dk.solesurvivor-第12部分

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t　the　crash　was　not　kosher。　He　could　have　posed　them　himself。　Dr。　Tucker's　name　was　typed；　as　well；　so　there　was　no　evidentiary　signature。
　　Nevertheless；　he　was　loath　to　dispose　of　the　message。　Although　it　would　never　prove　anything　to　anyone　else；　it　made　these　fantastic　events　seem　more　real　to　him。
　　He　called　Demi's　number　again　to　see　if　she　would　answer　it　in　spite　of　what　she　had　said。
　　To　his　surprise；　he　got　a　recorded　message　from　the　telephone　pany　informing　him　that　the　number　he　had　called　was　no　longer　in　service。　He　was　advised　to　make　sure　that　he　had　entered　the　number　correctly　and　then　to　call　411　for　directory　assistance。　He　tried　the　number　again　with　the　same　result。
　　Neat　trick。　He　wondered　how　it　had　been　done。　Demi　clearly　was　more　sophisticated　than　her　grits…and…collard…greens　voice。
　　As　Joe　returned　the　handset　to　the　cradle；　the　telephone　rang；　startling　him　so　much　that　he　let　go　of　it　as　if　he　had　burned　his　fingers。　Embarrassed　by　his　edginess；　he　picked　it　up　on　the　third　ring。　'Hello？'
　　'Los　Angeles　Post？'　a　man　asked。
　　'Yes。'
　　'Is　this　Randy　Colway's　direct　line？'
　　'That's　right。'
　　'Are　you　Mr。　Colway？'
　　Startlement　and　the　interlude　with　Demi　had　left　Joe　slow　on　the　uptake。　Now　he　recognized　the　uninflected　voice　as　that　of　the　man　who　had　answered　the　phone　at　Rose　Marie　Tucker's　house　in　Manassas；　Virginia。
　　'Are　you　Mr。　Colway？'　the　caller　asked　again。
　　'I'm　Wallace　Blick；'　Joe　said。
　　'Mr。　Carpenter？'
　　Chills　climbed　the　ladder　of　his　spine；　vertebra　to　vertebra；　and　Joe　slammed　down　the　phone。
　　They　knew　where　he　was。
　　The　dozens　of　modular　workstations　no　longer　seemed　like　a　series　of　fortably　anonymous　nooks。　They　were　a　maze　with　too　many　blind　corners。
　　Quickly　he　gathered　the　printouts　and　the　message　that　Rose　Tucker　had　left　for　him。
　　As　he　was　getting　up　from　the　chair；　the　phone　rang　again。　He　didn't　answer　it。
　　
　　On　his　way　out　of　the　newsroom；　he　encountered　Dan　Shavers；　who　was　returning　from　the　photocopying　centre　with　a　sheaf　of　papers　in　his　left　hand　and　his　unlit　pipe　in　the　right。　Shavers；　utterly　bald　with　a　luxuriant　black　beard；　wore　pleated　black　dress　slacks；　red…and…black　chequered　suspenders　over　a　grey…and…white　pinstripe　shirt；　and　a　yellow　bow　tie。　His　half…lens　reading　glasses　dangled　from　his　neck　on　a　loop　of　black　ribbon。
　　A　reporter　and　columnist　on　the　business　desk；　Shavers　was　as　pompous　and　as　awkward　at　small　talk　as　he　thought　he　was　charming；　however；　he　was　benign　in　his　self…delusion　and　touching　in　his　mistaken　conviction　that　he　was　a　spellbinding　raconteur。　He　said　without　preamble；　'Joseph；　dear　boy；　opened　a　case　of　'74　Mondavi　Cabernet　last　week；　one　of　twenty　I　bought　as　an　investment　when　it　was　first　released；　even　though　at　the　time　I　was　in　Napa　not　to　scout　the　vintners　but　to　shop　for　an　antique　clock；　and　let　me　tell　you；　this　wine　has　matured　so　well　that…'　He　broke　off；　realizing　that　Joe　had　not　worked　at　the　newspaper　for　the　better　part　of　a　year。　Fumblingly；　he　tried　to　offer　his　condolences　regarding　'that　terrible　thing；　that　awful　thing；　all　those　poor　people；　your　wife　and　the　children。'
　　Aware　that　Randy　Colway's　telephone　was　ringing　again　farther　back　in　the　newsroom；　Joe　interrupted　Shavers；　intending　to　brush　him　off；　but　then　he　said；　'Listen；　Dan；　do　you　know　a　pany　called　Teknologik？'
　　'Do　I　know　them？'　Shavers　wiggled　his　eyebrows。　'Very　amusing；　Joseph。'
　　'You　do　know　them？　What's　the　story；　Dan？　Are　they　a　pretty　large　conglomerate？　I　mean；　are　they　powerful？'
