dk.solesurvivor-第7部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


　　Cops　didn't　try　to　shoot　unarmed　fugitives　in　the　back。　Not　righteous　cops。
　　Joe　wanted　to　help　her。　He　couldn't　think　of　anything　to　do。　If　they　were　cops；　he　had　no　right　to　second…guess　them。　If　they　weren't　cops；　and　even　if　he　could　catch　up　with　them；　they　would　probably　shoot　him　down　rather　than　let　him　interfere。
　　Crack。
　　The　woman　reached　the　crest。
　　'Go；'　Joe　urged　her　in　a　hoarse　whisper。　'Go。'
　　He　didn't　have　a　cellular　phone　in　his　own　car；　so　he　couldn't　call　911。　He　had　carried　a　mobile　unit　as　a　reporter；　but　these　days　he　seldom　called　anyone　even　from　his　home　phone。
　　The　keening　crack　of　another　shot　pierced　the　leaden　heat。　If　these　men　weren't　police　officers；　they　were　desperate　or　crazy；　or　both；　resorting　to　gunplay　in　such　a　public　place；　even　though　this　part　of　the　cemetery　was　currently　deserted。　The　sound　of　the　shots　would　travel；　drawing　the　attention　of　the　maintenance　personnel　who；　merely　by　closing　the　formidable　iron　gate　at　the　entrance　to　the　park；　could　prevent　the　gunmen　from　driving　out。
　　Apparently　unhit；　the　woman　disappeared　over　the　top　of　the　hill；　into　the　scrub　beyond。
　　Both　of　the　men　in　Hawaiian　shirts　went　after　her。
　　
　　　4
　　Heart　knocking　so　fiercely　that　his　vision　blurred　with　each　hard…driven　surge　of　blood；　Joe　Carpenter　sprinted　to　the　white　van。
　　The　Ford　was　not　a　recreational　vehicle　but　a　panelled　van　of　the　type　monly　used　by　businesses　to　make　small　deliveries。　Neither　the　back　nor　the　side　of　the　vehicle　featured　the　name　or　logo　of　any　enterprise。
　　The　engine　was　running。　Both　front　doors　stood　open。
　　He　ran　to　the　passenger　side；　skidded　in　a　soggy　patch　of　grass　around　a　leaking　sprinkler　head；　and　leaned　into　the　cab；　hoping　to　find　a　cellular　phone。　If　there　was　one；　it　wasn't　in　plain　sight。
　　Maybe　in　the　glove　box。　He　popped　it　open。
　　Someone　in　the　cargo　hold　behind　the　front　seats；　mistaking　Joe　for　one　of　the　men　in　the　Hawaiian　shirts；　said；　'Did　you　get　Rose？'
　　Damn。
　　The　glove　box　contained　a　few　rolls　of　Lifesavers　that　spilled　onto　the　floor…and　a　window　envelope　from　the　Department　of　Motor　Vehicles。
　　By　law；　every　vehicle　in　California　was　required　to　carry　a　valid　registration　and　proof　of　insurance。
　　'Hey；　who　the　hell　are　you？'　the　guy　in　the　cargo　hold　demanded。
　　Clutching　the　envelope；　Joe　turned　away　from　the　van。
　　He　saw　no　point　in　trying　to　run。　This　man　might　be　as　quick　to　shout　people　in　the　back　as　were　the　other　two。
　　With　a　clatter　and　a　skreeeek　of　hinges；　the　single　door　at　the　rear　of　the　vehicle　was　flung　open。
　　Joe　walked　directly　toward　the　sound。　A　sledge…faced　specimen　with　Popeye　forearms；　neck　sufficiently　thick　to　support　a　small　car；　came　around　the　side　of　the　van；　and　Joe　opted　for　the　surprise　of　instant　and　unreasonable　aggression；　driving　one　knee　hard　into　his　crotch。
　　Retching；　wheezing　for　air；　the　guy　started　to　bend　forward；　and
　　
　　Joe　head…butted　him　in　the　face。　He　hit　the　ground　unconscious；　breathing　noisily　through　his　open　mouth　because　his　broken　nose　was　streaming　blood。
　　Although；　as　a　kid；　Joe　had　been　a　fighter　and　something　of　a　troublemaker；　he　had　not　raised　a　fist　against　anyone　since　he　met　and　married　Michelle。　Until　today。　Now；　twice　in　the　past　two　hours；　he　had　resorted　to　violence；　astonishing　himself。
　　More　than　astonished；　he　was　sickened　by　this　primitive　rage。　He　had　never　known　such　wrath　before；　not　even　during　his　troubled　youth；　yet　here　he　was　struggling　to　control　it　again　as　he　had　struggled　in　the　public　lavatory　in　Santa　Monica。　For　the　past　year；　the　fall　of　Flight　353　had　filled　him　with　terrible　despondency　and　grief；　but　he　was　beginning　to　realize　that　those　feelings　were　like　layers　of　oil　atop　another…darker…emotion　that　he　had　been　denying；　what　filled　the　chambers　of　his　heart　to　the　brim　was　anger。
