JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 242 из 425Keep our “SUMMER FRIENDS” away, too! And remember: GOOD MARTIANS are like GOOD MONKEYS: they SEE no evil, HEAR no evil, and SPEAK no evil!
I couldn’t really believe it, not even in my current situation… and yet I almost could. At the very least I had to grant him the luck of the devil. Tired. My sneakers heavier than ever. I tried to push one of them off and succeeded only in taking in another mouthful of lakewater. They stood watching me, Devore occasionally picking the mask up from his lap and having a revivifying suck. I couldn’t wait until dark. The sun exits in a hurry here in western Maine—as it does, I guess, in mountain country everywhere—but the twilights are long and lingering. By the time it got dark enough in the west to move without being seen, the moon would have risen in the east. I found myself imagining my obituary in the New York ’mes, the headline reading POPULAR ROMANTIC SUSPENSE NOVELIST DROWNS IN M^INE. Debra Weinstock would provide them with the author photo from the forthcoming Helen’s Promise. Harold Oblowski would say all the right things, and he’d also remember to put a modest (but not tiny) death notice in Publishers lek/y. He would go half-and-half with Putnam on it, and-I sank, swallowed more water, and spat it out. I began pummelling the lake again and forced myself to stop. From the shore, I could hear Rogette Whitmore’s tinkling laughter. IOU bitch, I thought, tau scrawny bi—Mike, Jo said. Her voice was in my head, but it wasn’t the one I make when I’m imagining her side of a mental dialogue or when I just miss her and need to whistle her up for awhile. As if to underline this, something splashed to my right, splashed hard. When I looked in that direction I saw no fish, not even a ripple. What I saw instead was our swimming float, anchored about a hundred yards away in the sunset-colored water. “I can’t swim that far, baby,” I croaked. “Did you say something, Noonan?” Devore called from the shore. He cupped a mocking hand to one of his huge waxlump ears. “Couldn’t quite make it out! You sound all out of breath!” More tinkling laughter from Whitmore.
He was Johnny Carson; she was Ed Mcmahon. I3u can make it. I’ll help you. The float, I realized, might be my only chance—there wasn’t another one on this part of the shore, and it was at least ten yards beyond Whit-more’s longest rockshot so far. I began to dogpaddle in that direction, my arms now as leaden as my feet. Each time I felt my head on the verge of going under I paused, treading water, telling myself to take it easy, I was in pretty good shape and doing okay, telling myself that if I didn’t panic I’d be all right. The old bitch and the even older bastard resumed pacing me, but they saw where I was headed and the laughter stopped. So did the taunts.
I couldn’t really believe it, not even in my current situation… and yet I almost could. At the very least I had to grant him the luck of the devil. Tired. My sneakers heavier than ever. I tried to push one of them off and succeeded only in taking in another mouthful of lakewater. They stood watching me, Devore occasionally picking the mask up from his lap and having a revivifying suck. I couldn’t wait until dark. The sun exits in a hurry here in western Maine—as it does, I guess, in mountain country everywhere—but the twilights are long and lingering. By the time it got dark enough in the west to move without being seen, the moon would have risen in the east. I found myself imagining my obituary in the New York ’mes, the headline reading POPULAR ROMANTIC SUSPENSE NOVELIST DROWNS IN M^INE. Debra Weinstock would provide them with the author photo from the forthcoming Helen’s Promise. Harold Oblowski would say all the right things, and he’d also remember to put a modest (but not tiny) death notice in Publishers lek/y. He would go half-and-half with Putnam on it, and-I sank, swallowed more water, and spat it out. I began pummelling the lake again and forced myself to stop. From the shore, I could hear Rogette Whitmore’s tinkling laughter. IOU bitch, I thought, tau scrawny bi—Mike, Jo said. Her voice was in my head, but it wasn’t the one I make when I’m imagining her side of a mental dialogue or when I just miss her and need to whistle her up for awhile. As if to underline this, something splashed to my right, splashed hard. When I looked in that direction I saw no fish, not even a ripple. What I saw instead was our swimming float, anchored about a hundred yards away in the sunset-colored water. “I can’t swim that far, baby,” I croaked. “Did you say something, Noonan?” Devore called from the shore. He cupped a mocking hand to one of his huge waxlump ears. “Couldn’t quite make it out! You sound all out of breath!” More tinkling laughter from Whitmore.
He was Johnny Carson; she was Ed Mcmahon. I3u can make it. I’ll help you. The float, I realized, might be my only chance—there wasn’t another one on this part of the shore, and it was at least ten yards beyond Whit-more’s longest rockshot so far. I began to dogpaddle in that direction, my arms now as leaden as my feet. Each time I felt my head on the verge of going under I paused, treading water, telling myself to take it easy, I was in pretty good shape and doing okay, telling myself that if I didn’t panic I’d be all right. The old bitch and the even older bastard resumed pacing me, but they saw where I was headed and the laughter stopped. So did the taunts.