dk.solesurvivor-第8部分

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rwhelmed　by　a　feeling　that　he　had　stretched　his　luck　too　far；　he　could　almost　hear　a　ticking　like　a　time…bomb　clock。　Pulling　away　from　the　curb；　he　tried　to　hang　a　U…turn　but　couldn't　quite　manage　it　in　one　clean　sweep。
　　He　shifted　into　reverse　and　tramped　on　the　accelerator　hard　enough　to　make　the　tyres　squeal　against　the　hot　pavement。　The　　Honda　shot　backward。　He　braked　and　shifted　into　drive　again。
　　Tick；　tick；　tick。
　　Instinct　proved　reliable。　Just　as　he　accelerated　toward　the　approaching　groundskeeper's　truck；　the　rear　window　on　the　driver's　side　of　the　car；　immediately　behind　his　head；　exploded；　spraying　glass　across　the　backseat。
　　He　didn't　have　to　hear　the　shot　to　know　what　had　happened。
　　Glancing　to　the　left；　he　saw　the　man　in　the　red　Hawaiian　shirt；　stopped　halfway　down　the　hillside；　in　a　shooter's　stance。　The　guy　was　as　pale　as　a　risen　corpse　but　dressed　for　a　Margarita　party。
　　Someone　shouted　hoarse；　slurred　curses。　Blick。　Crawling　away　from　the　van　on　his　hands　and　knees；　dazedly　shaking　his　blocky　head；　like　a　pit　bull　wounded　in　a　dog　fight；　spraying　bloody　foam　from　his　mouth：　Blick。
　　Another　round　slammed　into　the　body　of　the　car　with　a　hard　thud　followed　by　a　brief　trailing　twang。
　　With　a　rush　of　hot　gibbering　wind　at　the　open　and　the　shattered　windows；　the　Honda　spirited　Joe　out　of　range。　He　rocketed　past　the　groundskeeper's　truck　at　such　high　speed　that　it　swerved　to　avoid　him；　though　he　was　not　in　the　least　danger　of　colliding　with　it。
　　Past　one　burial　service　where　black…garbed　mourners　drifted　like　forlorn　spirits　away　from　the　open　grave；　past　another　burial　service　where　the　grieving　huddled　on　chairs　as　if　prepared　to　stay　forever　with　whomever　they　had　lost；　past　an　Asian　family　putting　a　plate　of　fruit　and　cake　on　a　fresh　grave；　Joe　fled。　He　passed　an　unusual　white　church…a　steeple　atop　a　Palladian…arch　cupola　on　columns　atop　a　clock　tower…which　cast　a　stunted　shadow　in　the　early　afternoon　sun。　Past　a　white　Southern　Colonial　mortuary　that　blazed　like　alabaster　in　the　California　aridity　but　begged　for　bayous。　He　drove　recklessly；　with　the　expectation　of　relentless　pursuit；　which　didn't　occur。　He　was　also　certain　that　his　way　would　be　blocked　by　the　sudden　arrival　of　swarms　of　police　cars；　but　they　still　were　not　in　sight　when　he　raced　between　the　open　gates　and　out　of　the　memorial　park。
　　
　　　
　　He　drove　under　the　Ventura　Freeway；　escaping　into　the　suburban　hive　of　San　Fernando　Valley。
　　At　a　stoplight；　quaking　with　tension；　he　watched　a　procession　of　a　dozen　street　rods　pass　through　the　intersection；　driven　by　the　members　of　a　car　club　on　a　Saturday　outing：　an　era…perfect　'41　Buick　Roadmaster；　a　'47　Ford　Sportsman　Woodie　with　honey…maple　panelling　and　black…cherry　maroon　paint；　a　'32　Ford　Roadster　in　Art　Deco　style　with　full　road　pants　and　chrome　speedlines。　Each　of　the　twelve　was　a　testament　to　the　car　as　art：　chopped；　channelled；　sectioned；　grafted；　some　on　dropped　spindles；　with　custom　grilles；　reconfigured　hoods；　frenched　headlights；　raised　and　flared　wheel　wells；　handformed　fender　skirts。　Painted；　pinstriped；　polished　passion　rolling　on　rubber。
　　Watching　the　street　rods；　he　felt　a　curious　sensation　in　his　chest；　a　loosening；　a　stretching；　both　painful　and　exhilarating。
　　A　block　later　he　passed　a　park　where；　in　spite　of　the　heat；　a　young　family…with　three　laughing　children…was　playing　Frisbee　with　an　exuberant　golden　retriever。
　　Heart　pounding；　Joe　slowed　the　Honda。　He　almost　pulled　to　the　curb　to　watch。
　　At　a　corner；　two　lovely　blond　college　girls；　apparently　twins；　in　white　shorts　and　crisp　white　blouses；　waited　to　cross　the　street；　holding　hands；　as　cool　as　spring　water　in　the　furnace　heat。　Mirage　girls。　Ethereal　in　the　smog…stained　concrete　landscape。　As　clean　and　smooth　and　radiant　as　angels。
