dk.solesurvivor-第13部分

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　　'Friends　can　hold　the　ladder　steady；　make　it　easier。'　Touched；　Joe　nodded。
　　'Just　remember；'　Dewey　said。
　　'Thanks。'
　　Dewey　stepped　back；　and　the　doors　closed。　The　elevator　rose；　taking　Joe　with　it。
　　The　third　floor　was　largely　devoted　to　the　newsroom；　which　had　been　subdivided　into　a　maze　of　somewhat　claustrophobic　modular　workstations；　so　that　the　entire　space　could　not　be　seen　at　once。
　　
　　Every　workstation　had　a　puter；　telephone；　ergonomic　chair；　and　other　fundamentals　of　the　trade。
　　This　was　very　similar　to　the　much　larger　newsroom　at　the　Times。　The　only　differences　were　that　the　furniture　and　the　reconfigurable　walls　at　the　Times　were　newer　and　more　stylish　than　those　at　the　Post；　the　environment　there　was　no　doubt　purged　of　the　asbestos　and　formaldehyde　that　lent　the　air　here　its　special　astringent　quality；　and　even　on　a　Saturday　afternoon　the　Times　would　be　busier　per　square　foot　of　floor　space　than　the　Post　was　now。
　　Twice　over　the　years；　Joe　had　been　offered　a　job　at　the　Times；　but　he　had　declined。　Although　the　Gray　Lady；　as　the　petition　was　known　in　some　circles；　was　a　great　newspaper；　it　was　also　the　ad…fat　voice　of　the　status　quo。　He　believed　he'd　be　allowed　and　encouraged　to　do　better　and　more　aggressive　reporting　at　the　Post；　which　was　like　an　asylum　at　times；　but　also　heavy　on　ballsy　attitude　and　gonzo　style；　with　a　reputation　for　never　treating　a　politician's　handout　as　real　news　and　for　assuming　that　every　public　official　was　either　corrupt　or　inpetent；　sex…crazed　or　power　mad。
　　A　few　years　ago；　after　the　Northridge　earthquake；　seismologists　had　discovered　unsuspected　links　between　a　fault　that　ran　under　the　heart　of　L。A。　and　one　that　lay　beneath　a　series　of　munities　in　the　San　Fernando　Valley。　A　joke　swept　the　newsroom　regarding　what　losses　the　city　would　suffer　if　one　temblor　destroyed　the　Times　downtown　and　the　Post　in　Sun　Valley。　Without　the　Post；　according　to　the　joke；　Angelenos　wouldn't　know　which　politicians　and　other　public　servants　were　stealing　them　blind；　accepting　bribes　from　known　drug　dealers；　and　having　sex　with　animals。　The　greater　tragedy；　however；　would　be　the　loss　of　the　six…pound　Sunday　edition　of　the　Times；　without　which　no　one　would　know　what　stores　were　conducting　sales。
　　If　the　Post　was　as　obstinate　and　relentless　as　a　rat　terrier　crazed　by　the　scent　of　rodents…which　it　was…it　was　redeemed；　for　Joe；　by　the　nonpartisan　nature　of　its　fury。　Furthermore；　a　high　percentage　of　its　targets　were　at　least　as　corrupt　as　it　wanted　to　believe　they　were。
　　Also；　Michelle　had　been　a　featured　columnist　and　editorial　writer　for　the　Post。　He　met　her　here；　courted　her　here；　and　enjoyed　their　shared　sense　of　being　part　of　an　underdog　enterprise。　She　had　carried　their　two　babies　in　her　belly　through　so　many　days　of　work　in　this　place。
　　Now；　he　found　this　building　haunted　by　memories　of　her。　In　the　unlikely　event　that　he　could　eventually　regain　emotional　stability　and　con　himself　into　believing　life　had　a　purpose　worth　the　struggle；　the　face　of　that　one　dear　ghost　would　rock　him　every　time　he　saw　it。　He　would　never　be　able　to　work　at　the　Post　again。
　　He　went　directly　to　his　former　workstation　in　the　Metro　section；　grateful　that　no　old　friends　saw　him。　His　place　had　been　assigned　to　Randy　Colway；　a　good　man；　who　wouldn't　feel　invaded　if　he　found　Joe　in　his　chair。
　　Tacked　to　the　noteboard　were　photographs　of　Randy's　wife；　their　nine…year…old　son；　Ben；　and　six…year…old　Lisbeth。　Joe　looked　at　them　for　a　long　moment…and　then　not　again。
　　After　switching　on　the　puter；　he　reached　into　his　pocket　and　withdrew　the　Department　of　Motor　Vehicles　envelope　that　he'd　filched　from　the　glove　box　of　the　white　van　at　the　cemetery。　It　contained　the　validated　registration　card。　To　his　surprise；　the　registered　owner　wasn't　a　government　body　or　a　law…enforcement　agency；　it　was　something　called　Medsped；　Inc。
　　He　had　not　been　expecting　a　corporate　operation；　for　God's　sake。　Wallace　Blick　and　his　trigger…happy　associates　in　the　Hawaiian　shirts　didn't　seem　entirely　like　cops　or　federal　agents；　but　they　smelled　a　lot　more　like　the　law　than　they　did　like　any　corporate　executives　Joe　had　ever　encountered。
