dk.solesurvivor-第26部分

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　　To　prevent　harm　from　befalling　Denny　and　his　bride；　Barbara　was　expected　to　accept　the　official　story　about　what　had　happened　to　the　tape　from　the　cockpit…voice　recorder　on　Flight　353…a　story　that　she　had　rejected　in　discussions　with　her　colleagues　and　that　she　had　set　out　to　disprove。　She　was　also　expected　to　forget　what　she　had　heard　on　the　enhanced　version　of　that　tape。
　　If　she　continued　to　seek　the　truth　of　the　situation　or　attempted　to　express　her　concerns　to　either　the　press　or　the　public；　Denny　and　Rebekah　would　disappear。　In　the　deep　basement　of　a　private　redoubt　soundproofed　and　equipped　for　prolonged　and　difficult　interrogations；　the　sensualist　and　his　associates　would　shackle　Denny；　tape　open　his　eyes；　and　force　him　to　watch　while　they　killed　Rebekah　and　the　unborn　child。
　　Then　they　would　surgically　remove　one　of　his　fingers　every　day　for　ten　days…taking　elaborate　measures　to　control　bleeding；　shock；　and　infection。　They　would　keep　him　alive　and　alert；　though　steadily　less　whole。　On　the　eleventh　and　twelfth　days；　they　would　remove　his　ears。
　　They　had　a　full　month　of　imaginative　surgery　planned。
　　Every　day；　as　they　took　another　piece　of　him；　they　would　tell　Denny　that　they　would　release　him　to　his　mother　without　further　harm　if　she　would　only　agree　to　cooperate　with　them　in　a　conspiracy　of　silence　that　was；　after　all；　in　the　national　interest。　Vitally　important　defence　matters　were　involved　here。
　　This　would　not　be　entirely　true。　The　part　about　the　national　interest　was　true；　from　their　point　of　view；　at　least；　even　though　they　could　not；　of　course；　explain　to　Barbara　how　the　knowledge　she　possessed　was　a　threat　to　her　country。　The　part　about　her　being　able　to　earn　Denny's　release　by　cooperation　would　not　be　true；　however；　because　once　she　failed　to　honour　a　pledge　of　silence；　she　would　not　be　given　a　second　chance；　and　her　son　would　be　forever　lost　to　her。
　　They　would　deceive　Denny　solely　to　ensure　that　he　would　spend　the　last　month　of　his　life　desperately　wondering　why　his　mother　had　so　stubbornly　condemned　him　to　such　excruciating　pain　and　horrible　disfigurement。　By　the　end；　half　mad　or　worse；　in　deep　spiritual　misery；　he　would　curse　her　vehemently　and　beg　God　to　let　her　rot　in　Hell。
　　As　he　continued　to　carve　the　tiny　wheel　of　Gouda　and　serve　himself　off　the　dangerous　point　of　the　blade；　the　sensualist　assured　Barbara　that　no　one…not　the　police；　not　the　admittedly　clever　FBI；　not　the　mighty　United　States　Army…could　keep　Denny　and　Rebekah　safe　forever。　He　claimed　to　be　employed　by　an　organization　with　such　bottomless　resources　and　extensive　connections　that　it　was　capable　of　promising　and　subverting　any　institution　or　agency　of　the　federal　or　state　governments。
　　He　asked　her　to　nod　if　she　believed　him。
　　She　did　believe　him。　Implicitly。　Without　reservation。　His　seductive　voice；　which　seemed　to　lick　each　of　his　hideous　threats　to　savour　the　texture　and　astringency　of　it；　was　filled　with　the　quiet　confidence　and　smug　superiority　of　a　megalomaniac　who　carries　the　badge　of　a　secret　authority；　receives　a　fortable　salary　with　numerous　fringe　benefits；　and　knows　that　in　his　old　age　he　will　be　able　to　rely　upon　the　cushion　of　a　generous　civil…service　pension。
　　He　then　asked　her　if　she　intended　to　cooperate。
　　With　guilt　and　humiliation　but　also　with　utter　sincerity；　she　nodded　again。　Yes。　She　would　cooperate。　Yes。
　　Studying　a　pale　oval　of　cheese　like　a　tiny　filleted　fish　on　the　point　of　the　blade；　he　said　that　he　wanted　her　to　be　deeply　impressed　with　his　determination　to　ensure　her　cooperation；　so　impressed　that　she　would　be　in　no　danger　of　forsaking　the　pledge　she　had　just　made　to　him。　Therefore；　on　their　way　out　of　the　hotel；　he　and　his　partner　would　select；　at　random；　an　employee　or　perhaps　a　guest…someone　who　just　happened　to　cross　their　path…and　would　kill　that　person　on　the　spot。　Three　shots：　two　in　the　chest；　one　in　the　head。