　　'Oh；　very　profitable；　Joseph；　absolutely　uncanny　at　recognizing　cutting　edge　technology　in　start…up　panies　and　then　acquiring　them…or　backing　entrepreneurs　who　need　cash　to　develop　their　ideas。　Generally　medically　related　technology　but　not　always。　Their　top　executives　are　infamous　self…aggrandisers；　think　of　themselves　as　some　kind　of　business　royalty；　but　they　are　no　better　than　us。　They；　too；　answer　to　He　Who　Must　Be　Obeyed。'
　　Confused；　Joe　said；　'He　Who　Must　Be　Obeyed？'
　　As　do　we　all；　as　do　we　all；'　said　Shaver；　smiling　and　nodding；　raising　his　pipe　to　bite　the　stem。
　　Colway's　phone　stopped　ringing。　The　silence　made　Joe　more　nervous　than　the　insistent　trilling　tone　had　done。
　　They　knew　where　he　was。
　　'Got　to　go；'　he　said；　walking　away　as　Shavers　began　to　tell　him　about　the　advantages　of　owning　Teknologik　corporate　bonds。
　　He　proceeded　directly　to　the　nearest　men's　room。　Fortunately；　no　one　else　was　in　the　lavatory；　no　old　acquaintances　to　delay　him。
　　In　one　of　the　stalls；　Joe　tore　Rose's　message　into　small　pieces。　He　flushed　it　down　the　toilet；　as　Demi　had　requested；　waiting　to　confirm　that　every　scrap　vanished；　flushing　a　second　time　to　be　sure　that　nothing　was　caught　in　the　drain。
　　Medsped。　Teknologik。　Corporations　conducting　what　appeared　to　be　a　police　operation。　Their　long　reach；　from　Los　Angeles　to　Manassas；　and　their　unnerving　omniscience；　argued　that　these　were　corporations　with　powerful　connections　beyond　the　business　world；　perhaps　to　the　military。
　　Nevertheless；　regardless　of　the　stakes；　it　made　no　sense　for　a　corporation　to　protect　its　interests　with　hitmen　brazen　enough　to　shoot　at　people　in　public　places…or　anywhere　else；　for　that　matter。　Regardless　of　how　profitable　Teknologik　might　be；　big　black　numbers　at　the　bottom　of　the　balance　sheet　did　not　exempt　corporate　officers　and　executives　from　the　law；　not　even　here　in　Los　Angeles；　where　the　lack　of　money　was　known　to　be　the　root　of　all　evil。
　　Considering　the　impunity　with　which　they　seemed　to　think　they　could　use　guns；　the　men　that　he　had　encountered　must　be　military　personnel　or　federal　agents。　Joe　had　too　little　information　to　allow　him　even　to　conjecture　what　role　Medsped　and　Teknologik　played　in　the　operation。
　　All　the　way　along　the　third…floor　hall　to　the　elevators；　he　expected　someone　to　call　his　name　and　order　him　to　stop。　Perhaps　one　of　the　men　in　the　Hawaiian　shirts。　Or　Wallace　Blick。　Or　a　police　officer。
　　If　the　people　seeking　Rose　Tucker　were　federal　agents；　they　would　be　able　to　obtain　help　from　local　police。　For　the　time　being；　Joe　would　have　to　regard　every　man　in　uniform　as　a　potential　enemy。
　　As　the　elevator　doors　opened；　he　tensed；　half　expecting　to　be　apprehended　here　in　the　alcove。　The　cab　was　empty。
　　On　the　way　down　to　the　first　floor；　he　waited　for　the　power　to　be　cut　off。　When　the　doors　opened　on　the　lower　alcove；　he　was　surprised　to　find　it　deserted。
　　In　all　his　life；　he　had　never　previously　been　in　the　grip　of　paranoia　such　as　this。　He　was　overreacting　to　the　events　of　the　early　afternoon　and　to　what　he　had　learned　since　arriving　at　the　offices　of　the　Post。
　　He　wondered　if　his　exaggerated　reactions…spells　of　extreme　rage；　spiralling　fear…were　a　response　to　the　past　year　of　emotional　deprivation。　He　had　allowed　himself　to　feel　nothing　whatsoever　but　grief；　self…pity；　and　the　terrible　hollowness　of　inprehensible　loss。　In　fact；　he'd　striven　hard　not　to　feel　even　that　much。　He　had　tried　to　shed　his　pain；　to　rise　from　the　ashes　like　a　drab　phoenix　with　no　hope　except　the　cold　peace　of　indifference。　Now　that　events　forced　him　to　open　himself　to　the　world　again；　he　was　swamped　by　emotion　as　a　novice　surfer　was　overwhelmed　by　each　cresting　wave。
　　In　the　reception　lounge；　as　Joe　entered；　Dewey　Beemis　was　on　the　telephone。　He　was　listening　so　intently　that　his　usually　smooth　dark　face　was　furrowed。　He　murmured；　'Yes；　uh…huh；　uh…huh；　yes。'
