dk.solesurvivor-第20部分

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　　Glass　shattered；　and　Joe　flinched。　He　thought　wildly　that　some　murderous　adversary　was　breaking　into　the　kitchen　through　the　windows。
　　The　breaking　was　not　windows　but　glass　oil　lamps；　which　Lisa　had　grasped　like　bottles；　by　their　tall　chimneys。　She　had　smashed　the　bulbous　bases　together；　and　a　viscous　spray　of　oil　had　burst　from　them。
　　Bright　points　of　flame　irised　wider　on　the　tabletop；　became　glaring　pools　of　fire。
　　Joe　grabbed　her　and　tried　to　pull　her　away　from　the　spreading　blaze；　but　without　a　word；　she　wrenched　loose　of　him　and　seized　the　third　lamp。
　　'Lisa！'
　　Granite　and　bronze　ignited　in　the　Polaroid　of　Angela　Delmann's　grave；　image　and　medium　curling　like　a　black　burnt　leaf。
　　Lisa　tipped　the　third　lamp；　pouring　the　oil　and　the　floating　wick　across　the　front　of　her　dress。
　　For　an　instant　Joe　was　immobilized　by　shock。
　　The　oil　washed　Lisa；　but　somehow　the　slithering　spot　of　flame　slipped　along　the　bodice　and　waist　of　her　dress　and　was　extinguished　in　the　skirt。
　　On　the　table；　the　blazing　pools　overlapped；　and　molten　streams　flowed　to　all　edges。　Incandescent　drizzle　sizzled　to　the　floor。
　　Joe　reached　for　her　again；　but　as　if　dipping　into　a　wash　basin；　she　scooped　handfuls　of　flames　off　the　table；　splashing　them　against　her　breast。　As　Lisa's　oil…soaked　clothes　exploded　with　fire；　Joe　snatched　his　hand　back　from　her　and　cried；　'No！'
　　Without　a　scream；　which　at　least　she　had　managed　in　reaction　to　Georgine's　suicide；　without　a　groan　or　even　as　much　as　a　whimper；　she　raised　her　hands；　in　which　balls　of　flame　roiled。　She　stood　briefly　like　the　ancient　goddess　Diana　with　fiery　moons　balanced　on　her　palms；　and　she　brought　her　hands　to　her　face；　to　her　hair。
　　Joe　reeled　backward　from　the　burning　woman；　from　the　sight　that　scorched　his　heart；　from　the　hideous　stench　that　withered　him；　from　an　insoluble　mystery　that　left　him　empty　of　hope。　He　collided　with　cabinetry。
　　Remaining　miraculously　on　her　feet；　as　calm　as　though　standing　only　in　a　cool　rain；　reflected　in　every　angle　of　the　big　bay　window；　Lisa　turned　as　if　to　look　at　Joe　through　her　fuming　veil。　Mercifully；　he　could　see　nothing　of　her　face。
　　Paralyzed　by　horror；　he　realized　he　was　going　to　die　next；　not　from　the　flames　that　licked　the　maple　flooring　around　his　shoes　but　by　his　own　hand；　in　some　fashion　as　monstrous　as　a　self…inflicted　shotgun　wound；　self…evisceration；　self…immolation。　The　plague　of　suicide　had　not　yet　infected　him；　but　it　would　claim　him　the　moment　that　Lisa；　entirely　dead；　crumpled　in　a　heap　on　the　floor…and　yet　he　could　not　move。
　　Wrapped　in　a　whirlwind　of　tempestuous　flames；　she　flung　off　phantoms　of　light　and　ghosts　of　shadow；　which　crawled　up　the　walls　and　swarmed　across　the　ceiling；　and　some　shadows　were　shadows　but　some　were　unspooling　ribbons　of　soot。
　　The　bone…piercing　shriek　of　the　kitchen　smoke　alarm　cracked　the　ice　in　Joe's　marrow。　He　was　jarred　out　of　his　trance。
　　He　ran　with　the　phantoms　and　the　ghosts；　out　of　that　hell；　past　suspended　copper　pots　like　bright　blank　faces　in　a　forge　light；　past　three　glasses　of　Chardonnay　sparkling　with　images　of　flames　and　now　the　colour　of　claret。
　　Through　the　swinging　door；　along　the　hallway；　across　the　foyer；　Joe　felt　closely　pursued　by　something　more　than　the　blatting　of　the　smoke　alarm；　as　though　a　killer　had　been　in　the　kitchen；　after　all；　standing　so　still　in　a　darkish　corner　that　he　had　watched　unnoticed。　At　the　front　door；　as　Joe　grasped　the　knob；　he　expected　a　hand　to　drop　upon　his　shoulder；　expected　to　be　spun　around　and　confronted　by　a　smiling　assassin。
