn't realize he had stepped outside.It didn't take long for the sky to completely darken.He put the white ball cap back on his head and wore an English fog jacket.God knows where he got the coat, but it was very timely, because soon the fog would cover the whole city.He rubbed his hands against the rainproof surface of the expensive coat, loving the texture, a finely crafted piece of clothing.He tried to remember how he got it, but couldn't.Did he kill someone again?A neighbor or friend?possible.Anything can happen when one is on vacation. He looked at Ivy Street.On the fog-shrouded street, a police car known as "Charlie-David" was parked within his range, not far from the intersection of two avenues.He put his hand into the left pocket of his coat--it's a nice dress, some people do have good taste in clothes--and his hand touched something rubbery and elastic, and he smiled pleasantly, as if in the same The old friend shook hands, "Long live, Bull," he whispered, "Hello." He touched the other pocket again, not wanting to find anything, just to make sure that what he needed was there. He touched it lightly with the tip of his middle finger, quickly retracted his finger, and finally pulled it out carefully.It was a stainless steel knife from Anna's desk. She screamed hard, he recalled, laughing grimly with the knife in her hand.The blade gleamed coldly in the light of the street lamps.Yes, she yelped in terror...but it didn't take long for her to be completely relieved. But now, there was one more conundrum to solve: There were two men in visors in the police van, both armed, and he had only a stainless steel knife, and he had to kill them as silently as possible.It was a real problem, and until now he hadn't the slightest idea. "Norman." A whispered voice came from the right pocket. He pulled the mask out of his pocket, and its empty eyes stared at him with what seemed to be a sneer. "What?" he murmured maliciously. "Fake a heart attack," said Mr. Bull, still in a whisper.He began to do as it said, staggering towards the parked patrol car, getting slower and slower.He lowered his head and watched the police car warily from the corner of his eye.The people in the car should have seen him even if they were dull, because he was the only moving object in the whole street.He hoped that when they saw the man stalking forward with his head down, they would think he was a drunken alcoholic or a sudden illness. He reached into his shirt with his right hand and rubbed his chest, he could feel the sharp edge of the knife in his hand as it had torn a small gash into his shirt.He stumbled toward his target, then stopped and stood still, head down, trying not to sway.That way, they wouldn't think he was a drunk from a bar scrambling through the streets trying to find his way home; he now looked more like a man in other trouble.He wanted them to come towards him; unless absolutely necessary, he had to go towards them, though it would be easy for them to spot them. He took three more steps, not toward the police car but toward the porch closest to him.He clung to the wet, cold iron railings, drooping his head, trying to look like a patient suffering a heart attack rather than a dangerous man with a deadly weapon hidden in his clothes. Just when he was beginning to wonder if he had made a serious mistake, the door of the police car opened, and there was the sound of two people running towards him quickly.It's such a joy to hear.He ventured to open his eyes for a furtive glance to see the distance between the two policemen.If the two pulled back and forth, the