　　Past　the　girls　was　a　massive　display　of　zauschneria　alongside　a　Spanish…style　apartment　building；　laden　with　gorgeous　clusters　of　tubular　scarlet　flowers。　Michelle　had　loved　zauschneria。　She　had　planted　it　in　the　backyard　of　their　Studio　City　house。
　　The　day　had　changed。　Indefinably　but　unquestionably　changed。
　　No。　No；　not　the　day；　not　the　city。　Joe　himself　had　changed；　was　changing；　felt　change　rolling　through　him；　as　irresistible　as　an　ocean　tide。
　　His　grief　was　as　great　as　it　had　been　in　the　awful　loneliness　of　the　night；　his　despair　as　deep　as　he　had　ever　known　it；　but　though　he　had　begun　the　day　sunk　in　melancholy；　yearning　for　death；　he　now　wanted　desperately　to　live。　He　needed　to　live。
　　The　engine　that　drove　this　change　wasn't　his　close　brush　with　death。　Being　shot　at　and　nearly　hit　had　not　opened　his　eyes　to　the　wonder　and　beauty　of　life。　Nothing　as　simple　as　that。
　　Anger　was　the　engine　of　change　for　him。　He　was　bitterly　angry　not　so　much　for　what　he　had　lost　but　angry　for　Michelle's　sake；　angry　that　Michelle　had　not　been　able　to　see　the　parade　of　street　rods　with　him；　or　the　masses　of　red　flowers　on　the　zauschneria；　or　now；　here；　this　colourful　riot　of　purple　and　red　bougainvillea　cascading　across　the　roof　of　a　Craftsman…style　bungalow。　He　was　furiously；　wrenchingly　angry　that　Chrissie　and　Nina　would　never　play　Frisbee　with　a　dog　of　their　own；　would　never　grow　up　to　grace　the　world　with　their　beauty；　would　never　know　the　thrill　of　acplishment　in　whatever　careers　they　might　have　chosen　or　the　joy　of　a　good　marriage…or　the　love　of　their　own　children。　Rage　changed　Joe；　gnashed　at　him；　bit　deep　enough　to　wake　him　from　his　long　trance　of　self…pity　and　despair。
　　How　are　you　coping？　asked　the　woman　photographing　the　graves。
　　I'm　not　ready　to　talk　to　you　yet；　she　said。
　　Soon。　I'll　be　back　soon。　When　it's　time；　she　promised；　as　though　she　had　revelations　to　make；　truths　to　reveal。
　　The　men　in　Hawaiian　shirts。　The　puter…nerd　thug　in　the　Quake　T…shirt。　The　redhead　and　the　brunette　in　the　thong　bikinis。　Teams　of　operatives　keeping　Joe　under　surveillance；　evidently　waiting　for　the　woman　to　contact　him。　A　van　packed　solid　with　satellite…assisted　tracking　gear；　directional　microphones；　puters；　high…resolution　cameras。　Gunmen　willing　to　shoot　him　in　cold　blood　because。
　　Why？
　　Because　they　thought　the　black　woman　at　the　graves　had　told　him　something　he　wasn't　supposed　to　know？　Because　even　being　aware　of　her　existence　made　him　dangerous　to　them？　Because　they　thought　he　might　have　e　out　of　their　van　with　enough　information　to　learn　their　identities　and　intentions？
　　Of　course　he　knew　almost　nothing　about　them；　not　who　they　were　or　what　they　wanted　with　the　woman。　Nevertheless；　he　could　reach　one　inescapable　conclusion：　What　he　thought　he　knew　about　the　deaths　of　his　wife　and　daughters　was　either　wrong　or　inplete。　Something　wasn't　kosher　about　the　story　of　Nationwide　Flight　353。
　　He　didn't　even　need　journalistic　instinct　to　arrive　at　this　chilling　insight。　On　one　level；　he　had　known　it　from　the　moment　that　he　saw　the　woman　at　the　graves。　Watching　her　snap　photographs　of　the　plot　markers；　meeting　her　pelling　eyes；　hearing　the　passion　in　her　soft　voice；　racked　by　the　mystery　of　her　words…I'm　not　ready　to　talk　to　you　yet…he　had　known；　by　virtue　of　sheer　mon　sense；　that　something　was　rotten。
　　Now；　driving　through　placid　Burbank；　he　seethed　with　a　sense　of　injustice；　treachery。　There　was　a　hateful　wrongness　with　the　world　beyond　the　mere　mechanical　cruelty　of　it。　Deception。　Deceit。　Lies。　Conspiracy。