　　Heading　toward　the　outer　door；　Joe　waved　good…bye。
　　Dewey　said；　'Joe；　wait；　wait　a　second。'
　　Joe　stopped　and　turned。
　　Though　Dewey　was　listening　to　the　caller　again；　his　eyes　were　on　Joe。
　　To　indicate　that　he　was　in　a　hurry；　Joe　tapped　one　finger　against　his　wristwatch。
　　　Hold　on；'　Dewey　said　into　the　phone；　and　then　to　Joe；　he　said；　a　man　here　calling　about　you。'
　　Joe　shook　his　head　adamantly。
　　'Wants　to　talk　to　you；'　Dewey　said。
　　Joe　started　toward　the　door　again。
　　'Wait；　Joe；　man　says　he's　FBI。'
　　At　the　door；　Joe　hesitated　and　looked　back　at　Dewey。　The　FBI　couldn't　be　associated　with　the　men　in　the　Hawaiian　shirts；　not　with　men　who　shot　at　innocent　people　without　bothering　to　ask　questions；　not　with　men　like　Wallace　Blick。　Could　they？　Wasn't　he　letting　his　fear　run　away　with　him　again；　succumbing　to　paranoia？　He　might　get　answers　and　protection　from　the　FBI。
　　Of　course；　the　man　on　the　phone　could　be　lying。　He　might　not　be　with　the　Bureau。　Possibly　he　was　hoping　to　delay　Joe　until　Blick　and　his　friends…or　others　aligned　with　them…could　get　here。
　　With　a　shake　of　his　head；　Joe　turned　away　from　Dewey。　He　pushed　through　the　door　and　into　the　August　heat。
　　Behind　him；　Dewey　said；　'Joe？'
　　Joe　walked　toward　his　car。　He　resisted　the　urge　to　break　into　a　run。
　　At　the　far　end　of　the　parking　lot；　by　the　open　gate；　the　young　attendant　with　the　shaved　head　and　the　gold　nose　ring　was　watching。　In　this　city　where　sometimes　money　mattered　more　than　fidelity　or　honour　or　merit；　style　mattered　more　than　money；　fashions　came　and　went　even　more　frequently　than　principles　and　convictions；　leaving　only　the　unchanging　signal　colours　of　youth　gangs　as　a　sartorial　tradition。　This　kid's　look；　punk…grungeneopunk…whatever；　was　already　as　dated　as　spats；　making　him　look　less　threatening　than　he　thought　and　more　pathetic　than　he　would　ever　be　able　to　prehend。　Yet　under　these　circumstances；　his　interest　in　Joe　seemed　ominous。
　　Even　at　low　volume；　the　hard　beat　of　rap　music　thumped　through　the　blistering　air。
　　The　interior　of　the　Honda　was　hot　but　not　intolerable。　The　side　window；　shattered　by　a　bullet　at　the　cemetery；　provided　just　enough　ventilation　to　prevent　suffocation。
　　The　attendant　had　probably　noticed　the　broken…out　window　when　Joe　had　driven　in。　Maybe　he'd　been　thinking　about　it。
　　What　does　it　matter　if　he　has　been　thinking？　It's　only　a　broken　Window。
　　He　was　certain　the　engine　wouldn't　start；　but　it　did。
　　As　Joe　backed　out　of　the　parking　slot；　Dewey　Beemis　opened　the　reception…lounge　door　and　stepped　outside　onto　the　small　concrete　stoop　under　the　awning　that　bore　the　logo　of　the　Post。　The　big　man　looked　not　alarmed　but　puzzled。
　　Dewey　wouldn't　try　to　stop　him。　They　were　friends；　after　all；　or　had　once　been　friends；　and　the　man　on　the　phone　was　just　a　voice。
　　Joe　shifted　the　Honda　into　drive。
　　ing　down　the　steps；　Dewey　shouted　something。　He　didn't　sound　alarmed。　He　sounded　confused；　concerned。
　　Ignoring　him　nonetheless；　Joe　drove　toward　the　exit。　Under　the　dirty　Cinzano　umbrella；　the　attendant　rose　from　the　folding　chair。　He　was　only　two　steps　from　the　rolling　gate　that　would　close　off　the　lot。
　　Atop　the　chain…link　fence；　the　coils　of　razor　wire　flared　with　silver　reflections　of　late…afternoon　sunlight。
　　Joe　glanced　at　the　rear…view　mirror。　Back　there；　Dewey　was　standing　with　his　hands　on　his　hips。
　　As　Joe　went　past　the　Cinzano　umbrella；　the　attendant　didn't　even　e　forth　out　of　the　shade。　Watching　with　heavy…lidded　eyes；　as　expressionless　as　an　iguana；　he　wiped　sweat　off　his　brow　with　one　hand；　black　fingernails　glistening。
　　Through　the　open　gate　and　turning　right　into　the　street；　Joe　wa