dk.solesurvivor-第21部分

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e　passed；　the　people　on　the　beach　saw　a　tormented　man；　and　they　were　all　city　dwellers　who　understood　the　danger　of　tormented　men。
　　He　found　a　bonfire　surrounded　by　twenty　or　more　utterly　silent　young　men　and　women　with　shaved　heads。　Each　of　them　wore　a　sapphire…blue　robe　and　white　tennis　shoes；　and　each　had　a　gold　ring　in　his　or　her　left　ear。　The　men　were　beardless。　The　women　were　without　makeup。　Many　of　both　sexes　were　so　strikingly　attractive　and　so　stylish　in　their　raiments　that　he　instantly　thought　of　them　as　the　Cult　of　the　Beverly　Hills　Children。
　　He　stood　among　them　for　a　few　minutes；　watching　them　as　they　watched　their　fire　in　meditative　silence。　When　they　returned　his　attention；　they　had　no　fear　of　what　they　perceived　in　him。　Their　eyes　were；　without　exception；　calm　pools　in　which　he　saw　humbling　depths　of　acceptance　and　a　kindness　like　moonlight　on　water…but　perhaps　only　because　that　was　what　he　needed　to　see。
　　He　was　carrying　the　McDonald's　bag　that　contained　the　wrappers　of　two　cheeseburgers；　an　empty　soft　drink　container；　and　the　Kleenex　with　which　he　had　scrubbed　the　blood　off　his　hand。　Evidence。　He　tossed　the　bag　into　the　bonfire；　and　he　watched　the　cultists　as　they　watched　the　bag　burst　into　flame；　blacken；　and　vanish。
　　When　he　walked　away；　he　wondered　briefly　what　they　believed　the　purpose　of　life　to　be。　His　fantasy　was　that　in　the　mad　spiral　and　plummet　of　modern　life；　these　blue…robed　faithful　had　learned　a　truth　and　achieved　an　enlightened　state　that　gave　meaning　to　existence。　He　didn't　ask　them；　for　fear　their　answer　would　be　nothing　other　than　one　more　version　of　the　same　sad　longing　and　wishful　thinking　on　which　so　many　others　based　their　hope。
　　A　hundred　yards　up　the　beach　from　the　bonfires；　where　the　night　ruled；　he　hunkered　down　at　the　purling　edge　of　the　surf　and　washed　his　hands　in　the　inch…deep　salty　water。　He　picked　up　wet　sand　and　scrubbed　with　it；　scouring　any　lingering　traces　of　blood　from　the　creases　in　his　knuckles　and　from　under　his　fingernails。
　　After　a　final　rinse　of　his　hands；　without　bothering　to　take　off　his　socks　and　Nikes　or　to　roll　up　his　jeans；　he　walked　into　the　sea。　He　moved　into　the　black　tide　and　stopped　after　he　passed　the　break　line　of　the　quiet　surf；　where　the　water　was　above　his　knees。
　　The　gentle　waves　wore　only　thin　frayed　collars　of　phosphorescent　foam。　Curiously；　though　the　night　was　clear　and　pierced　by　a　moon；　within　a　hundred　yards　the　sea　rolled　naked；　black；　invisible。
　　Denied　the　pacifying　vista　that　had　drawn　him　to　the　shore；　Joe　found　some　solace　in　the　surging　tide　that　pressed　against　his　legs　and　in　the　low；　dumb　grumble　of　the　great　watery　machine。　Eternal　rhythms；　meaningless　motions；　the　peace　of　indifference。
　　He　tried　not　to　think　about　what　had　happened　at　the　Delmann　house。　Those　events　were　inprehensible。　Thinking　about　them　would　not　lead　to　understanding。
　　He　was　dismayed　to　feel　no　grief　and　so　little　anguish　about　the　Delmanns'　and　Lisa's　deaths。　At　meetings　of　The　passionate　Friends；　he　had　learned　that　following　the　loss　of　a　child；　parents　often　reported　a　disturbing　inability　to　care　about　the　suffering　of　others。　Watching　television　news　of　freeway　wrecks；　apartment…building　fires；　and　heinous　murders；　one　sat　numb　and　unaffected。　Music　that　had　once　stirred　the　heart；　art　that　had　once　touched　the　soul；　now　had　no　effect。　Some　people　overcame　this　loss　of　sensitivity　in　a　year　or　two；　others　in　five　years　or　ten；　but　others…never。
　　The　Delmanns　had　seemed　like　fine　people；　but　he　had　never　really　known　them。
　　Lisa　was　a　friend。　Now　she　was　dead。　So　what？　Everyone　died　sooner　or　later。　Your　children。　The　woman　who　was　the　love　of　your　life。　Everyone。