situation would be very bad for him, even dangerous, because in this situation, either of them might run back to the patrol car for assistance. Fortunately, they were a typical Charlie-David combination, with the veteran on the left and the novice on the right.Norman felt that the novice looked very familiar, as if he had seen it on TV.The two of them were so close together, almost shoulder to shoulder, it was wonderful. "Sir," the older man on the left asked, "Can you help me?" "It hurts," Norman gasped. "What kind of pain method?" The elder continued to ask, the critical moment had arrived, almost on the verge of danger.The older cop could have told his partner to get back in the car and radio for help, and then he was done.But now they are still some distance away from Norman, and it is not yet time to start. Since embarking on this risky operation, Norman felt that only at this moment was he more like himself: calm, sober, and seeing everything.From the dew that condensed on the iron railings at the side of the road, to the dark gray pigeon feathers next to the gutter, and a crumpled paper bag that once held potato chips.He could even hear the policeman's smooth, slight breathing. "Here," Norman panted. He reached into his clothes with his right hand and pressed it tightly against his chest. The blade of the stainless steel knife cut his shirt and skin. He didn't feel any pain at all. "My chest Feeling a little stinging." "Better let me call an ambulance," said the young policeman.It occurred to Norman that the young cop was a lot like Jerry Massas, the actor who played Beaver on the TV series Leave it to Beaver.When Channel 2 rebroadcasted the film, he watched almost every episode, some five or six times. But the older cop didn't look like Beaver's brother Wally, he thought. "Wait a minute," said the older policeman, walking towards him, "Let me take a look. I used to be a doctor in the army." "Coat...buttons..." Norman said, watching "Bivor" from the corner of his eye. The old policeman took another two steps forward, just in front of Norman, and "Bive" followed.The old policeman began to undo the buttons on Norman's windbreaker, the first, the second, and when he got to the third, Norman suddenly pulled out a knife and stabbed him in the throat, blood spurted out and splashed On the uniform, it looked like gravy on a steak in the dim fog. It wasn't hard to deal with "Bivow," who stood transfixed with terror, while his partner, gasping for breath, waved feebly into the air to free the knife that had been lodged in his throat. , as if helplessly driving away the leech attached to the body. Beaver seemed unaware in his shock of what Norman had done to his collapsing partner, which did not surprise Norman, who had seen similar situations before.The policeman was stunned like a ten-year-old, and not at all like the seasoned Beaver, who made himself a target. "Something happened to Al!" said Beaver.Norman knew these young police officers so well that he thought he was yelling, but in fact he was just muttering under his breath. "Something happened to Al!" "Yes." Norman immediately punched the young policeman in the jaw.If the opponent is strong, this move may bring him danger.Fortunately, "Bivor" is not difficult to deal with.A series of heavy blows forced the young policeman to the railing that Norman had grabbed half a minute earlier. Beaver didn't die as quickly as Norman had hoped, but his eyes had dimmed and should be fine.His hat fell to the floor, revealing his short-cropped hair.Norman grabbed him by the hair and hit him on the head with