　　From　behind　him　came　not　a　hand　and　not；　as　he　might　have　expected；　a　blast　of　heat；　but　a　hissing　cold　that　first　prickled　the　nape　of　his　neck　and　then　seemed　to　drill　into　the　summit　of　his　spine；　through　the　base　of　his　skull。　He　was　so　panicked　that　he　did　not　remember　opening　the　door　or　leaving　the　house；　but　found　himself　crossing　the　porch；　casting　off　the　chill。
　　He　hurried　along　the　brick　walk　between　the　perfect　box　hedges。　When　he　reached　the　pair　of　matched　magnolias；　where　large　flowers　like　the　white　faces　of　monkeys　peered　from　among　the　glossy　leaves；　he　glanced　back。　He　was　not；　after　all；　being　pursued　by　anyone。
　　The　residential　street　was　quiet　but　for　the　muffled　blaring　of　the　smoke　alarms　in　the　Delmann　house：　no　traffic　at　the　moment；　no　one　out　for　a　walk　in　the　warm　August　night。　On　nearby　porches　and　lawns；　no　one　had　yet　been　drawn　outside　by　the　motion。　Here　the　properties　were　so　large　and　the　stately　houses　so　solidly　built；　with　thick　walls；　that　the　screams　might　not　have　penetrated　to　the　attention　of　the　neighbours；　and　even　the　single　gunshot　might　have　been　apprehended　only　as　a　car　door　slamming　or　a　truck　backfiring。
　　He　considered　waiting　for　the　firemen　and　police；　but　he　could　not　imagine　how　he　would　convincingly　describe　what　had　transpired　in　that　house　in　a　mere　three　or　four　hellish　minutes。　As　he　had　lived　those　feverish　events；　they　had　seemed　hallucinatory；　from　the　sound　of　the　shotgun　to　the　moment　when　Lisa　swathed　herself　in　flames；　and　now　they　were　like　fragments　of　a　deeper　dream　in　the　ongoing　nightmare　of　his　life。
　　The　fire　would　destroy　much　of　the　evidence　of　suicide；　and　the　police　would　detain　him　for　questioning…then　possibly　on　suspicion　of　murder。　They　would　see　a　deeply　troubled　man　who　had　lost　his　way　after　losing　his　family；　who　held　no　job；　who　lived　in　one　room　above　a　garage；　who　was　gaunt　from　weight　loss；　whose　eyes　were　haunted；　who　kept　twenty　thousand　dollars　in　cash　in　the　spare…tyre　well　in　the　trunk　of　his　car。　His　circumstances　and　his　psychological　profile　would　not　dispose　them　to　believe　him　even　if　his　story　had　not　been　so　far　beyond　the　bounds　of　reason。
　　Before　Joe　could　win　his　freedom；　Teknologik　and　its　associates　would　find　him。　They　had　tried　to　shoot　him　down　merely　because　Rose　might　have　told　him　something　they　didn't　want　known
　　…　and　now　he　knew　more　than　he'd　known　then；　even　if　he　didn't　have　any　idea　what　the　hell　to　make　of　it。　Considering　Teknologik's　suspected　connections　to　political　and　military　power　grids；　Joe　more　likely　than　not　would　be　killed　in　jail　during　a　meticulously　planned　altercation　with　other　prisoners　well　paid　to　waste　him。　If　he　survived　jail；　he　would　be　followed　on　his　release　and　eliminated　at　the　first　opportunity。
　　Trying　not　to　break　into　a　run　and　thereby　draw　attention　to　himself；　he　walked　to　the　Honda　across　the　street。
　　At　the　Delmann　house；　kitchen　windows　exploded。　Following　the　brief　ringing　of　falling　glass；　the　shriek　of　the　smoke　alarm　was　considerably　more　audible　than　previously。
　　Joe　glanced　back　and　saw　fire　writhing　out　of　the　back　of　the　house。　The　lamp　oil　served　as　an　accelerant：　Just　inside　the　front　door；　which　he　had　left　standing　open；　tongues　of　fire　already　licked　the　walls　of　the　downstairs　hallway。
　　He　got　in　the　car。　Pulled　the　door　shut。
　　He　had　blood　on　his　right　hand。　Not　his　own　blood。
　　Shuddering；　he　popped　open　the　console　between　the　seats　and　tore　a　handful　of　tissues　from　a　box　of　Kleenex。　He　scrubbed　at　his　hand。
　　He　stuffed　the　wadded　tissues　into　the　bag　that　had　contained　the　burgers　from　McDonald's。
　　Evidence；　he　thought；　although　he　was　guilty　of　no　crime。
　　The　world　had　turned　upside　down。　Lies　were　truth；　truth　was　a　lie；　facts　were　fiction；　the　impossible　was　possible；　and　innocence　was　guilt。