　　If　the　universe　was　a　cold　mechanism；　if　life　was　a　journey　from　one　empty　blackness　to　another；　he　could　not　rant　at　God；　because　to　do　so　was　no　more　effective　than　screaming　for　help　in　the　vacuum　of　deep　space　where　sound　could　not　travel；　or　like　trying　to　draw　breath　underwater。　But　now；　given　any　excuse　to　vent　his　fury　on　people；　he　had　seized　the　opportunity　with　disturbing　enthusiasm。
　　Rubbing　the　top　of　his　head；　which　hurt　from　butting　the　guy　in　the　face；　looking　down　at　the　unconscious　hulk　with　the　bleeding　nose；　Joe　felt　a　satisfaction　that　he　did　not　want　to　feel。　A　wild　glee　simultaneously　thrilled　and　repulsed　him。
　　Dressed　in　a　T…shirt　promoting　the　videogame　Quake；　baggy　black　pants；　and　red　sneakers；　the　fallen　man　appeared　to　be　in　his　late　twenties；　at　least　a　decade　younger　than　his　two　associates。　His　hands　were　massive　enough　to　juggle　cantaloupes；　and　a　single　letter　was　tattooed　on　the　base　phalange　of　each　finger；　thumbs　excluded；　to　spell　out　ANABOLIC；　as　in　anabolic　steroid。
　　This　was　no　stranger　to　violence。
　　Nevertheless；　although　self…defence　justified　a　pre…emptive　strike；　Joe　was　disturbed　by　the　savage　pleasure　he　took　from　such　swift　brutality。
　　The　guy　sure　didn't　look　like　an　officer　of　the　law。　Regardless　of　his　appearance；　he　might　be　a　cop；　in　which　case　assaulting　him　ensured　serious　consequences。
　　To　Joe's　surprise；　even　the　prospect　of　jail　didn't　diminish　his　twisted　satisfaction　in　the　ferocity　with　which　he　had　acted。　He　　felt　half　nauseated；　half　out　of　his　mind…but　more　alive　than　he　had　been　in　a　year。
　　Exhilarated　yet　fearful　of　the　moral　depths　into　which　this　new　empowering　anger　might　take　him；　he　glanced　in　both　directions　along　the　cemetery　road。　There　was　no　oning　traffic。　He　knelt　beside　his　victim。
　　Breath　whistled　wetly　through　the　man's　throat；　and　he　issued　a　soft　childlike　sigh。　His　eyelids　fluttered；　but　he　did　not　regain　consciousness　while　his　pockets　were　searched。
　　Joe　found　nothing　but　a　few　coins；　a　nail　clipper；　a　set　of　house　keys；　and　a　wallet　that　contained　the　standard　ID　and　credit　cards。　The　guy's　name　was　Wallace　Morton　Blick。　He　was　carrying　no　police…agency　badge　or　identification。　Joe　kept　only　the　driver's　license　and　returned　the　wallet　to　the　pocket　from　which　he　had　extracted　it。
　　The　two　gunmen　had　not　reappeared　from　the　rugged　scrub　land　beyond　the　cemetery　hill。　They　had　scrambled　over　the　crest；　after　the　woman；　little　more　than　a　minute　ago；　even　if　she　quickly　slipped　away　from　them；　they　weren't　likely　to　give　up　on　her　and　return　after　only　a　brief　search。
　　Wondering　at　his　boldness；　Joe　quickly　dragged　Wallace　Blick　away　from　the　rear　corner　of　the　white　van。　He　tucked　him　close　to　the　flank　of　the　vehicle；　where　he　was　less　likely　to　be　seen　by　anyone　who　came　along　the　roadway。　He　rolled　him　onto　his　side　so　he　would　not　choke　on　the　blood　that　might　be　draining　from　his　nasal　passages　down　the　back　of　his　throat。
　　Joe　went　to　the　open　rear　door。　He　climbed　into　the　back　of　the　van。　The　low　rumble　of　the　idling　engine　vibrated　in　the　floorboard。
　　The　cramped　cargo　hold　was　lined　on　both　sides　with　electronic　munications；　eavesdropping；　and　tracking　equipment。　A　pair　of　pact　mand　chairs；　bolted　to　the　floor；　could　be　swivelled　to　face　the　arrayed　devices　on　each　side。
　　Squeezing　past　the　first　chair；　Joe　settled　into　the　second；　in　front　of　an　active　puter。　The　interior　of　the　van　was　air…conditioned；　but　the　seat　was　still　warm　because　Blick　had　vacated　it　less　than　a　minute　ago。