his knee, sounding like he was pounding a bag of china with a hammer. Beaver fell to the ground like a log.Norman looked around for his partner, who was, unbelievably, gone. Norman looked around with his eyes and found him walking slowly down the street with his arms folded across his chest like a zombie in a horror movie.Norman watched motionlessly, to see if there were any other spectators in the "comedy."From the park came the clamor of children playing fool in the fog, which had nothing to do with what was going on here.The stars of luck had been on him thus far, and in another forty-five seconds, a minute at most, he would be sitting comfortably at home. He ran after the old policeman, who was no longer trying to get the stainless steel knife stuck in his throat, and struggled for about twenty-five yards. "Officer!" Norman called in a low, savage voice, touching him on the arm. The cop turned his head convulsively, his eyes bulging from their sockets, glazed over.The eyes, Norman thought, were a bit like those on the heads of animals that hang on the walls of some hotels.His uniform was soaked in blood from collar to knees.Norman wondered how strange it was for a man to be alive and conscious after such a traumatic injury. "Crows!" said the policeman hastily. "Bah, nasty crows!" The voice was choked, but loud enough that Norman could hear it clearly.He made the mistake of a rookie, but Norman thought he was proud to be able to handle such a strong guy.When the policeman spoke, the handle of the knife stuck in his throat shook up and down, like a lion dancer playing with the mouth on the lion's head. "Okay, I'll report to the backup and ask for help." Norman said sincerely and eagerly.He grabbed the policeman by the wrist, "But now, we've got to get back in the car, come here, come this way, officer!" He wanted to call him, but didn't know his name.The nameplate on his uniform was blurred with blood, and calling him Al didn't seem right.Gently tugging on the policeman's arm, he started to walk slowly. Norman helped the policeman back to the black and white police car with a knife stuck in his throat and bleeding continuously.He expected someone walking in the fog to buy a beer, or to come home from a movie, maybe children who just left a lively party and walked home, whoever met him was doomed .Once you start killing people it's hard to stop, it's like dropping a stone in a pond and it will cause ripples. There was no one in the street, only a vague noise from the park.It's a miracle, like Officer Al can still walk.Although he looked bloody like a slaughtered pig, the blood dripping on the road was getting darker and thicker, and under the streetlights it looked like motor oil on the road. Norman picks up Beaver's hat, which he dropped on the steps.When they got to the window of the police car, he leaned over, pulled out a set of keys from the engine through the open window, and threw the Beaver hat on the front seat.There were many keys, stretching out in all directions like sunbeams on a child's crayon drawing.Norman found the key to the trunk lid without much trouble and opened the trunk. "Come here," he said softly, "it's only a few steps from here, and help is coming soon." He kept wishing that the policeman would fall, but he didn't, although he had given up The effort to get the knife out of the throat. "Watch out for the steps, officer, be careful!" As the policeman walked down the steps, one of his shoes fell into the gutter, and the wound on his neck turned outward like a gill from the shock, bleeding more. Now I'm a cop killer, Norman