　　Stunned；　Barbara　protested　from　behind　the　gag；　contorting　her　face　in　an　effort　to　twist　the　tape　and　free　her　mouth。　But　it　was　pulled　cruelly　tight；　and　her　lips　were　stuck　firmly　to　the　adhesive；　and　the　only　argument　that　she　could　get　out　was　a　pained；　muffled；　wordless　pleading。　She　didn't　want　to　be　responsible　for　anyone's　death。　She　was　going　to　cooperate。　There　was　no　reason　to　impress　her　with　their　seriousness。　No　reason。　She　already　believed　in　their　seriousness。
　　Never　taking　his　great　sad　eyes　from　her；　without　saying　another　word；　he　slowly　finished　his　cheese。
　　His　unwavering　stare　seemed　to　cause　a　power　backflow；　draining　her　of　energy。　Yet　she　could　not　look　away。
　　When　he　had　consumed　the　final　morsel；　he　wiped　the　blade　of　his　knife　on　the　sheets。　Then　he　folded　it　into　the　handle　and　returned　the　weapon　to　his　pocket。
　　Sucking　on　his　teeth　and　rolling　his　tongue　slowly　around　his　mouth；　he　gathered　up　the　shredded　cellophane　and　the　peels　of　red　wax。　He　rose　from　the　bed　and　deposited　the　trash　in　the　waste　basket　beside　the　desk。
　　The　younger　man　stepped　out　of　the　shadowy　corner。　His　thin　but　eager　smile　no　longer　fluttered　uncertainly；　it　was　fixed。
　　From　behind　the　strapping　tape；　Barbara　was　still　attempting　to　protest　the　murder　of　an　innocent　person　when　the　older　man　returned　to　her　and；　with　the　edge　of　his　right　hand；　chopped　hard　at　the　side　of　her　neck。
　　As　a　scintillant　darkness　sprayed　across　her　field　of　vision；　she　started　to　slump　forward。　She　felt　the　chair　tipping　sideways。　She　was　unconscious　before　her　head　hit　the　carpet。
　　For　perhaps　twenty　minutes　she　dreamed　of　severed　fingers　in　preserving　sheaths　of　red　wax。　In　shrimp…pink　faces；　fragile　smiles　broke　like　strings　of　pearls；　the　bright　teeth　bouncing　and　rolling　across　the　floor；　but　in　the　black　crescent　between　the　curved　pink　lips；　new　pearls　formed；　and　a　choirboy　eye　blinked　blue。　There　were　hound…dog　eyes　too；　as　black　and　shiny　as　leeches；　in　which　she　saw　not　her　reflection　but　images　of　Denny's　screaming；　earless　face。
　　When　she　regained　consciousness；　she　was　slumped　in　the　chair；　which　had　been　set　upright　again。　Either　the　sensualist　or　his　pearl…toothed　panion　had　taken　pity　on　her。
　　Her　wrists　were　taped　to　the　arms　of　the　chair　in　such　a　fashion　as　to　allow　her　to　wrench　loose　if　she　applied　herself　diligently。　She　needed　less　than　ten　minutes　to　free　her　right　hand；　much　less　to　slip　the　bonds　on　the　left。
　　She　used　her　own　cuticle　scissors　to　snip　through　the　tape　wound　around　her　head。　When　she　gingerly　pulled　it　off　her　lips；　it　took　far　less　skin　than　she　expected。
　　Liberated　and　able　to　talk；　she　found　herself　at　the　telephone　with　the　receiver　in　her　hand。　But　she　could　think　of　no　one　whom　she　dared　to　call；　and　she　put　the　phone　down。
　　There　was　no　point　in　warning　the　hotel's　night　manager　that　one　of　his　employees　or　guests　was　in　danger。　If　the　gunman　had　kept　his　threat　to　impress　her　with　a　senseless；　random　killing；　he　had　pulled　the　trigger　already。　He　and　his　panion　would　have　left　the　hotel　at　least　half　an　hour　ago。
　　Wincing　at　the　throbbing　pain　in　her　neck；　she　went　to　the　door　that　connected　her　room　with　theirs。　She　opened　it　and　checked　the　inner　lace。　Her　privacy　deadbolt　latch　was　backed　by　a　removable　brass　plate　fixed　in　place　with　screws；　which　allowed　access　to　the　mechanism　of　her　lock　from　the　other　side。　The　other　room's　door　featured　no　such　access　plate。
