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- Стр. 313/529
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"
I
don
’
t
stutter
,
"
whispered
George
from
behind
him
.
He
dropped
the
wasps
’
nest
and
wasps
boiled
out
of
it
in
a
furious
brown
and
yellow
wave
.
His
lungs
were
on
fire
.
His
wavering
sight
fell
on
the
timer
and
the
sense
of
triumph
returned
,
along
with
a
cresting
wave
of
righteous
wrath
.
Instead
of
connecting
the
timer
to
dynamite
,
the
cord
ran
to
the
gold
knob
of
a
stout
black
cane
,
like
the
one
his
father
had
carried
after
the
accident
with
the
milk
truck
.
He
grasped
it
and
the
cord
parted
.
The
cane
felt
heavy
and
right
in
his
hands
.
He
swung
it
back
over
his
shoulder
.
On
the
way
up
it
glanced
against
the
wire
from
which
the
light
bulb
depended
and
the
light
began
to
swing
back
and
forth
,
making
the
room
’
s
hooded
shadows
rock
monstrously
against
the
floor
and
walls
.
On
the
way
down
the
cane
struck
something
much
harder
.
George
screamed
.
The
grip
on
Jack
’
s
throatloosened
.
He
tore
free
of
George
’
s
grip
and
whirled
.
George
was
on
his
knees
,
his
head
drooping
,
his
hands
laced
together
on
top
of
it
.
Blood
welled
through
his
fingers
.
"
Please
,
"
George
whispered
humbly
.
"
Give
me
a
break
,
Mr
.
Torrance
,
"
"
Now
you
’
ll
take
your
medicine
,
"
Jack
grunted
.
"
Now
by
God
,
won
’
t
you
.
Young
pup
.
Young
worthless
cur
.
Now
by
God
,
right
now
.
Every
drop
.
Every
single
damn
drop
!
"
As
the
light
swayed
above
him
and
the
shadows
danced
and
flapped
,
he
began
to
swing
the
cane
,
bringing
it
down
again
and
again
,
his
arm
rising
and
falling
like
a
machine
.
George
’
s
bloody
protecting
fingers
fell
away
from
his
head
and
Jack
brought
the
cane
down
again
and
again
,
and
on
his
neck
and
shoulders
and
back
and
arms
.
Except
that
the
cane
was
no
longer
precisely
a
cane
;
it
seemed
to
be
a
mallet
with
some
kind
of
brightly
striped
handle
.
A
mallet
with
a
hard
side
and
soft
side
.
The
business
end
was
clotted
with
blood
and
hair
.
And
the
flat
,
whacking
sound
of
the
mallet
against
flesh
had
been
replaced
with
a
hollow
booming
sound
,
echoing
and
reverberating
.
His
own
voice
had
taken
on
this
same
quality
,
bellowing
,
disembodied
.
And
yet
,
paradoxically
,
it
sounded
weaker
,
slurred
,
petulant
…
as
if
he
were
drunk
.
The
figure
on
its
knees
slowly
raised
its
head
,
as
if
in
supplication
.
There
was
not
a
face
,
precisely
,
but
only
a
mask
of
blood
through
which
eyes
peered
.
He
brought
the
mallet
back
for
a
final
whistling
downstroke
and
it
was
fully
launched
before
he
saw
that
the
supplicating
face
below
him
was
not
George
’
s
but
Danny
’
s
.
It
was
the
face
of
his
son
.
"
Daddy
-
"