　　He　had　argued　with　himself　that　being　angry　with　Creation　was　pointless；　that　only　resignation　and　indifference　offered　him　relief　from　his　anguish。　And　he　had　been　right。　Raging　at　the　imagined　occupant　of　some　celestial　throne　was　wasted　effort；　as　ineffective　as　throwing　stones　to　extinguish　the　light　of　a　star。
　　People；　however；　were　a　worthy　target　of　his　rage。　The　people　who　had　concealed　or　distorted　the　exact　circumstances　of　the　crash　of　Flight　353。
　　Michelle；　Chrissie；　and　Nina　could　never　be　brought　back。　Joe's　life　could　never　be　made　whole　again。　The　wounds　in　his　heart　could　not　be　healed。　Whatever　hidden　truth　waited　to　be　uncovered；　learning　it　would　not　give　him　a　future。　His　life　was　over；　and　nothing　could　ever　change　that；　nothing；　but　he　had　a　right　to　know　precisely　how　and　exactly　why　Michelle　and　Chrissie　and　Nina　had　died。　He　had　a　sacred　obligation　to　them　to　learn　what　had　really　happened　to　that　doomed　747。
　　His　bitterness　was　a　fulcrum　and　his　rage　was　a　long　lever　with　which　he　would　move　the　world；　the　whole　damn　world；　to　learn　the　truth；　no　matter　what　damage　he　caused　or　whom　he　destroyed　in　the　process。
　　On　a　tree…lined　residential　street；　he　pulled　to　the　curb。　He　switched　off　the　engine　and　got　out　of　the　car。　He　might　not　have　much　time　before　Blick　and　the　others　caught　up　with　him。
　　The　queen　palms　hung　dead…limp　and　whisperless　in　the　heat；　which　currently　seemed　to　be　as　effective　an　embalming　medium　as　a　block　of　fly…trapping　amber。
　　Joe　looked　under　the　hood　first；　but　the　transponder　wasn't　there。　He　squatted　in　front　of　the　car　and　felt　along　the　underside　of　the　bumper。　Nothing。
　　The　clatter　of　a　helicopter　swelled　in　the　distance；　rapidly　growing　louder。
　　Groping　blindly　inside　the　front　wheel　well　on　the　passenger　side　and　then　along　the　rocker　panel；　Joe　found　only　road　dirt　and　grease。　Nothing　was　concealed　inside　the　rear　wheel　well；　either。
　　The　chopper　shot　out　of　the　north；　passing　directly　overhead　at　extremely　low　altitude；　no　more　than　fifty　feet　above　the　houses。　The　long　graceful　fronds　of　the　queen　palms　shook　and　whipped　in　the　downdraft。
　　Joe　looked　up；　alarmed；　wondering　if　the　crew　of　the　chopper　was　looking　for　him；　but　his　fear　was　pure　paranoia　and　unjustified。　Southbound；　the　aircraft　roared　away　across　the　neighbourhood　without　a　pause。
　　He　hadn't　seen　any　police　seal；　no　lettering　or　insignia。
　　The　palms　shuddered；　shivered；　then　trembled　into　stillness　once　more。
　　Groping　again；　Joe　found　the　transponder　expansion…clamped　to　the　energy　absorber　behind　the　Honda's　rear　bumper。　With　batteries；　the　entire　package　was　the　size　of　a　pack　of　cigarettes。　The　signal　that　it　sent　was　inaudible。
　　It　looked　harmless。
　　He　placed　the　device　on　the　pavement；　intending　to　hammer　it　to　pieces　with　his　tyre　iron。　When　a　gardener's　truck　approached　along　the　street；　hauling　a　fragrant　load　of　shrub　prunings　and　burlap…bundled　grass；　he　decided　to　toss　the　still…functioning　transponder　among　the　clippings。
　　
　　Maybe　the　bastards　would　waste　some　time　and　manpower　following　the　truck　to　the　dump。
　　In　the　car　again；　on　the　move；　he　spotted　the　helicopter　a　few　miles　to　the　south。　It　was　flying　in　tight　circles。　Then　hovering。　Then　flying　in　circles　again。
　　His　fear　of　it　had　not　been　groundless。　The　craft　was　either　over　the　cemetery　or；　more　likely；　above　the　desert　scrub　north　of　the　Griffith　Observatory；　searching　for　the　fugitive　woman。
　　Their　resources　were　impressive。
　　
　　　
　　　TWO
　　　SEARCHING　BEHAVIOR
　　
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　　The　Los　Angeles　Times　booked　more　advertising　than　any　newspaper　in　the　United　States；　churning　out　fortunes　for　its　owners　even　in　an　age　when　most　print　media　were　in　decline。　It　was　quartered　downtown；　in　an　entire　high…rise；　which　it　owned　and　which　covered