　　Next　he　accessed　the　Post's　vast　file　of　digitized　back　issues。　Included　was　every　word　of　every　edition　the　newspaper　had　published　since　its　inception…minus　only　the　cartoons；　horoscopes；　crossword　puzzles；　and　the　like。　Photographs　were　included。
　　He　initiated　a　search　for　Medsped　and　found　six　mentions。　They　were　small　items　from　the　business　pages。　He　read　them　plete。
　　Medsped；　a　New　Jersey　corporation；　had　begun　as　an　air　ambulance　service　in　several　major　cities。　Later　it　had　expanded　to　specialize　in　the　nationwide　express　delivery　of　emergency　medical　supplies；　refrigerated　or　otherwise　delicately　preserved　blood　and　tissue　samples；　as　well　as　expensive　and　frangible　scientific　instruments。　The　pany　even　undertook　to　carry　samples　of　highly　contagious　bacteria　and　viruses　between　cooperating　research　laboratories　in　both　the　public　and　military　sectors。　For　these　tasks；　it　maintained　a　modest　fleet　of　aircraft　and　helicopters。
　　Helicopters。
　　And　unmarked　white　vans？
　　Eight　years　ago；　Medsped　had　been　bought　by　Teknologik；　Inc。；　a　Delaware　Corporation　with　a　score　of　wholly　owned　subsidiaries　in　the　medical　and　puter　industry。　Its　puter…related　holdings　were　all　panies　developing　products；　mostly　software；　for　the　medical　and　medical…research　munities。
　　When　Joe　ran　a　search　on　Teknologik；　he　was　rewarded　with　forty…one　stories；　mostly　from　the　business　pages。　The　first　two　articles　were　so　dry；　however；　so　full　of　investment　and　accounting　jargon；　that　the　reward　quickly　began　to　seem　like　punishment。
　　He　ordered　copies　of　the　four　longest　articles　for　review　later。
　　While　those　were　sliding　into　the　printer　tray；　he　asked　for　a　list　of　stories　the　Post　had　published　about　the　crash　of　Nationwide　Flight　353。　A　series　of　headlines；　with　acpanying　dates；　appeared　on　the　screen。
　　Joe　had　to　steel　himself　to　scan　this　story　file。　He　sat　for　a　minute　or　two　with　his　eyes　closed；　breathing　deeply；　trying　to　conjure；　in　his　mind's　eye；　an　image　of　surf　breaking　on　the　beach　at　Santa　Monica。
　　Finally；　with　teeth　clenched　so　tightly　that　his　jaw　muscles　twitched　continuously；　he　called　up　story　after　story；　scanning　the　contents。　He　wanted　the　one　that；　as　a　sidebar；　would　provide　him　with　a　plete　passenger　manifest。
　　He　skipped　quickly　past　photographs　of　the　crash　scene；　which　revealed　debris　chopped　into　such　small　chunks　and　tangled　in　such　surreal　shapes　that　the　baffled　eye　could　not　begin　to　reconstruct　the　aircraft　from　its　ruins。　In　the　bleak　dawn　caught　by　these　pictures；　through　the　gray　drizzle　that　had　begun　to　fall　about　two　hours　after　the　disaster；　National　Transportation　Safety　Board　investigators　in　biologically　secure　bodysuits　with　visored　hoods　prowled　the　blasted　meadow。　Looming　in　the　background　were　scorched　trees；　gnarled　black　limbs　clawing　at　the　low　sky。
　　He　searched　for　and　found　the　name　of　the　NTSB　Go…Team　leader　in　charge　of　the　investigation…Barbara　Christman…and　the　fourteen　specialists　working　under　her。
　　A　couple　of　the　articles　included　photos　of　some　of　the　crew　and　passengers。　Not　all　of　the　three　hundred　and　thirty　souls　aboard　was　pictured。　The　tendency　was　to　focus　on　those　victims　who　were　Southern　Californians　returning　home　rather　than　on　Easterners　who　had　been　ing　to　visit。　Being　part　of　the　Post　family；　Michelle　and　the　girls　were　prominently　featured。
　　Eight　months　ago；　upon　moving　into　the　apartment；　in　reaction　to　a　morbid　and　obsessive　preoccupation　with　family　albums　and　loose　snapshots；　Joe　had　packed　all　the　photos　in　a　large　cardboard　box；　reasoning　that　rubbing　a　wound　retarded　healing。
　　
　　He　had　taped　the　box　shut　and　put　it　at　the　back　of　his　only　closet。
　　Now；　in　the　course　of　his　scanning；　when　their　faces　appeared　on　the　screen；　he　was　unable　to　breathe；　though　he　had　thought　he　would　be　prepared。　Michelle's　publicity　shot；　taken　by　one　of　the　Post's　staff　photographers；　captured　her　beauty　but　not　her　tenderness；　not　her　intelligence；　not　her　cha