　　The　hardness　of　his　heart　frightened　him。　He　felt　loathsome。　But　he　could　not　force　himself　to　feel　the　pain　of　others。　Only　his　own。
　　From　the　sea　he　sought　the　indifference　to　his　losses　that　he　already　felt　to　the　losses　of　others。
　　Yet　he　wondered　what　manner　of　beast　he　would　bee　if　even　the　deaths　of　Michelle　and　Chrissie　and　Nina　no　longer　mattered　to　him。　For　the　first　time；　he　considered　that　utter　indifference　might　inspire　not　inner　peace　but　a　limitless　capacity　for　evil。
　　
　　The　busy　service　station　and　the　adjacent　twenty…four…hour　convenience　store　were　three　blocks　from　his　motel。　Two　public　telephones　were　outside；　near　the　restrooms。
　　A　few　fat　moths；　white　as　snowflakes；　circled　under　the　cone…shaped　downlights　that　were　mounted　along　the　building　eaves。　Vastly　enlarged　and　distorted　shadows　of　their　wings　swooped　across　the　white　stucco　wall。
　　Joe　had　never　bothered　to　cancel　his　phone…pany　credit　card。　With　it；　he　placed　several　long…distance　calls　that　he　dared　not　make　from　his　motel　room　if　he　hoped　to　remain　safe　there。
　　He　wanted　to　speak　to　Barbara　Christman；　the　IIC　…　Investigator　in　Charge　…　of　the　probe　of　Flight　353。　It　was　eleven　o'clock　here　on　the　West　Coast　and　two　o'clock　Sunday　morning　in　Washington；　D。C。　She　would　not　be　in　her　office；　of　course；　and　although　Joe　might　be　able　to　reach　a　duty　officer　at　the　National　Transportation　Safety　Board　even　at　this　hour；　he　would　never　be　given　Christman's　home　number。
　　Nevertheless；　he　got　the　NTSB's　main　number　from　information　and　placed　the　call。　The　Board's　new　automated　phone　system　gave　him　extensive　options；　including　the　opportunity　to　leave　voice　mail　for　any　Board　member；　senior　crash　investigator；　or　executive…level　civil　servant。　Supposedly；　if　he　entered　the　first　initial　and　first　four　letters　of　the　surname　of　the　party　for　whom　he　wished　to　leave　a　message；　he　would　be　connected。　Though　he　carefully　entered　B…C…H…R…I；　he　was　routed　not　to　voice　mail　but　to　a　recording　that　informed　him　no　such　extension　existed。　He　tried　again　with　the　same　result。
　　Either　Barbara　Christman　was　no　longer　an　employee　or　the　voice…mail　system　wasn't　functioning　properly。
　　Although　the　IIC　at　any　crash　scene　was　a　senior　investigator　operating　out　of　the　NTSB　headquarters　in　Washington；　other　members　of　a　Go…Team　could　be　culled　from　specialists　in　field　offices　all　over　the　country：　Anchorage；　Atlanta；　Chicago；　Denver；　Fort　Worth；　Los　Angeles；　Miami；　Kansas　City；　New　York　City；　and　Seattle。　From　the　puter　at　the　Post；　Joe　had　obtained　a　list　of　most　if　not　all　of　the　team　members；　but　he　didn't　know　where　any　of　them　was　based。
　　Because　the　crash　site　was　a　little　more　than　a　hundred　miles　south　of　Denver；　he　assumed　at　least　a　few　of　the　team　had　been　drawn　from　that　office。　Using　his　list　of　eleven　names；　he　sought　phone　numbers　from　directory　assistance　in　Denver。
　　He　obtained　three　listings。　The　other　eight　people　were　either　unlisted　or　not　Denver…area　residents。
　　The　ceaseless　swelling　and　shrinking　and　swelling　again　of　moth　shadows　across　the　stucco　wall　of　the　service　station　teased　at　Joe's　memory。　They　reminded　him　of　something；　and　increasingly　he　sensed　that　the　recollection　was　as　important　as　it　was　elusive。　For　a　moment　he　stared　intently　at　the　swooping　shadows；　which　were　as　amorphous　as　the　molten　forms　in　a　Lava　Lamp；　but　he　could　not　make　the　connection。
　　Though　it　was　past　midnight　in　Denver；　Joe　called　all　three　men　whose　numbers　he'd　obtained。　The　first　was　the　Go…Team　meteorologist　in　charge　of　considering　weather　factors　pertinent　to　the　crash。　His　phone　was　picked　up　by　an　answering　machine；　and　Joe　didn't　leave　a　message。　The　second　was　the　man　who　had　overseen　the　team　division　responsible　for　sifting　the　wreckage　for　metallurgical　evidence。　He　was　surly；　possibly　awakened　by　the　phone；　and　uncooperative。　The　third　man　provided　the　link　to　Barbara　Christman　that　Joe　needed。
