dk.nightchills-第51部分

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　Instinctively；　Paul　dropped　to　the　ground　and　rolled。
　A　bullet　cracked　into　the　pavement　where　he'd　just　been；　ricocheted　into　the　darkness。
　A　second　bullet　smashed　the　macadam　on　the　other　side　of　him；　bracketing　him。
　He　rolled　onto　his　back　and　sat　up。　He　saw　the　rifleman　at　once：　down　on　one　knee　in　a　sportsman's　pose；　thirty　feet　away　at　the　edge　of　the　woods。　On　the　drive　from　town；　Paul　had　reloaded　the　bat　Magnum；　now　he　held　it　with　both　hands　and　squeezed　off　five　quick　shots。
　All　of　them　missed　the　mark。
　However；　the　sharp　barking　of　the　revolver　and　the　deadly　whine　of　all　those　bullets　skipping　across　the　pavement　apparently　unnerved　the　man　with　the　rifle。　Instead　of　trying　to　finish　what　he　had　begun；　he　stood　and　ran。
　Paul　scrambled　to　his　feet；　took　a　few　steps　after　him　and　fired　once　more。
　Untouched；　the　rifleman　headed　away　in　a　big　loop　that　would　take　him　back　to　the　mill　plex。
　〃Sam？〃
　〃Here。〃
　He　could　barely　see　Sam…dark　clothes　against　the　macadam
　…and　was　thankful　for　the　older　man's　telltale　white　hair　and　beard。　〃You　were　hit。〃
　〃In　the　leg。〃
　Paul　started　toward　him。　〃How　bad？〃
　〃Flesh　wound；〃　Sam　said。　〃That　was　Dawson。　Get　after　him；　for　God's　sake。〃
　〃But　if　you're　hurt…〃
　〃I'll　be　fine。　Malcolm　can　make　a　tourniquet。　Now　get　after　him；　dammit！〃
　Paul　ran。　At　the　end　of　the　parking　area　he　passed　the　rifle：　it　was　on　the　ground；　Dawson　had　either　dropped　it　by　accident　and　had　been　too　frightened　to　stop　and　retrieve　it…or　he　bad　discarded　it　in　panic。　Still　running；　Paul　fished　in　his　pocket　with　one　hand　for　the　extra　bullets　he　was　carrying。
　12：15　A。M。
　　
　　
　The　wooden　tower　stairs　creaked　under　Klinger's　weight。　He　paused　and　counted　slowly　to　thirty　before　going　up　three　more　steps　and　pausing　again。　If　he　climbed　too　fast；　the　woman　and　the　girl　would　know　that　he　was　ing。　And　if　they　were　ready　and　waiting　for　him…well；　he　would　be　mitting　suicide　when　he　walked　onto　the　belfry　platform。　He　hoped　that；　by　waiting　for　thirty　seconds　or　as　much　as　a　minute　between　brief　advances；　he　could　make　them　think　that　the　creaking　stairs　were　only　settling　noises　or　a　product　of　the　wind。
　He　went　up　three　more　steps。
　　
　12：16　A。M。
　Ahead；　Dawson　disappeared　around　a　corner　of　the　mill。
　When　he　reached　the　same　corner　a　moment　later；　Paul　stopped　and　studied　the　north　work　yard：　huge　stacks　of　logs　that　had　been　piled　up　to　feed　the　mill　during　the　long　winter；　several　pieces　of　heavy　equipment；　a　couple　of　lumber　trucks：　a　conveyor　belt　running　on　an　inclined　ramp　from　the　mill　to　the　maw　of　a　big　furnace　where　sawdust　and　scrap　wood　were　incinerated　。　。　。　There　were　simply　too　many　places　out　there　in　which　Dawson　could　hide　and　wait　for　him。
　He　turned　away　from　the　north　yard　and　went　to　the　door　in　the　west　wall　of　the　building；　back　the　way　he　had　e；　thirty　feet　from　the　corner。　It　wasn't　locked。
　He　stepped　into　a　short；　well…lighted　corridor。　The　enormous　processing　room　lay　at　the　end　of　it：　the　bull　chain　leading　from　the　mill　pond；　up　feeding　shoots；　into　the　building；　then　a　crosscut　saw；　a　log　deck；　the　carriage　that　moved　logs　into　the　waiting　blades　that　would　make　lumber　of　them；　the　giant　band　saw；　edging　machine；　trimmer　saws；　dip　tank；　grading　ramp；　the　green　chain；　and　then　the　storage　racks　。　。　。　He　remembered　all　of　those　terms　from　a　tour　that　the　manager　had　given　Rya