　　He　dug　in　his　pockets　for　keys。　Started　the　engine。
　　Through　the　broken…out　window　in　the　backseat；　he　heard　not　only　the　smoke　alarms；　several　of　them　now；　but　neighbours　shouting　at　one　another；　cries　of　fright　in　the　summer　night。
　　Trusting　that　their　attention　would　be　on　the　Delmann　place　and　that　they　would　not　even　notice　him　departing；　Joe　switched　on　the　headlights。　He　swung　the　Honda　into　the　street。
　　The　lovely　old　Georgian　house　was　now　the　domicile　of　dragons；　where　bright　presences　with　incendiary　breath　prowled　from　room　to　room。　While　the　dead　lay　in　shrouds　of　fire；　multiple　sirens　rose　like　lamentations　in　the　distance。
　　Joe　drove　away　into　a　night　grown　too　strange　to　prehend；　into　a　world　that　no　longer　seemed　to　be　the　one　into　which　he　had　been　born。
　　
　　
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　　This　Halloween　light　in　August；　as　orange　as　pumpkin　lanterns　but　leaping　high　from　pits　in　the　sand；　made　even　the　innocent　seem　like　debauched　pagans　in　its　glow。
　　On　a　stretch　of　beach　where　bonfires　were　permitted；　ten　blazed。　Large　families　gathered　at　some；　parties　of　teenagers　and　college　students　at　others。
　　Joe　walked　among　them。　The　beach　was　one　he　favoured　on　nights　when　he　came　to　the　ocean　for　therapy；　although　usually　he　kept　his　distance　from　the　bonfires。
　　Here　the　decibels　of　chatter　were　off　the　top　of　the…　scale；　and　barefoot　couples　danced　in　place　to　old　tunes　by　the　Beach　Boys。　But　here　a　dozen　listeners　sat　enthralled　as　a　stocky　man　with　a　mane　of　white　hair　and　a　reverberant　voice　spun　a　ghost　story。
　　The　day's　events　had　altered　Joe's　perception　of　everything；　so　it　seemed　he　was　looking　at　the　world　through　a　pair　of　peculiar　glasses　won　in　a　game　of　chance　on　the　midway　of　a　mysterious　carnival　that　travelled　from　venue　to　venue　in　whisper…quiet　black　trains；　spectacles　with　the　power　not　to　distort　the　world　but　to　reveal　a　secret　dimension　that　was　enigmatic；　cold；　and　fearsome。
　　The　dancers　in　bathing　suits；　bare　limbs　molten…bronze　from　the　firelight；　shook　their　shoulders　and　rolled　their　hips；　dipped　and　swayed；　beat　their　supple　arms　like　wings　or　clawed　at　the　radiant　air；　and　to　Joe　each　celebrant　seemed　to　be　two　entities　at　the　same　time。　Each　was　a　real　person；　yes；　but　each　was　also　a　marionette；　controlled　by　an　unseen　puppet　master；　string…tugged　into　postures　of　jubilation；　winking　glass　eyes　and　cracking　wooden　smiles　and　laughing　with　the　thrown　voices　of　hidden　ventriloquists；　for　the　sole　purpose　of　deceiving　Joe　into　believing　that　this　was　a　benign　world　that　merited　delight。
　　He　passed　a　group　of　ten　or　twelve　young　men　in　swimming　trunks。　Their　discarded　wetsuits　glistened　like　piles　of　sealskins　or　flayed　eels　or　some　other　harvest　of　the　sea。　Their　upended　surfboards　cast　Stonehenge　shadows　across　the　sand。　Testosterone　levels　were　so　high　among　them　that　the　air　virtually　smelled　of　it；　so　high　that　it　made　them　not　rowdy　but　slow　and　murmurous；　almost　somnambulant　with　primal　male　fantasies。
　　The　dancers；　the　storyteller　and　his　audience；　the　surfers；　and　everyone　else　whom　Joe　passed　watched　him　warily。　This　was　not　his　imagination。　Though　their　glances　were　mostly　surreptitious；　he　was　aware　of　their　attention。
　　He　wouldn't　have　been　surprised　if　all　of　them　worked　for　Teknologik　or　for　whoever　funded　Teknologik。
　　On　the　other　hand；　although　wading　deep　in　paranoia；　he　was　still　sane　enough　to　realize　that　he　carried　with　him　the　unspeakable　things　he　had　seen　at　the　Delmann　house…and　that　these　horrors　were　visible　in　him。　The　experience　carved　his　face；　painted　a　dull　sheen　of　desolation　in　his　eyes；　and　sculpted　his　body　into　angles　of　rage　and　dread。　When　he　passed；　the　people　on　the　beach　saw　a　tormented　man；　and　t