JК
Desperation :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 13 из 422She put happy yellow ones on the flaps of most of her letters, the occasional green one witha downturned mouth and a blah tongue stuck out if she happened to be having a bad day. 1 wasn’t afraid, not really. Neither was Mary.
Boink, a lie. He had been afraid, and Mary… well, Mary had been damned close to terrified.
Okay—maybe we were a little freaked, he thought, picking out the trunk key as he walked to the back of the car again. So sue us. The sight of Mary standing next to the big cop was like some sort of optical illusion; the top of her head barely came up to the bottom of his ribcage.
Peter opened the trunk. On the left, neatly packed (and covered with Hefty bags to keep the road dust off them), were Deirdre’s clothes. In the center, Mary’s makeup case and their two suitcases—his n hers—were wedged in between the green bundles and the spare tire. Although “tire” was much too grand a word for it, Peter thought. It was one of those blow-up doughnuts, good for a run to the nearest service station. If you were lucky.
He looked between the doughnut and the trunk’s side-wall. There was nothing there.
“Mare, I don’t see—”
“There.” She pointed. “That gray thing. That’s it. it’s worked its way in back of the spare, that’s all.”
He could have snaked his arm into the gap, but it seemed easier just to lift the uninflated rubber doughnut out of the way. He was leaning it against the back bumper when he heard Mary’s sudden intake of breath. It sounded as if she had been pinched or poked.
“Oh hey,” the big cop said mildly. “What’s this.” Mary and the cop were looking into the trunk. The cop looked interested and slightly bemused. Mary’s eyes were bulging, horrified. Her lips were trembling. Peter turned, looking into the trunk again, following their gaze. There was something in the spare-tire well. It had been under the doughnut.
For a moment he either didn’t know what it—was or didn’t want to know what it was, and then that crawling sensation started in his lower belly again. This time there was also a sense of his sphincter’s not loos-ening but dropping, as if the muscles which ordinarily held it up where it belonged had dozed off. He became aware that he was squeezing his buttocks together, but even that was far away, in another time zone. He felt an—all-too-brief certainty that this was a dream, had to be.
The big cop gave him a look, those bright gray eyes—still peculiarly empty, then reached into the spare-tire—well and brought out a Baggie, a big one, a gallon-size, and stuffed full of greenish-brown herbal matter. The flap had been sealed with strapping tape.
Boink, a lie. He had been afraid, and Mary… well, Mary had been damned close to terrified.
Okay—maybe we were a little freaked, he thought, picking out the trunk key as he walked to the back of the car again. So sue us. The sight of Mary standing next to the big cop was like some sort of optical illusion; the top of her head barely came up to the bottom of his ribcage.
Peter opened the trunk. On the left, neatly packed (and covered with Hefty bags to keep the road dust off them), were Deirdre’s clothes. In the center, Mary’s makeup case and their two suitcases—his n hers—were wedged in between the green bundles and the spare tire. Although “tire” was much too grand a word for it, Peter thought. It was one of those blow-up doughnuts, good for a run to the nearest service station. If you were lucky.
He looked between the doughnut and the trunk’s side-wall. There was nothing there.
“Mare, I don’t see—”
“There.” She pointed. “That gray thing. That’s it. it’s worked its way in back of the spare, that’s all.”
He could have snaked his arm into the gap, but it seemed easier just to lift the uninflated rubber doughnut out of the way. He was leaning it against the back bumper when he heard Mary’s sudden intake of breath. It sounded as if she had been pinched or poked.
“Oh hey,” the big cop said mildly. “What’s this.” Mary and the cop were looking into the trunk. The cop looked interested and slightly bemused. Mary’s eyes were bulging, horrified. Her lips were trembling. Peter turned, looking into the trunk again, following their gaze. There was something in the spare-tire well. It had been under the doughnut.
For a moment he either didn’t know what it—was or didn’t want to know what it was, and then that crawling sensation started in his lower belly again. This time there was also a sense of his sphincter’s not loos-ening but dropping, as if the muscles which ordinarily held it up where it belonged had dozed off. He became aware that he was squeezing his buttocks together, but even that was far away, in another time zone. He felt an—all-too-brief certainty that this was a dream, had to be.
The big cop gave him a look, those bright gray eyes—still peculiarly empty, then reached into the spare-tire—well and brought out a Baggie, a big one, a gallon-size, and stuffed full of greenish-brown herbal matter. The flap had been sealed with strapping tape.