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第47部分（第4页）

His　nostrils　flared　a　little。　Disinfectant；　that　self…righteous　smell；

cleaner…than…thou。　And　—

Soap？

Surely　not。　But　once　the　smell　had　been　identified；　it　was　too　clear　to

dismiss。　Soap。　And　not　one　of　those　postcard…size　bars　of　Ivory　they　provide　you

with　in　hotels　and　motels；　either。　This　scent　was　light　and　perfumed；　a　ladys

soap。　It　had　a　pink　sort　of　smell。　Camay　or　Lowila；　the　brand　that　Wendy　had

always　used　in　Stovington。

（Its　nothing。　Its　your　imagination。）

（yes　like　the　hedges　nevertheless　they　did　move）

（They　did　not　move！）

He　crossed　jerkily　to　the　door　which　gave　on　the　hall；　feeling　the　irregular

thump　of　a　headache　beginning　at　his　temples。　Too　much　had　happened　today；　too

much　by　far。　He　wouldnt　spank　the　boy　or　shake　him；　just　talk　to　him；　but　by

God；　he　wasnt　going　to　add　Room　217　to　his　problems。　Not　on　the　basis　of　a　dry

bathmat　and　a　faint　smell　of　Lowila　soap。　He　—

There　was　a　sudden　rattling；　metallic　sound　behind　him。　It　came　just　as　his

hand　closed　around　the　doorknob；　and　an　observer　might　have　thought　the　brushed

steel　of　the　knob　carried　an　electric　charge。　He　jerked　convulsively；　eyes

widening；　other　facial　features　drawing　in；　grimacing。

Then　he　had　control　of　himself；　a　little；　anyway；　and　he　let　go　of　the

doorknob　and　turned　carefully　around。　His　joints　creaked。　He　began　to　walk　back

to　the　bathroom　door；　step　by　leaden　step。

The　shower　curtain；　which　he　had　pushed　back　to　look　into　the　tub；　was　now

drawn。　The　metallic　rattle；　which　had　sounded　to　him　like　a　stir　of　bones　in　a

crypt；　had　been　the　curtain　rings　on　the　overhead　bar。　Jack　stared　at　the

curtain。　His　face　felt　as　if　it　had　been　heavily　waxed；　all　dead　skin　on　the

outside；　live；　hot　rivulets　of　fear　on　the　inside。　The　way　he　had　felt　on　the

playground。

There　was　something　behind　the　pink　plastic　shower　curtain。　There　was

something　in　the　tub。

He　could　see　it；　ill　defined　and　obscure　through　the　plastic；　a　nearly

amorphous　shape。　It　could　have　been　anything。　A　trick　of　the　light。　The　shadow

of　the　shower　attachment。　A　woman　long　dead　and　reclining　in　her　bath；　a　bar　of

Lowila　in　one　stiffening　hand　as　she　waited　patiently　for　whatever　lover　might

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