thought.He wanted to get rid of the thought, but it couldn't be shaken, maybe because in a deeper, wiser part of his brain, he knew it wasn't his doing, that he didn't kill this fine, tenacious Police, someone else, something.Most likely his bulls.The more Norman thought about it, the more he felt that this was the case. "Hold on, officer, we're here." The police stopped in the back of the car, and Norman used the key to open the trunk lid, which contained a bare spare wheel (smooth as a baby's butt, he thought), a jacket, a pair of boots, an oil-stained bulletproof vest, a tool boxes and police radio transmitters.It was as complete a trunk as any he had ever seen on a police car.As with all police car trunks, there will always be room left.He moved the toolbox to one side and pushed the transmitter to the other.The policeman stood staggeringly beside him, his eyes seemed to be fixed on somewhere far away, as if he saw the starting point of a new journey.Norman folded his jacket and put it behind the spare wheel. He looked at the space he had packed up, and then at the policeman. This space was reserved for him. "Okay, but you don't mind if I borrow your hat?" The policeman said nothing, but swayed back and forth unsteadily.Norman's mother's catchphrase "Silence is consent," which he thinks is much smarter than his father's "If they can pee themselves, they're grown up."Norman took off his police cap and put it on his bald head, throwing his own baseball cap into the trunk. "Blood." The policeman said as he stretched out his blood-stained hand to Norman, and there was no anger in his wandering eyes. "Yes, I know you're bleeding, and it's the damn bull's fault," Norman said, shoving him into the suitcase.He slumped inside, one leg stretched out stiffly, and Norman bent his knee with his hand, pushed the leg into the trunk, and slammed the back lid shut.Then he came back to find another cop, a young cop who was trying to sit up, although it was clear from the look in his eyes that he hadn't regained consciousness and his ears were still bleeding.Norman knelt down on one knee and pinched his neck with both hands. The young man fell down again. Norman sat on him and continued to pinch him. "Bivow" finally remained motionless.Norman bent down and put his ear close to his chest, and heard a few irregular heartbeats, like the sound a fish makes when it struggles on the shore.Norman sighed, put his hand around his neck again, and pressed his thumb hard against his windpipe.Someone might come by now, he thought, someone must come.But no one showed up.From the clearing in Bryant Park came someone's shouts and high-pitched laughter, the kind of noise only drunks and fools make.Norman leaned down again to listen to the young man's heartbeat. He was now as stiff as a prop, and Norman didn't want the prop to come back to life. There was no sound but the ticking of Beaver's watch. Norman dragged the young cop's body over to the police car and put him in the seat next to the driver, his hat pulled down low, the kid's face twisted like a monster leaning against the door .All the muscles in Norman's body were throbbing now, but the most painful places were the teeth and jaw. Anna, he thought, it's all Anna's fault. He couldn't remember what he had done to Anna, which made him very happy.Of course, these things were not done by him, but by the great Mr. Bull.Lord God, he ached so badly that it was as if he were a piece of machinery dismantled from the inside out, all parts and screws removed. The body of "Bivow" slowly fell to the left, his eyes bulged