　　The　shiny　brass　looked　new。　She　was　certain　that　it　had　been　installed　shortly　before　she　checked　into　the　hotel…by　the　gunman　and　his　panion　acting　either　clandestinely　or　with　the　assistance　of　a　hotel　engineer。　A　clerk　at　the　front　desk　was　paid　or　coerced　to　put　her　in　this　room　rather　than　any　other。
　　Barbara　was　not　much　of　a　drinker；　but　she　raided　the　honour　bar　for　a　two…shot　miniature　of　vodka　and　a　cold　bottle　of　orange　juice。　Her　hands　were　shaking　so　badly　she　could　barely　pour　the　ingredients　into　a　glass。　She　drank　the　screwdriver　straight　down；　opened　another　miniature；　mixed　a　second　drink；　took　a　swallow　of　it　…　then　went　into　the　bathroom　and　threw　up。
　　She　felt　unclean。　Withdrawn　less　than　an　hour　away；　she　took　a　long　shower；　scrubbing　herself　so　hard　and　standing　in　water　so　hot　that　her　skin　grew　red　and　stung　unbearably。
　　Although　she　knew　that　it　was　pointless　to　change　hotels；　that　they　could　find　her　again　if　they　wanted　her；　she　couldn't　stay　any　longer　in　this　place。　She　packed　and；　an　hour　after　first　light；　went　down　to　the　front　desk　to　pay　her　bill。
　　The　ornate　lobby　was　full　of　San　Francisco　policemen…uniformed　officers　and　plainclothes　detectives。
　　From　the　wide…eyed　cashier；　Barbara　learned　that　sometime　after　three　o'clock　in　the　morning；　a　young　room…service　waiter　had　been　shot　to　death　in　a　service　corridor　near　the　kitchen。　Twice　in　the　chest　and　once　in　the　head。
　　The　body　had　not　been　discovered　immediately　because；　curiously；　no　one　had　heard　gunfire。
　　Harried　by　fear　that　seemed　to　push　her　forward　like　a　rude　hand　in　the　back；　she　checked　out。　She　took　a　taxi　to　another　hotel。
　　The　day　was　high　and　blue。　The　city's　famous　fog　was　already　pulling　back　across　the　bay　into　a　towering　palisade　beyond　the　Golden　Gate；　of　which　she　had　a　limited　view　from　her　new　room。
　　She　was　an　aeronautical　engineer。　A　pilot。　She　held　a　master's　degree　in　business　administration　from　Columbia　University。　She　had　worked　hard　to　bee　the　only　current　female　IIC　working　air　crashes　for　the　National　Transportation　Safety　Board。　When　her　husband　had　walked　out　on　her　seventeen　years　ago；　she　had　raised　Denny　alone　and　raised　him　well。　Now　all　that　she　had　achieved　seemed　to　have　been　gathered　into　the　hand　of　the　sad…eyed　sensualist；　wadded　with　the　cellophane　and　the　peels　of　red　wax；　and　thrown　into　the　trash　can。
　　After　cancelling　her　appointments　for　the　day；　Barbara　hung　the　Do　Not　Disturb　sign　on　the　door。　She　closed　the　draperies　and　curled　on　the　bed　in　her　new　room。
　　Quaking　fear　became　quaking　grief。　She　wept　uncontrollably　for　the　dead　room…service　waiter　whose　name　she　didn't　know；　for　Denny　and　Rebekah　and　unborn　Felicia　whose　lives　now　seemed　perpetually　suspended　on　a　slender　thread；　for　her　own　loss　of　innocence　and　self…respect；　for　the　three　hundred　and　twenty　people　aboard　Flight　353；　for　justice　thwarted　and　hope　lost。
　　
　　A　sudden　wind　groaned　across　the　meadow；　playing　with　old　dry　aspen　leaves；　like　the　devil　counting　souls　and　casting　them　away。
　　'I　can't　let　you　do　this；'　Joe　said。　'I　can't　let　you　tell　me　what　was　on　the　cockpit　voice　recorder　if　there's　any　chance　it's　going　to　put　your　son　and　his　family　in　the　hands　of　people　like　that。'
　　'It's　not　for　you　to　decide；　Joe。'
　　'The　hell　it's　not。'
　　'When　you　called　from　Los　Angeles；　I　played　dumb　because　I've　got　to　assume　my　phone　is　permanently　tapped；　every　word　recorded。　Actually；　I　don't　think　it　is。　I　don't　think　they　feel　any　need　to　tap　it；　because　they　know　by　now　that　they've　got　me　muzzled。'
　　'If　there's　even　a　chance…'
　　'And　I　know　for　certain　I'm　not　being　watched。　My　house　isn't　under　observation。　I'd　have　picked　up　on　that　long　ago。　When　I　walked　out　on　the　investigation；　took　early　retirement；　sold　the　house　in　Bethes