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y faint。
'Tell Marcy to make them give me a shot；' Pete said； enunciating each word carefully in the stillness； and knew they were exactly the right words。 Right why or right how he couldn't say； but yes； those were the words in his head。 Was it the click； or had the lights caused those thoughts？ Pete couldn't say for sure。
'Maybe nyther；' he said。
Pete realized the last of the snow had stopped。 The world around him was only three colors： the deep gray of the sky； the deep green of the firs； and the perfect unblemished white of the new snow。 And hushed。
Pete cocked his head first to one side and then to the other； listening。 Yes； hushed。 Nothing。 No sound in the world and the humming noise had stopped as pletely as the snow。 When he looked up； he saw that the pale； mothlike glow of the lights was also gone。
'Marcy？' he said； as if calling someone。 It occurred to him that Marcy might be the name of the woman who had caused them to wreck； but he dismissed the idea。 That woman's name was Becky； he knew it as surely as he had known the name of the real estate woman that time。 Marcy was just a word now； and nothing about it called to him。 Probably he'd just had a brain…cramp。 Wouldn't be the first time。
He finished climbing the hill and started down the other side； his thoughts returning to that day in the fall of 1978； the day they had met Duddits。
He was almost back to the place where the road leveled when his knee abruptly let go； not locking up this time but seeming to explode like a pine knot in a hot fire。
Pete pitched forward into the snow。 He didn't hear the Bud bottles break inside the bag … all but two of them。 He was screaming too loudly。
CHAPTER SIX
DUDDITS； PART TWO
1
Henry started off in the direction of the camp at a quick walk； but as the snow subsided to isolated flurries and the wind began to die； he upped the walk to a steady； clocklike jog。 He had been jogging for years； and the pace felt natural enough。 He might have to pull up for awhile； walk or even rest； but he doubted it。 He had run road…races longer than nine miles； although not for a couple of years and never with four inches of snow underfoot。 Still； what was there to worry about？ Falling down and busting a hip？ Maybe having a heart attack？ At thirty…seven a heart attack seemed unlikely； but even if he had been a prime candidate for one； worrying about it would have been ludicrous； wouldn't it？ Considering what he was planning？ So what was there to worry about？
Jonesy and Beaver； that was what。 On the face of it that seemed as ludicrous as worrying about suffering a catastrophic cardiac outage here in the middle of nowhere … the trouble was behind him； with Pete and that strange； semi…atose woman； not up ahead at Hole in the Wall 。 。 。 except there was trouble at Hole in the Wall； bad trouble。 He didn't know how he knew that； but he did and he accepted the knowing。 Even before he started encountering the animals； all hurrying by and none giving him more than the most cursory glance； he knew that。
Once or twice he glanced up into the sky； looking for more foo…lights； but there were none to be seen and after that he just looked straight ahead； sometimes having to zig or zag to keep out of the way of the animals。 They weren't quite stampeding； but their eyes had an odd； spooky look that Henry had never seen before。
Once he had to skip handily to keep from being upended by a pair of hurrying foxes。
Eight more miles； he told himself。 It became a jogging mantra； different from the ones that usually went through his head when he was running （nursery rhymes were the most mon）； but not that different … same idea； really。 Eight more miles； eight more miles to Banbury Cross。 No Banbury Cross； though； just Mr Clarendon's old camp … Beaver's camp； now … and no cock horse to get him there。 What was a cock horse； anyway？ Who knew？ And what in Christ's name was happening out here … the lights； the slow…motion stampede （dear God； what was that in the woods off to his left； was that a fucking bear？）； the woman in the road； just sitting there with most of her teeth and most of her brains missing？ And those farts； dear God。 The only thing he'd ever smelled even remotely like it was the breath of a patient he'd had once； a schizophrenic with intestinal cancer。 Always that smell； an internist friend had told Henry when Henry tried to describe it。 They can brush their teeth a dozen times a day； use Lavoiis every hour on the hour； and that smell still es through。 It's the smell of the body eating itself； because that's all cancer is when you take the diagnostic masks off： autocannibalism。