outward, like the eyes of a dead fish. "No, don't do this." Norman said, straightened his body again, pulled the seat belt from behind him, and tied him firmly to the seat.It was a trick, and Norman stepped back to look at his arrangement again, thinking he had done a good job. "Beaver" now looks like he's just taking a quick forty or fifty minute nap. Norman carefully leaned against the car window, trying not to touch "Biver".He opened the small glove box under the front dashboard, hoping to store some first aid medicine, and it was good.He pulled off the cap of a dusty aspirin bottle, poured out five or six pills and swallowed them. The medicine had a pungent bitter taste, and he couldn't help frowning.At this time, his thinking took another leap. The aspirin in his mouth and throat made him frown as he came back to himself.He was standing in the foyer of her apartment now, flipping the overhead light switch on and off, but it didn't work, and the cabin was still dark.He must have tampered with the lamp just now, fine.He had a police gun in his hand, and he held the barrel in his hand. He probably smashed something with the barrel just now, maybe a safe?Has he been to the basement?Maybe!But that's not important, the important thing is that none of these lights are on. It's a rental apartment, which is fine, but that's about it.The smell of cheap food in the microwave wafting from the room speaks for itself.The smell has penetrated into the cracks in the walls and there is no way to get rid of them.It's summer, and the flavor will be even stronger in two or three weeks.There is a sound that is characteristic of rental properties: squeaky fans in many of the windows trying to cool the room, but in August the house is still as hot as an oven.It's odd that she's replaced this tiny apartment with her old comfortable one, but the first problem now is to find out how many people live in the small building, and how many of them will return early on a Saturday night. Home?In other words, trouble him? A soft voice came from Norman's new coat: "No one will be your trouble, because you already don't care about what happens later, which makes things easier. Whoever gets in your way , just kill him." He turned back to the porch and closed the hall door behind him.He thought, he was the one who opened the door, and it was not difficult for him to pick the lock, but there was always an annoyance in his heart, if it was possible for her to come back alone, why did he bother to kill others?How could he be sure that she hadn't come back now? The second question was simple, the bull had told him she wasn't there, and he believed it.As for the first question, she may not be alone.Gert could be with her, or, Bull seems to say something about her boyfriend, Norman finds it hard to believe Bull's words, but it once said "she likes the way he kisses her".This idiot, she didn't dare at all... However, it wouldn't hurt to be cautious. He walked down the steps, intending to get back in the police car and slip into the back seat to wait for her to appear.Just then, his mind spun one last time, and this time it spun instead of jumping, twirling like the coin an umpire uses to guess the serve for the two teams before a ball game begins.When he came to, he was slamming the hallway door of the apartment, burst into the room in the dark, and had his hands firmly around Rosie's boyfriend's neck.He somehow knew that this man was Rosie's boyfriend and not the undercover cop who escorted her home, but it didn't matter.He does know, and that's enough.His whole being trembled with anger.Did