JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 236 из 425The old man sat inhis chair, head lowered, grinning sallowly up at me and looking like something raised from the dead. “Are you sure you want to be the one, Noonan? It doesn’t matter to her, you know—you or me, it’s all the same to her.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I drew another deep breath, and this time the air tasted all right. I took a step away from the birch, and my legs were all right, too. “And I don’t care. You’re never getting Kyra. Never in what remains of your scaly life. I’ll never see that happen.”
“Pal, you’ll see plenty,” Devore said, grinning and showitg me his iodine gums. “Before July’s done, you’ll likely have seen so much you’ll wish you’d ripped the living eyes out of your head in June.”
“I’m going home. Let me pass.”
“Go home then, how could I stop you?” he asked. “The Street belongs to everyone.” He groped the oxygen mask out of his lap again and took another healthy pull. He dropped it into his lap and settled his left hand on the arm of his Buck Rogers wheelchair. I stepped toward him, and almost before I knew what was happening, he ran the wheelchair at me. He could have hit me and hurt me quite badly—broken one or both of my legs, I don’t doubt—but he stopped just short. I leaped back, but only because he allowed me to. I was aware that Whitmore was laughing again.
“What’s the matter, Noonan?”
“Get out of my way. I’m warning you.”
“Whore made you jumpy, has she?” I started to my left, meaning to go by him on that side, but in a flash he had turned the chair, shot it forward, and cut me off. “Get out of the TR, Noonan. I’m giving you good ad—” I broke to the right, this time on the lake side, and would have slipped by him quite neatly except for the fist, very small and hard, that hammered the left side of my face. The white-haired bitch was wearing a ring, and the stone cut me behind the ear. I felt the sting and the warm flow of blood. I pivoted, stuck out both hands, and pushed her. She fell to the needle-carpeted path with a squawk of surprised outrage. At the next instant something clouted me on the back of the head. A momentary orange glow lit up my sight. I staggered backward in what felt like slow motion, waving my arms, and Devote came into view again. He was slued around in his wheelchair, scaly head thrust forward, the cane he’d hit me with still upraised. If he had been ten years younger, I believe he would have fractured my skull instead of just creating that momentary orange light. I ran into my old friend the birch tree.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I drew another deep breath, and this time the air tasted all right. I took a step away from the birch, and my legs were all right, too. “And I don’t care. You’re never getting Kyra. Never in what remains of your scaly life. I’ll never see that happen.”
“Pal, you’ll see plenty,” Devore said, grinning and showitg me his iodine gums. “Before July’s done, you’ll likely have seen so much you’ll wish you’d ripped the living eyes out of your head in June.”
“I’m going home. Let me pass.”
“Go home then, how could I stop you?” he asked. “The Street belongs to everyone.” He groped the oxygen mask out of his lap again and took another healthy pull. He dropped it into his lap and settled his left hand on the arm of his Buck Rogers wheelchair. I stepped toward him, and almost before I knew what was happening, he ran the wheelchair at me. He could have hit me and hurt me quite badly—broken one or both of my legs, I don’t doubt—but he stopped just short. I leaped back, but only because he allowed me to. I was aware that Whitmore was laughing again.
“What’s the matter, Noonan?”
“Get out of my way. I’m warning you.”
“Whore made you jumpy, has she?” I started to my left, meaning to go by him on that side, but in a flash he had turned the chair, shot it forward, and cut me off. “Get out of the TR, Noonan. I’m giving you good ad—” I broke to the right, this time on the lake side, and would have slipped by him quite neatly except for the fist, very small and hard, that hammered the left side of my face. The white-haired bitch was wearing a ring, and the stone cut me behind the ear. I felt the sting and the warm flow of blood. I pivoted, stuck out both hands, and pushed her. She fell to the needle-carpeted path with a squawk of surprised outrage. At the next instant something clouted me on the back of the head. A momentary orange glow lit up my sight. I staggered backward in what felt like slow motion, waving my arms, and Devote came into view again. He was slued around in his wheelchair, scaly head thrust forward, the cane he’d hit me with still upraised. If he had been ten years younger, I believe he would have fractured my skull instead of just creating that momentary orange light. I ran into my old friend the birch tree.