　and　Mark　two　summers　ago。　In　the　processing　room　the　fluorescent　strip　lights　were　burning；　but　none　of　the　machines　was　working；　there　were　no　men　tending　them。　To　his　right　was　a　washroom；　to　his　left　a　set　of　stairs。
　Taking　the　steps　two　at　a　time　for　four　flights…the　first　level　was　two　floors　high　in　order　to　acmodate　the　machines　in　it…he　came　out　in　the　second…floor　hallway。　He　stopped　to　think；　then　went　to　the　fifth　office　on　the　left。
　The　door　was　locked。
　He　kicked　it　twice。
　The　lock　held。
　There　was　a　glass　case　bolted　to　the　corridor　wall。　It　contained　a　fire　extinguisher　and　an　ax。
　He　jammed　the　revolver　in　his　belt；　opened　the　front　of　the　case；　and　took　out　the　ax。　He　used　the　flat　head　of　it　to　batter　the　knob　from　the　office　door。　When　the　knob　fell　off；　the　cheap　latch　snapped。　He　dropped　the　ax；　pushed　open　the　ruined　door；　and　went　inside。
　The　office　was　dark。　He　didn't　switch　on　any　lights　because　he　didn't　want　to　reveal　his　position。　He　closed　the　door　to　the　hall　so　that　he　would　not　be　silhouetted　by　the　pale　light　that　spilled　in。
　The　windows　in　the　north　wall　of　the　office　opened　above　the　first…floor　terrace。　He　slid　one　of　them　up；　slipped　through　it；　and　stepped　onto　the　tar…papered　terrace　roof。
　The　wind　buffeted　him。
　He　took　the　bat　Magnum　from　his　belt。
　If　Dawson　was　hiding　anywhere　in　the　north　yard；　this　was　the　best　vantage　point　from　which　to　spot　him。
　The　darkness　offered　Dawson　good　protection；　for　none　of　the　lights　was　on　in　the　yard。
　He　could　have　turned　them　on；　of　course。　But　he　didn't　know　where　to　find　the　switches；　and　he　didn't　want　to　waste　a　lot　of　time　looking　for　them。
　The　only　thing　that　moved　out　there　was　the　clattering　conveyor　belt　that　rolled　continuously　up　the　inclined　ramp　to　the　Scrap　furnace。　It　should　have　been　shut　down　with　the　rest　of
　the　equipment；　but　it　had　been　overlooked。　The　belt　came　out　of　the　building　directly　beneath　him　and　sloped　to　a　high　point　twenty　feet　above　the　ground。　It　met　the　furnace　door　forty　yards　away。　Because　the　cone…shaped　furnace…thirty　feet　in　diameter　at　the　base；　ten　feet　in　diameter　at　the　top；　forty　feet　high…was　primed　by　a　gas　flame；　the　fire　in　it　was　never　out　unless　the　mill　foreman　ordered　it　extinguished。　Even　now；　when　the　belt　had　no　fuel　for　it；　the　furnace　roared。　Judging　by　the　intensity　of　the　flames　leaping　beyond　the　open　door；　however；　several　hundred　pounds　of　the　day's　input…conveyed　out　of　the　mill　before　Dawson　had　halted　operations…　had　yet　to　be　fully　consumed。
　Otherwise；　the　yard　was　quiet；　still。　The　mill　pond…with　the　giant　grappling　hook　suspended　from　thick　wires　over　the　center　of　it…lay　to　the　right　of　the　ramp　and　the　furnace。　It　was　dotted　with　logs　that　looked　a　bit　like　dozing　alligators。　A　narrow　channel　of　water　called　the　slip　led　from　the　pond　to　the　terrace。　When　the　mill　was　in　operation；　slip　men　poled　logs　along　the　slip　to　the　chutes　that　were　covered　by　the　terrace　roof。　Once　in　the　chutes；　the　logs　were　snared　by　hooked　bull　chains　and　dragged　into　the　processing　system。　East　and　north　of　the　pond　was　the　deck；　those　forty…foot…high　walls　of　gargantuan　logs　set　aside　to　supply　the　mill　with　work　during　the　winter。　To　the　left　of　the　ramp　and　the　furnace；　two　lumber　trucks；　a　high…lift；　and　a　few　other　pieces　of　heavy　equipment　were　parked　in　a　row；　backed　up　against　the　chain…link　fence　of　a　storage　yard。　Dawson　wasn't　to　be　seen　in　any　of　that。