he see the man kiss Rosie before he came in?When he kissed her, did he not only put his arms around her, but also touched her ass?He couldn't think about it, he didn't want to think about it, and there was no need for it. "I told you," the bull's voice was clear despite the rage, "I told you, didn't I? That's what her friends taught her, and it's great! It's just wonderful! " "I'm going to kill you, bastard," he said bitterly to the blurred face of Rosie's boyfriend, forcing him against the porch wall, "I'll kill you twice, God willing, bastard." all over!" His hands on Bill Steiner's neck began to tighten. 11 "Norman!" Rosie screamed in the dark, "Norman, let him go!" Bill held Rosie gently by the arm as she got the key and opened the door.Suddenly his hands left her, and in the darkness she heard someone fall heavily, followed by the crash of something heavy against the wall. "I'm going to kill you, bastard, if God will-" "I'll let you die twice." Before he finished speaking, she had already said it for him in her heart. This is Norman's favorite mantra, when the referee on TV is unfavorable to his favorite players, or when there is a traffic jam Someone was overtaking, he always said that.She heard a choking sound.Norman's powerful hand was taking Bill's life, that was the sound Bill made in his dying throes. Rosie was less terrified by Norman's brutality than she had been, and the anger she had experienced in Hale's car and at the police station flared up again, this time almost engulfing her. "Let him go, Norman, get your damn hands off!" "Shut up, you bitch!" came the voice from the darkness.She heard surprise and resentment in Norman's tone.In all the years of their marriage, she had never spoken to him in such a commanding tone. 就在距离比尔用手扶她的地方靠上面一点儿，她感觉到一个发烫的物体——是臂环，那个穿玫瑰红短裙的女人送给她的一只金色臂环。罗西的心里仿佛听到她在对自己怒吼，别再像只愚蠢而可怜的小羊那样咩咩叫了！ “住手，我警告你！”她一边对诺曼大喊，一边向那种被噎住的咋咋声走去。她紧咬着嘴唇，像盲人一样向前伸出双手。 你不能掐死他，她想，我决不能容忍，你早该滚蛋了，诺曼，快滚开，趁你还有机会，赶快离开我们。 就在离她不远的地方，从黑暗中传来软弱无力的踢墙声，她可以想象出诺曼正狰狞地咧着嘴笑着，并掐着比尔的脖子，把他往墙上撞，刹那间她的身体好像变成了一只装满惨淡的可燃液体的玻璃器皿。 “你这狗屎，没听见我的话吗？我命令你，把他放下来！” 她伸出像鹰爪般强健有力的左手，臂环仿佛在燃烧，她隔着比尔替她租来的那件夹克和衬衫似乎看到了蓝色的火苗，但她手臂上并没有灼热的感觉，只有令人畏惧的振奋。她抓住那个向她施暴长达14年的男人的肩膀向后猛拉，力气大得令她震惊，然后隔着他的防雨布外套使劲扭他的胳膊，在黑暗中把他重重地摔倒在地上。她听见他摔倒时跌跌撞撞的声音，然后砰的一声，是玻璃摔碎的声音，墙上的卡尔·克里兹或是什么人的画像掉到了地上。 她听到比尔连喘带咳的声音。她张开手指，摸到了比尔的肩膀，便把双手搭了上去。他弯着腰，每吸进一口气，都马上剧烈地咳嗽出来。罗西并不感到奇怪，她知道诺曼有多强壮。 她担心自己的左手会伤到比尔，便用右手摸索着托起了他的左臂。她能感觉到左手凝聚着某种令人震撼的力量，她非常喜欢这种感觉。 “比尔，来吧，跟我走。”她低语着。 她必须帮他上楼，她不知道为什么不可以这样做，毫不怀疑地认为事情本来就应该这样。但他站在原地，对着自己的双手不停地咳嗽，发出令人难以忍受的声音。 “快点儿，真该死。”她急促地低语道，她本想说：“快点儿，你这该死的。”她知道自己的声音听起来像谁，即使在如此绝望的环境下她心里也一清二楚。 他终于开始移动了，这在目前意味着一切。罗西像导盲犬般自信地带领他穿过了门廊，尽管他一直在咳嗽，但他毕竟能走动了。 “站住！”从黑暗的角落里传来诺曼的声音，尽管他用了警官的口气，但是声音里充满了绝望，“站住，否则我开枪了！” 罗西想：不，你不会开枪的，这会扫你的兴，但他的确开枪了，是那位死去的警察的点45口径手枪，子弹斜着射入天花板，在门廊封闭的狭窄空间里显得格外刺耳。空气中的火药味呛得人想流眼泪。子弹明亮的轨迹消失后，她眼前留下了一串光斑。她想，他这样做的目的就是为了看一看周围的布局，弄清她和比尔处在什么位置。实际上他们就在楼梯底下。 比尔又开始剧烈地咳嗽起来，身体整个靠在她身上，将她挤到了楼梯一侧的墙壁上。她挣扎着想使自己站稳些，这时她听到了诺曼匆匆的脚步声，他正向他们走来。 12 她抱着比尔走上了两级台阶，他步履蹒跚地想帮她，也确实帮上了一点儿忙。当罗西上了两层台阶后，用左手放倒了衣帽架当做路障。诺曼撞到衣架上，嘴里在咒骂着。比尔绊了一下，但没有倒下，她松开了手，她能感觉到他又弯下腰喘息起来，想让自己呼吸得顺畅一些。 “坚持住，”她说，“再坚持一会儿。” 她迈上两级台阶绕到了他的另一侧，这样可以用左手扶住他。她用胳膊搂住比尔的腰，这样走起来就容易多了。她拖着他上楼梯，呼吸急促，身体向右边倾斜，就像一个拖着重物、竭力保持平衡的人尽量不使自己显得气喘吁吁、膝盖打弯一样。如果必要，她觉得自己能把比尔一直拖上楼。比尔的脚不时踩一下楼梯，想帮她一把，但他的脚尖顶多掠过台阶上的地毯。当罗西数到第十层，也就是一半时，他已经能帮更多忙了。楼下不远的地方有什么东西被压垮的声音，那是衣帽架被诺曼约二百二十磅的体重压碎了。她又听见了他上楼的声音，但不是脚步，而是用手和膝盖爬楼梯的声音。 “你别想斗过我，罗西。”他喘着粗气说。她不知道他现在有多远，尽管那个衣帽架把他拖住了一会儿，但他不像罗西，还拖着一个受伤的。神志不清的男人。“站在那儿别跑了，我只想和你谈一谈——” “滚开！”第十六级，第十七级，第十八级台阶，这里所有的灯都是黑的，一扇窗户也没有，黑洞洞的像只矿井。她晃了一下，伸出去寻找第十九级台阶的脚踩空了，原来前面是平地。显然只有十八级台阶，而不是二十级。这太棒了，她们比诺曼先上楼，尽管费了不少力气，但是成功了。 “滚开，诺——” 一个念头突然闪出来。这念头如此恐怖，好像有人猛地挤压着她的胃，她丈夫名字的后一个音节在她嘴边僵住了。 钥匙在哪儿？