　　On　the　puter　screen　was　a　map。　The　streets　had　names　meant　to　evoke　feelings　of　peace　and　tranquillity；　and　Joe　recognized　them　as　the　service　roads　through　the　cemetery。
　　A　small　blinking　light　on　the　map　drew　his　attention。　It　was　green；　stationary；　and　located　approximately　where　the　van　itself　was　parked。
　　A　second　blinking　light；　this　one　red　and　also　stationary；　was　on　the　same　road　but　some　distance　behind　the　van。　He　was　sure　that　it　represented　his　Honda。
　　The　tracking　system　no　doubt　utilized　a　CD…ROM　with　exhaustive　maps　of　Los　Angeles　County　and　environs；　maybe　of　the　entire　state　of　California　or　of　the　country　coast　to　coast。　A　single　pact　disc　had　sufficient　capacity　to　contain　detailed　street　maps　for　all　of　the　contiguous　states　and　Canada。
　　Someone　had　fixed　a　powerful　transponder　to　his　car。　It　emitted　a　microwave　signal　that　could　be　followed　from　quite　a　distance。　The　puter　utilized　surveillance…satellite　uplinks　to　triangulate　the　signal；　then　placed　the　Honda　on　the　map　relative　to　the　position　of　the　van；　so　they　could　track　him　without　maintaining　visual　contact。
　　Leaving　Santa　Monica；　all　the　way　into　the　San　Fernando　Valley；　Joe　had　seen　no　suspicious　vehicle　in　his　rear…view　mirror。　This　van　had　been　able　to　stalk　him　while　streets　away　or　miles　behind；　out　of　sight。
　　As　a　reporter；　he　had　once　gone　on　a　mobile　surveillance　with　federal　agents；　a　group　of　high…spirited　cowboys　from　the　Bureau　of　Alcohol；　Tobacco　and　Firearms；　who　had　used　a　similar　but　less　sophisticated　system　than　this。
　　Acutely　aware　that　the　battered　Blick　or　one　of　the　other　two　men　might　trap　him　here　if　he　delayed　too　long；　Joe　swivelled　in　his　chair；　surveying　the　back　of　the　van　for　some　indication　of　the　agency　involved　in　this　operation。　They　were　tidy。　He　couldn't　spot　a　single　clue。
　　Two　publications　lay　beside　the　puter　station　at　which　Blick　had　been　working：　one　issue　each　of　Wired；　featuring　yet　another　major　article　about　the　visionary　splendiferousness　of　Bill　Gates；　and　a　magazine　aimed　at　former　Special　Forces　officers　who　wished　to　make　horizontal　career　moves　from　military　service　into　jobs　as　paid　mercenaries。　The　latter　was　folded　open　to　an　article　about　belt…Buckle　knives　sharp　enough　to　eviscerate　an　adversary　or　cut　through　bone。　Evidently　this　was　Blick's　reading　matter　during　lulls　in　the　surveillance　operation；　as　when　he　had　been　waiting　for　Joe　to　grow　weary　of　contemplating　the　sea　from　Santa　Monica　Beach。
　　Mr。　Wallace　Blick；　of　the　ANABOLIC　tattoo；　was　a　techno　geek　with　an　edge。
　　
　　When　Joe　climbed　out　of　the　van；　Slick　was　groaning　but　not　yet　conscious。　His　legs　pumped；　a　flurry　of　kicks；　as　if　he　were　a　dog　dreaming　of　chasing　rabbits；　and　his　cool　red　sneakers　tore　divots　from　the　grass。
　　Neither　of　the　men　in　Hawaiian　shirts　had　returned　from　the　desert　scrub　beyond　the　hill。
　　Joe　hadn't　heard　any　more　gunshots；　although　the　terrain　might　have　muffled　them。
　　He　hurried　to　his　car。　The　door　handle　was　bright　with　the　kiss　of　the　sun；　and　he　hissed　with　pain　when　he　touched　it。
　　The　interior　of　the　car　was　so　hot　that　it　seemed　on　the　verge　of　spontaneous　bustion。　He　cranked　down　the　window。
　　As　he　started　the　Honda；　he　glanced　at　the　rear…view　mirror　and　saw　a　flatbed　truck　with　board　sides　approaching　from　farther　east　in　the　cemetery。　It　was　probably　a　groundskeeper's　vehicle；　either　ing　to　investigate　the　gunfire　or　engaged　in　routine　maintenance。
　　Joe　could　have　followed　the　road　to　the　west　end　of　the　memorial　park　and　then　looped　all　the　way　around　to　the　entrance　at　the　east　perimeter；　but　he　was　in　a　hurry　and　wanted　to　go　directly　back　the　way　he　had　e。　Overwhelmed　by　a　feeling　that　he　had　stretched　his　luck　too　far；　he　could　alm