　　His　name　was　Mario　Oliveri。　He　had　headed　the　human…performance　division　of　the　team；　searching　for　errors　possibly　mitted　by　the　flight　crew　or　air…traffic　controllers。
　　In　spite　of　the　hour　and　the　intrusion　on　his　privacy；　Oliveri　was　cordial；　claiming　to　be　a　night　owl　who　never　went　to　bed　before　one　o'clock。　'But；　Mr。　Carpenter；　I'm　sure　you'll　understand　that　I　do　not　speak　to　reporters　about　Board　business；　the　details　of　any　investigation。　It's　public　record　anyway。'
　　'That's　not　why　I've　called；　Mr。　Oliveri。　I'm　having　trouble　reaching　one　of　your　senior　investigators；　whom　I　need　to　talk　with　urgently；　and　I'm　hoping　you　can　put　me　in　touch。　Something's　wrong　with　her　voice　mail　at　your　Washington　offices。'
　　'Her　voice　mail？　We　have　no　current　senior　investigators　who　are　women。　All　six　are　men。'
　　'Barbara　Christman。'
　　Oliveri　said；　'That　had　to　be　who　it　was。　But　she　took　early　retirement　months　ago。'
　　'Do　you　have　a　phone　number　for　her？'
　　Oliveri　hesitated。　Then：　'I'm　afraid　I　don't。'
　　'Maybe　you　know　if　she　resides　in　D。C。　itself　or　which　suburb。　If　I　knew　where　she　lived；　I　might　be　able　to　get　a　phone…'
　　'I　heard　she　came　home　to　Colorado；'　Oliveri　said。　'She　started　out　in　the　Denver　field　office　a　lot　of　years　ago；　was　transferred　out　to　Washington；　and　worked　her　way　up　to　senior　investigator。'
　　'So　she's　in　Denver　now？'
　　Again　Oliveri　was　silent；　as　if　the　very　subject　of　Barbara　Christman　troubled　him。　At　last　he　said；　'I　believe　her　actual　home　was　Colorado　Springs。　That's　about　seventy　miles　south　of　Denver。'
　　And　it　was　less　than　forty　miles　from　the　meadow　where　the　doomed　747　had　e　to　a　thunderous　end。
　　'She's　in　Colorado　Springs　now？'　Joe　asked。
　　'I　don't　know。'
　　'If　she's　married；　the　phone　might　be　in　a　husband's　name。'
　　'She's　been　divorced　for　many　years。　Mr。　Carpenter　。　。　。　I　am　wondering　if。　After　long　seconds　during　which　Oliveri　failed　to　plete　his　thought；　Joe　gently　prodded：　'Sir？'
　　'Is　this　related　to　Nationwide　Flight　353？'
　　'Yes；　sir。　A　year　ago　tonight。'
　　Oliveri　fell　into　silence　once　more。
　　Finally　Joe　said；　'Is　there　something　about　what　happened　to　Flight　353。。。　something　unusual？'
　　'The　investigation　is　public　record；　as　I　said。'
　　'That's　not　what　I　asked。'
　　The　open　line　was　filled　with　a　silence　so　deep　that　Joe　could　half　believe　that　he　was　connected　not　to　Denver　but　to　the　far　side　of　the　moon。
　　'Mr。　Oliveri？'
　　'I　don't　really　have　anything　to　tell　you；　Mr。　Carpenter。　But　if　I　thought　of　something　later。。。　is　there　a　number　where　I　could　reach　you？'
　　Rather　than　explain　his　current　circumstances；　Joe　said；　'Sir；　if　you're　an　honest　man；　then　you　might　be　endangering　yourself　by　calling　me。　There　are　some　damned　nasty　people　who　would　suddenly　be　interested　in　you　if　they　knew　we　were　in　touch。'
　　'What　people？'
　　Ignoring　the　question；　Joe　said；　'If　something's　on　your　mind　…or　On　your　conscience…take　time　to　think　about　it。　I'll　get　back　to　you　in　a　day　or　two。'
　　Joe　hung　up。
　　Moths　swooped。　Swooped。　Batted　against　the　floodlamps　above。　Clichés　on　the　wing：　moths　to　the　flame。
　　The　memory　continued　to　elude　Joe。
　　He　called　directory　assistance　in　Colorado　Springs。　The　operator　provided　him　with　a　number　for　Barbara　Christman。
　　She　answered　on　the　second　ring。　She　did　not　sound　as　though　she　had　been　awakened。
　　Perhaps　some　of　these　investigators；　who　had　walked　through　the　unspeakable　carnage　of　major　air　disasters；　did　not　always　find　their　wa