难道遗忘在大门的锁孔上了吗？ 她松开比尔，左手在皮夹克的兜里摸索着。就在这时，诺曼的手从后面抓住了她的小腿，像一条蛇一样只是纠缠它的猎物，并不急于毒死它们。罗西想也没想，用另一只脚向后有力地蹬去，帆布胶底鞋重重地踢在诺曼已经受伤的鼻子上。诺曼痛苦地嚎叫了一声，他想抓住楼梯扶手，但是剧烈的疼痛使他没抓住，顺着台阶又滚了下去。他接连摔了两跤，因为她听到了两次跌撞声。 “摔断你的脖子！”她轻声地尖叫着，这时她的手碰着了衣兜里的钥匙环，立刻宽慰了许多。感谢基督，感谢上帝，感谢天堂中所有的天使！但愿摔断他那只臭烘烘的脖子，让一切就此结束在黑暗之中，从此不再出现。 " 然而事情并没有就此结束。她又听到他爬起来开始上楼梯的声音，而且边走边骂着所有他想得起来的脏话：婊子、妓女、同性恋者、杂种。 “我自己能走，”比尔突然说，他的声音极其虚弱，但她还是满心欢喜。“我能走，罗西，咱们去你的房间，那个疯子快要跟来了。” 比尔又咳嗽起来，诺曼在他们后面不远的地方笑着说：“对极了，小家伙，这个疯子快要赶来了，这个疯子会把你的眼球挖出来塞进你的脑袋里，让你吃下去，我真想知道它们是什么滋味儿！” “走开，诺曼2”罗西尖叫着，在漆黑中带领比尔走过二楼走廊。她左臂搂着比尔的腰，伸开右手的手指在墙上摸索，寻找房门的位置。她的左手紧紧挨着她新生活中所积累的全部财富——楼门、信箱和房门的钥匙，一共三把，她紧紧地握着它们。“滚开，我警告你！” 在她身后的一片漆黑中，诺曼在高楼梯口不远的地方发出暴跳如雷的吼声：“你敢吓唬我？你这婊子！” 墙上凹进去的地方就是她的房门了，她松开比尔，挑选房门的钥匙，她房门上的钥匙不像楼门的钥匙，头是正方形的，她在黑暗中寻找着门锁。她听不见诺曼的声音了，他还在上楼梯吗？还是进入了走廊里？或者已经顺着比尔的声音摸到了他们身后？终于摸到门锁了，她用手指摸着锁孔，用钥匙往里插，但是无论如何都插不进去。她心急如焚，紧张得直发抖。 “插不进去，”她惊慌失措地对比尔说道，“钥匙是对的，可就是插不进去！” “再试一次，钥匙可能插反了。” “嘿，这里发生了什么事？”一个陌生男人的声音在楼上走廊中回响，像是从三楼的楼梯口发出的，紧接着是一连串毫无用途的扳动开关的啪喀声，“灯为什么不亮？” “站在那儿别动，”比尔大喊了一声，立刻咳嗽起来，他试图清理嗓子，喉咙里发出了可怕的咕噜声，又喊：“站在那儿别动！别到楼下来！给警察打……” “我就是警察，傻瓜。”一个低沉的、问声闷气的嗓音就在他们身边，带着迫不及待的。满足的语调嘟哝着。当她终于把钥匙插进锁眼里面时，比尔突然被人从她身边拽走了。 “不！”她尖叫着，用左手在黑暗中摸索，她戴在大臂上的那只臂环从来还没有这样热，“不，放开他，放开他！” 她抓到了光滑的皮革，是比尔的夹克，但从她手中滑脱，又听到可怕的吸不进去空气的咋咋声，仿佛什么人的喉咙里被塞满了沙子。诺曼低沉地、门声闷气地笑着，罗西伸出双臂摸索着朝笑声走去。她摸到比尔夹克衫的肩膀，继续往上摸着，她摸到一样模糊不清的东西——像死鱼一样的东西，凸凹不平的……橡胶的…… 是橡胶。 他戴着一副面具，罗西想。是某种动物的面具。 突然，她的左手被抓住，塞进温暖的潮湿之中。当她意识到那是诺曼的嘴时，他的牙齿已经向她的手指上咬了下来，一口咬进了骨头里。 她忍受着难以想象的疼痛。但是又一次，她的反应不再像从前那样恐惧和绝望地放弃，让诺曼为所欲为。现在她全身像疯了一般燃烧着愤怒的火焰。她并没有试图把手从他那正在咀嚼的嘴里拉出来，相反，她将手指弯曲起来，狠狠地挤压着他的牙龈，又用那只强有力的左手抓住他的下巴，用力一拉。 她手中发出奇怪的断裂声，像一块木板被膝盖骨压断。她感到诺曼退缩了回去，在他痛苦的嚎叫声中只能听得见元音：“啊……”他的下颌像文件柜上的抽屉似地撅了出来，已经和下巴上的关节脱节。他恐惧地尖叫着，罗西趁机将血淋淋的手指从他嘴里拿了出来。她想：这就是你咬人的好下场，你这畜生，让你在再咬人。 她从他的呻吟中听出他正在后退，顺着衬衫与墙壁的摩擦声摸索过去，心想，他现在该开枪了，一边转回身去找比尔。黑暗中看到他的黑影斜靠在墙上，绝望地咳嗽着。 “嘿，伙计们。玩笑开够了，该收场了。”是楼上那个男人在说话。他听起来是个性情急躁的人，听起来好像已经下楼，远远地站在走廊里。罗西用钥匙开门时心里有一种不祥的预感。她大喊起来，听上去完全不像她的声音。 “离开那儿，你这白痴，他会杀了你，别——” 枪响了，她向左边看去，刹那间像是噩梦般，她看到了诺曼，他曲膝跪在地上，子弹闪过得太快，根本不可能看清他头上戴着什么东西。然而她却看见了：那是一副龇牙咧嘴的公牛面具，张开的嘴边有一圈鲜血——那是她的血。透过它空洞的眼孔，她能看到诺曼邪恶的目光正在盯着她，那眼神像原始穴居人即将发起一场圣战一样可怖。 罗西把比尔拖进房间，撞上了房门。刚才还在抱怨的那个房客尖叫着。路灯从窗口投射进来，尽管浓雾将光线变得一片模糊，但是同门廊、走廊和楼梯相比，这里已经十分明亮了。 首先映入她眼帘的是那只臂环，黑暗中它从床头灯的底座旁发出幽暗的亮光。刚才是我自己干的，她想。她是那样惊奇，简直要感到自己愚蠢了。全都是我自己干的，只要认为是它给我以力量就足够了—— 当然，她内心那个理智的声音回答了她。当然是你自己干的，臂环根本没有魔力，魔力总是来自你自己的体内，力量—— 不，不，她绝对不愿意沿着这条思路继续想下去了。正在这时，她的注意力被诺曼疯狂的撞门声转移了。廉价的木板在他的重击下裂开了，合页在呻吟着。远处楼上那个罗西从未见过面的邻居开始痛哭起来。 快点儿，罗西，赶快！你知道自己该做些什么，该去什么地方—— “罗西……打电话……给……”比尔说到这里，剧烈的咳嗽使他无法继续下去。她没时间听这个愚蠢的主意，以后这可能会觉得不错，但现在他们惟一要做的事情就是设法不被杀掉，她要照顾他，保护他……这就意味着必须带他去一个安全的地方，对于他们都安全的地方。 罗西飞快地拉开壁柜的门，希望发现里面藏着一个陌生的未知世界，就像当她被雷声惊醒时充满了卧室墙壁的那个未知世界。阳光会倾泻进来，使他们那已经适应了黑暗的眼睛感到眩晕。 但它只是个潮湿而密闭的狭窄空间，里面除了两件她经常穿的衣物：一件衬衫和一双胶底帆布鞋以外，什么也没有。哦，对了，还有一幅油画，靠在墙上，是她自己放在那里的。这幅镜框有些破损的油画是那种很普通的人物画，在任何一家古董店、跳蚤市场或当铺里都可以见到。 门外走廊里，诺曼又开始撞门了，这次声音更大了，是木头的断裂声和地板的嘎吱声。只需再有两三下，门就会被撞开，出租房屋的门经不起这样的折腾。 “它决不是普通的油画！”她喊道，“它是专门为我而来的，它决不是一幅普通的油画！它曾经进入过另一个世界，我知道它去过，因为我拿到了她的臂环！” 她回头看了看那只臂环，然后跑过去，从床头柜上抓起它，它比以往任何时候都要重，而且在发热。 “罗西，”比尔说，她看到他把双手放在喉咙上，她想他嘴里一定在出血，“罗西，我们得叫——”刹那间，明亮的光线射进了房间里面，比尔大喊了一声……然而这不是她所期盼的夏日阳光，这是月光，它从壁柜外面开放的空间射进来，洒满了整个地板。她转身走向比尔，手里握着臂环。她往壁柜里看了看，在原来是壁柜后墙的地方她看见了小山顶，青草在微风中轻轻摇摆，山脚下幽暗的神庙轮廓在暮霭中闪闪发光，但最美妙的还是月亮，它像一面银盘似地挂在紫黑色的夜空中。 她想起他们今天见过的那只雌狐在一千年以前也是这样地欣赏月光，当它的小宝贝们在断裂的树干下酣睡时，它便用那双黑色的眸子迷恋地注视着月亮。 比尔显得很迷茫，月光照在他脸上似乎给他镀了层银铂。“罗西……”他忧虑地低声说。他嘴唇动了动但再没有说出什么。 她拉起比尔的胳膊：“跟我来，比尔，我们得走了。” “发生什么事了？”伤痛和迷茫使他看上去十分虚弱，他的表情和罗西形成鲜明的对比，罗西对他那种迟钝的反应感到发疯和焦灼不安，强烈的爱——不仅仅是肉体上的——点燃了她胸中的火焰。她要保护他，保护他远离死亡，假如这种事情真的发生的话。 “别管发生了什么事，”她说，“你要相信我，就像我相信你能驾驶摩托车一样，跟我走，我们现在必须离开。” 她用右手拉着比尔往前走，臂环像一只金色的面圈似地挂在左手上，他迟疑片刻，这时诺曼又在外面踢门并高声叫骂起来。随着一声愤怒和恐惧的尖叫，她换了一只手，一把将比尔推进壁柜，一起进入壁柜外边那个一望无垠的月光世界。 13 从那个婊子把放在楼梯前的衣帽架推倒后，事情就开始变得糟糕起来。诺曼不知怎么被绊住了，一个铜制的衣钩恰巧穿进了衬衣的扣眼里面——简直是本星期以来玩得最完美的一个把戏。另一个钩子钩住他的裤兜，就像一个笨拙的小偷在偷他的钱包。