Seven more miles； seven more miles； and all the animals are running； all the animals are headed for Disneyland。 And when they get there they'll form a conga line and sing 'It's a Small World After All。'
The steady； muted thud of his booted feet。 The feel of his glasses bouncing up and down on the bridge of his nose。 His breath ing out in balloons of cold vapor。 But he felt warm now； felt good； those endorphins kicking in。 Whatever was wrong with him； it was no shortage of those； he was suicidal but by no means dysthytmic。
That at least some of his problem … the physical and emotional emptiness that was like a near…whiteout in a blizzard … was physical； hormonal； he had no doubt。 That the problem could be addressed if not entirely corrected by pills he himself had prescribed by the bushel 。 。 。 he had no doubt of that； either； But like Pete； who undoubtedly knew there was a rehab and years of AA meetings in his most plausible future； Henry did not want to be fixed； was somehow convinced that the fix would be a he； something that would lessen him。
He wondered if Pete had gone back for the beer； and knew the answer was probably yes。 Henry would have suggested bringing it along if he'd thought of it； making such a risky return trip （risky for the woman as well as Pete himself） unnecessary； but he'd been pretty freaked out … and the beer hadn't even crossed his mind。
He bet it had crossed Pete's； though。 Could Pete make it roundtrip on that sprung knee？ It was possible； but Henry would not have bet on it。
They're back！ the woman had screamed； looking up at the sky。 They're back！ They're back！
Henry put his head down and jogged a little faster。
2
Six more miles； six more to Banbury Cross。 Was it down to six yet； or was he being optimistic？ Giving those old endorphins a little too much free rein？ Well； so what if he was？ Optimism couldn't hurt at this point。 The snow had almost stopped falling and the tide of animals had slackened； and that was also good… What wasn't so good was the thoughts in his head； some of which seemed less and less like his own。 Becky； for instance； who was Becky？ The name had begun to resonate in his head； had bee another part of the mantra。 He supposed it was the woman he'd just avoided killing。 Whose little girl are you？ Becky； why I'm Becky； I'm pretty Becky Shue。
Except she hadn't been pretty； not pretty at all。 One heavyset smelly mama was what she'd been； and now she was in Pete Moore's less than reliable care。
Six。 Six。 Six more miles to Banbury Cross。
Jogging steadily … as steadily as was possible； given the footing … and hearing strange voices in his head。 Except only one of them was really strange； and that one wasn't a voice at all but a kind of hum with a rhythmic beat
（whose little girl； whose little girl； pretty Becky Shue）
caught in it。 The rest were voices he knew； or voices his friends knew。 One was a voice Jonesy had told him about； a voice he'd heard after his accident and associated with all his pain： Please stop； I can't stand it； give me a shot； where's Marcy。
He heard Beaver's voice： Go look in the chamber pot。
Jonesy； answering： Why don't we just knock on the bathroom door and ask him how he is？
A stranger's voice saying that if he could just do a number two he'd be okay 。 。 。
。。。 only he was no stranger； he was Rick； pretty Becky's friend Rick。 Rick what？ McCarthy？ McKinley？ McKeen？ Henry wasn't sure； but he leaned toward McCarthy； like Kevin McCarthy in that old horror movie about the pods from space that made themselves look like people。 One of Jonesy's raves。 Get a few drinks in him and mention that movie and Jonesy would respond with the key line at once： 'They're here！ They're here！'
The woman； looking up at the sky and screaming They're back； they're back。
Dear Christ； there'd been nothing like this since they were kids and this was worse； like picking up a power…line filled with voices instead of electricity。
All those patients over the years； plaining of voices in their heads。 And Henry； the big psychiatrist （Young Mr God； one state hospital patient called him back in the early days）； had nodded as if he knew what they were talking about。 Had in fact believed he did know what they were talking about。 But maybe only now did he really know。
Voices。 Listening to them so hard he missed the whup…whup…whup of the helicopter passing overhead； a dark rushing shark…shape barely obscured by the bottoms of the clouds。 Then the voices began to fade as radio signals from