　Thunder　and　lightning　brought　a　sudden　fall　of　fat　raindrops。　Some　sixth　sense　told　Paul　that　he　had　heard　more　than　the　clap　of　thunder。　Propelled　by　an　icy　premonition；　he　spun　around。
　Dawson　had　e　out　of　the　window　behind　him。　He　was　no　more　than　a　yard　away。　He　was　older　than　Paul；　a　decade　and　a　half　older；　but　he　was　also　taller　and　heavier；　and　he　looked　deadly　in　the　rain…lashed　night。　He　had　an　ax。　The　goddamned　fire　ax！　In　both　hands。　Raised　over　his　head。　He　swung　it。
　*　*　*
　Klinger　was　at　the　mid…point　of　the　tower　when　the　rain　began　to　fall　again。　It　drummed　noisily　on　the　belfry　shingles　and　on　the　roof　of　the　church；　providing　excellent　cover　for　his　ascent。
　He　waited　until　he　was　absolutely　certain　that　the　downpour　would　last…then　he　went　upward　without　pausing　after　every　third　step。　He　couldn't　even　hear　the　creaking　himself。　Exhilarated；　brimming　with　confidence　now；　the　Webley　clutched　in　his　right　hand；　he　climbed　through　the　last　half　of　the　tower　in　less　than　a　minute　and　rushed　onto　the　belfry　platform。
　Paul　crouched。
　The　ax　blade　whistled　over　his　head。
　Startled　to　hear　himself　screaming；　unable　to　stop　screaming；　abruptly　aware　that　the　Smith　&　Wesson　was　still　in　his　hand；　Paul　pulled　the　trigger。
　The　bullet　tore　through　Dawson's　right　shoulder。
　The　ax　flew　from　his　hands。　It　arced　out　into　the　darkness　and　smashed　through　the　windshield　of　one　of　the　lumber　trucks。
　With　a　certain　eerie　grace；　Dawson　pirouetted　just　once　and　toppled　into　Paul。
　The　bat　Magnum　tumbled　in　the　path　of　the　ax。
　Grappling　with　each　other；　clinging　to　each　other；　they　fell　off　the　terrace　roof。
　The　belfry　held　very　little　light　in　the　midst　of　that　primeval　Storm；　but　it　was　bright　enough　for　Klinger　to　see　that　the　only　person　there　was　the　Annendale　girl。
　Impossible。
　She　was　sitting　on　the　platform；　her　back　to　the　half…wall。　And　she　seemed　to　be　regarding　him　with　dread。
　What　the　hell？
　There　should　have　been　two　of　them。　The　nine…foot…square　belfry　wasn't　large　enough　for　a　game　of　hide…and…seek。　'What　he　Saw　must　be　true。　But　there　should　have　been　two　of　them。
　The　night　was　rocked　with　thunder；　and　razor…tined　forks　of
　white　lightning　stabbed　the　earth。　Wind　boomed　through　the　open　tower。
　He　stood　over　the　child。
　Looking　up　at　him；　her　voice　wavering；　she　said；　〃Please。。。　please。。　。　don't。。　。　shoot　me。〃
　〃Where　is　the　other　one？〃　Klinger　asked。　〃Where　did　she　go？〃
　A　voice　behind　him　said；　〃Hey；　mister。〃
　They　had　heard　him　ing　up　the　stairs。　They　were　ready　and　waiting　for　him。
　But　how　had　they　done　it？
　Sick；　trembling；　aware　that　it　was　too　late　for　him　to　save　himself；　he　nevertheless　turned　to　meet　the　danger。
　There　was　no　one　behind　him。　The　storm　conveniently　provided　another　short　burst　of　incandescent　light；　confirming　that　he　saw　what　he　thought　he　saw：　he　and　the　child　were　alone　on　the　platform。
　〃Hey；　mister。〃
　He　looked　up。
　A　black　form；　like　a　monstrous　bat；　was　suspended　above　him。　The　woman。　Jenny　Edison。　He　could　not　see　her　face；　but　he　had　no　doubt　about　who　she　was。　She　had　heard　him　ing　up　the　stairs　when　he　thought　he　was　being　so　clever。　She　had　climbed　atop　the　bell　and　had　braced　herself　in　the　steel　bell　supports；　against　the　ceiling；　at　the　highest　point　of　the　arch；　six　feet　overhead；　like　a　goddamned　ba