第三个比较钝一些的铜钩刺中了他的下身，他诅咒着，不停地晃着身体，试图摆脱困境，然而讨厌的衣帽架仍然不依不饶地纠缠着他，使他无法脱身。从后面把它拖开看来也不可能，又一个衣钩像铁锚般莫名其妙地钩住了楼梯旁的栏杆。 他必须赶快上楼，在这之前，他不希望被她锁在门外，单独和那个穿套头衫的家伙在密室里幽会。只要有必要，他毫无疑问会砸烂那扇门。 在他的警察生涯中不知有多少次破门而入的经历，有时需要对付的家伙相当凶悍。不过现在，时间是个必须考虑的因素。 他不想开枪，用这种办法解决他那到处游荡的罗西未免过于迅速、简便了，但是如果他现在所做的一切不能尽快奏效的话，开枪将是他惟一的选择，这将是个多么大的耻辱！ “戴上我，头儿！”从衬衣兜里传出公牛的喊叫声，“我晒得很黑，很结实，我休息好了，我准备好了！” 哦，真是一个绝妙的主意。 诺曼从衣兜里取出并闻了闻带有小便和橡胶气味的面具，把它戴在头上。气味并不坏，事实上，当你把它们混在一起的时候，它们变得很美妙，令人感到惬意。 “公牛万岁！”他高喊着。扭动着，举着枪又向前挪了一步，在他还没把别住左腿的衣钩弄掉之前，诺曼几乎没有发现，该死的衣帽架突然在身体下面断开了。他藏在面具后面的脸咬牙切齿地狞笑着，发出一种重重的咔哒声，就像子弹互相碰撞发出的声音。 “你难道不想跟我玩一玩，罗丝？”他一边把挂住脚和膝盖的衣帽架从身子下面抽出来，一边说，“快停下来，别躲了，我只想和你谈谈。” 她冲他大喊，不停嘴地说了一大堆毫无意义的句子。他尽可能迅速而安静地往前爬着。他终于感觉到她就在前面，伸出手抓住她了的左腿，用指甲掐进肉里的感觉真令人愉快！Got you!my God! ，抓住—— 她的脚突然像铅头棍一样从黑暗中踢来，踢中了他的鼻子，它整个儿被踢歪了。他感到疼极了——好像有一群非洲蜂在大脑里狂蜇一气。她挣脱了他，但诺曼几乎没有感觉到，他已经向后仰倒，手碰到了栏杆却没能抓紧，身体顺着栏杆向下滑去。他滚到了衣帽架下，抓枪的手指远离扳机，免得在自己身上穿个洞……他在一堆乱糟糟的东西上面躺了一会儿，摇摇头，抖掉撒满脑袋的碎片，试图再一次站起来。 这一次，他的思想没有发生跳跃，意识也没有完全中断，但他一点也不记得他们在楼梯上冲他喊了些什么或者他自己回答了些什么。他的鼻子疼得要命，别的什么也顾不上了。 但他知道有人想插进来干扰这次聚会，似乎是个无关的房客，罗西的男朋友让他离远点。这事对他大有帮助，因为他可以借此确定罗西的男朋友所在的位置。诺曼摸到他的位置，那家伙正在这里。他用手勒住他的脖子，这回要把活儿干得干净点。然而就在这时，罗西的一只手摸到他脸上……摸到了他的面具上。它产生了一种类似于注射了诺佛卡因后被抚摩的快感。 是罗西。罗西正在抚摩他，她就在这儿。 自从她拿着他那只该死的信用卡逃走后，这还是第一次抚摩他。 她现在就在这儿，诺曼对那个男朋友失去了兴趣，他抓住她的手，塞进面具上被称做嘴的圆孔里，一口咬了下去。 这感觉真令人心驰神往，只是—— 只是正在这时有什么事情发生了。某种十分糟糕的事情。某种可怕的事情。 她好像把他的下巴拽下来了。疼痛飞快地传到脑袋两侧，他尖叫着从她身上缩了回来。 这个臭婊子，她身上究竟发生了什么事，把她从一个听话的女人变成了一头恶魔？ 那个无辜的过客尖叫起来，诺曼断定自己曾经向他开了枪。反正他已经朝别人开过枪了。人要是发出这样的叫声，不是身上中了枪弹就是着了火。 他接着把枪口掉转到罗西和她的男朋友所在的方向，却听见有扇门咣一声关上了。 那个杂种终于把他关到门外了。 然而、此时此刻这已经不重要了。 现在他的下巴代替鼻子成了疼痛的焦点。她到底对他干了什么？他的下半个脸似乎不仅被撕裂，而且大大地神长了，牙齿已经不在原位，它在界尖前远远的某个地方晃悠。 “别傻了，诺米，”他父亲低声说，“她只是把你的下巴弄脱臼了而已。你知道该怎么办，那就快干吧！” “闭嘴，老家伙。”诺曼想回答，但是从瘪下去的面具底下仅仅发出一连串没有任何含义的词。 他放下枪，将手指伸进面具的边沿（自从戴上面具后他就没有摘掉过，这倒使一切变得简单了），重新弄好了面具，然后轻轻地用手掌摸着下巴，好像要安装掉出底座的滚珠轴承一样。 他强忍疼痛，用手在下面滑动了一点儿，托住下巴往斜上方猛推上去。 一阵剧痛，因为只有一边回到了原位，另一边脸扭曲着，像一只没有进入滑轨的抽屉。 “扭得太久，就无法恢复原状了！”他母亲在他脑子里说——这昔日的诅咒他记得太清楚了。 诺曼又一次向上猛推右边的下巴，他听到从脑袋深处传来“咔哒”一声，下巴复位了。然而他觉得整个肌键都被拉松了，短期内恢复不了弹性，他有一种十分古怪的感觉，要是他打个呵欠，下巴就很可能会掉到皮带扣上去。 “面具，诺米，”他父亲又在低声说话，“面具能帮你一把，最好把它戴好。” “说得对。”公牛说。它现在被卷在诺曼上半部脸上，因此声音含糊不清，但诺曼完全听得懂。 他小心仔细地把面具拉下来，一直套到下巴骨底下。这确实有用，它就像体操教练保护运动员一样托住了他的脸。 “好啊，”公牛说，“干脆把我当成个下巴托。” 诺曼深深吸口气，挣扎着站起来，同时把那把点45式手枪别进裤腰里。真酷，他想，这是男人的世界，女人不该插手。他甚至觉得通过面具的眼孔看世界，要看得比以往任何时候都清楚，似乎他的视力也提高了。这无疑只是他的想象，但它的确起了点儿作用，使他感觉良好，并建立起了自信心。 他背靠在墙上，猛地往前一跳，撞在那扇罗西和那位变态狂朋友走进去的大门上。他的下巴在面具紧绷之下仍然疼得发抖；但他毫不犹豫地又一次全力撞了上去。门框嘎吱作响，一长条银色的木板从门框上掉落下来。 他突然发现自己渴望哈里·毕辛顿也在这里。他们两人只需要撞上一次就可以把门撞开，然后让哈里对付他的老婆，他自己对付她的男朋友。和罗西干一次是哈里一生中无法说出口的一个最大的愿望，尽管诺曼不能理解，但每当他来做客时诺曼都能从他眼睛里看到这种欲望。 他再一次向那扇门撞去。 记不清已经是第六次还是第七次了，门锁终于被撞开，诺曼顺着惯性冲进了房屋。她就在这儿，他们只能在这儿。 可是他一个人也看不见，汗水流进眼睛，霎时视线变得模糊了。屋子里好像是空的，但是不可能。 他们没有从窗户出去：窗户关着，上了锁。 他借着从外面射进来的笼罩着雾气的昏暗灯光搜遍整个房间，脑袋来回转动着，费迪南德的犄角伸向空中。 她在哪儿？bastard!以基督的名义，她究竟到哪儿去了？ 他看见房间远处有个敞开的小门，里面有个关得紧紧的小衣柜。 他走过去，用目光扫视着整个浴室。浴室是空的，除非—— 他拔出枪，对着浴帘连开两枪，在印花塑料浴帘上打出了一对惊奇的黑眼睛。他把浴帘拉到一边，浴缸是空的。 子弹在瓷砖上打出了两个洞，这就是全部的破坏范围。 也许这样更好，无论如何他并不想杀了她。 但是她究竟到哪儿去了呢？ 诺曼转身回到房间，跪在地上（由于怕疼缩了一下，其实并没有真正感觉到疼），用枪在床底下来回扫了一遍。 nothing. 他气得向地上猛击一拳。 他向窗口走去，因为这是惟一漏掉的地方，至少他暂时还这样以为，尽管眼睛早已告诉他那儿没什么线索。 直到他看到了像是月亮的光线从另一扇打开的门中泻入，他才发现第一次搜索时漏掉了这扇门。 月光？你真的以为你看到了月光吗？你真傻，诺曼，难道你忘了，外面是大雾的天气，儿子，漫天大雾。而且即使今晚真是本世纪最美好的月圆之夜，这也只是个壁柜而已。准确些说，它只是二层楼上的一只壁柜。 它也许是，但他身上的汗味、油腻的头发……一切都足以使他确信，一个父亲未必掌握着世间的真理。诺曼知道，月光从二楼的壁柜中泻入纯粹是无稽之谈……但这恰恰是他看到的东西。 诺曼垂下拿枪的手，慢慢往那扇门走去，停在反光的地板上。 他透过面具的眼孔（奇怪的是，似乎他的两只眼睛始终是从一个眼孔中观察事物的）扫视壁柜。 壁柜两边都有衣架，空荡荡的衣架悬在金属棍上，但这个壁柜的后墙不见了，在本应是后墙的地方，现在是一片洒满月光的山坡，山上长满郁郁葱葱的青草。 董火虫在昏暗模糊的树影间闪烁。飘过天空的云彩靠近或遮住月亮时像一盏盏顶灯。还不是满月，但月亮也快圆了。 山脚下是一座废墟，诺曼觉得它看着像一个荒废的农场，或者是一座废弃的教堂。 我真的疯了，他想。要不就是她把我打得丧失了意识，这一切只是一场梦。 不，他不接受这个结论，也不愿接受。 “回来，罗丝！”他在壁柜里喊……严格地说，它已经根本不是壁柜了，“回来，你这杂种！” 没有回应，只有那不真实的景色……一阵微风吹过，送来青草和野花的芬芳，证明它并不是诺曼古怪而完美的幻觉。 甚至还有别的：蟋蟀的鸣叫声。 “你偷了我的信用卡，你这杂种。”诺曼用低沉的声音说。 他走近壁柜，抓住一个挂在壁柜上的衣架，就像拉着吊环乘坐地铁的乘客一样。他身外是那个怪