dk.solesurvivor-第14部分

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ence；　not　her　charm；　not　her　laughter。　A　mere　picture　was　so　inadequate；　but　still　it　was　Michelle。　Still。　Chrissie's　photo　had　been　snapped　at　a　Post　Christmas　party　for　children　of　the　paper's　employees。　She　was　caught　in　a　grin；　eyes　shining。　How　they　shone。　And　little　Nina；　who　sometimes　wanted　it　pronounced　Neen…ah　and　other　times　nine…ah；　was　smiling　that　slightly　lopsided　smile　that　seemed　to　say　she　knew　magical　secrets。
　　Her　smile　reminded　Joe　of　a　silly　song　he　sometimes　sang　to　her　when　he　put　her　to　bed。　Before　he　realized　what　he　was　doing；　he　found　his　breath　again　and　heard　himself　whispering　the　words：　'Nine…ah；　Neen…ah…have　you　seen　her？　Neen…ah；　nine…ah；　no　one　finah。'
　　A　breaking　inside　him　threatened　his　self…control。
　　He　clicked　the　mouse　to　get　their　images　off　the　screen。　But　that　didn't　take　their　faces　out　of　his　mind；　clearer　than　he　had　seen　them　since　packing　their　photos　away。
　　Bending　forward　in　the　chair；　covering　his　face；　shuddering；　he　muffled　his　voice　in　his　cold　hands。　'Oh；　shit。　Oh；　shit。'
　　Surf　breaking　on　a　beach；　now　as　before；　tomorrow　as　today。　Clocks　and　looms。　Sunrises；　sunsets；　phases　of　the　moon。　Machines　clicking；　ticking。　Eternal　rhythms；　meaningless　motions。
　　The　only　sane　response　is　indifference。
　　He　lowered　his　hands　from　his　face。　Sat　up　straight　again。　Tried　to　focus　on　the　puter　screen。
　　He　was　concerned　that　he　would　draw　attention　to　himself。　If　an　old　acquaintance　looked　in　this　three…walled　cubicle　to　see　what　was　wrong；　Joe　might　have　to　explain　what　he　was　doing　here；　might　even　have　to　summon　the　strength　to　be　sociable。
　　　He　found　the　passenger　manifest　for　which　he　had　been　searching。　The　Post　had　saved　him　time　and　effort　by　listing　separately　those　among　the　dead　who　had　lived　in　Southern　California。　He　printed　out　all　their　names；　each　of　which　was　followed　by　the　name　of　the　town　in　which　the　deceased　resided。
　　I'm　not　ready　to　talk　to　you　yet　the　photographer　of　graves　had　said　to　him；　from　which　he　had　inferred　that　she　would　have　things　to　tell　him　later。
　　Don't　despair。　You'll　see；　like　the　others。
　　See　what？　He　had　no　idea。
　　What　could　she　possibly　tell　him　that　would　alleviate　his　despair？　Nothing。　Nothing。
　　like　the　others。　You'll　see；　like　the　others。
　　What　others？
　　Only　one　answer　satisfied　him：　other　people　who　had　lost　loved　ones　on　Flight　353；　who　had　been　as　desolate　as　he　was；　people　to　whom　she　had　already　spoken。
　　He　wasn't　going　to　wait　for　her　to　return　to　him。　With　Wallace　Blick　and　associates　after　her；　she　might　not　live　long　enough　to　pay　him　a　visit　and　quench　his　curiosity。
　　
　　When　Joe　finished　sorting　and　stapling　the　printouts；　he　noticed　the　white　envelope　that　Dewey　Beemis　had　given　him　at　the　elevator　downstairs。　Joe　had　propped　it　against　a　box　of　Kleenex　to　the　right　of　the　puter　and　promptly　forgotten　about　it。
　　As　a　crime　reporter　with　a　frequently　seen　byline；　he　had　from　time　to　time　received　story　tips　from　newspaper　readers　who；　to　put　it　charitably；　were　not　well　glued　together。　They　earnestly　claimed　to　be　the　terrified　victims　of　vicious　harassment　by　a　secret　cult　of　Satanists　operating　in　the　city's　parks　department；　or　to　know　of　sinister　tobacco…industry　executives　who　were　plotting　to　lace　baby　formula　with　nicotine；　or　to　be　living　across　the　street　from　a　nest　of　spiderlike　extraterrestrials　trying　to　pass　as　a　nice　family　of　Korean　immigrants。
　　Once；　when　cornered　by　a　pinwheel…eyed　man　who　insisted　that　the　mayor　of　Los　Angeles　was　not　human　but　a　robot　controlled　by　the　audio　animatronics　department　at　Disneyland；　Joe　had　lowered　his　voice　and　said；　with　nervous　sincerity；　'Yes；　we've　known　about　that　for　years。　But　if　we　print　a　word　of　it；　the　people　at　Disney　will　kill　us　all。'　He　had　spoken　with　such　conviction　that　the　nutball　had　exploded　backward　and　fled。
　　Consequently；　he　was　expecting　a　crayon…scrawled　message　about　evil　psychic　Martians　living　among　us　as　Mormons…or　the　equivalent。
　　He　tore　open　the　envelope。　It　contained　a　single　sheet　of　white　paper　folded　in　thirds。
　　
　　The　three　neatly　typed　sentences　initially　impressed　him　as　a　singularly　cruel　variation　on　the　usual　paranoid　shriek：　I　have　been　trying　to　reach　you；　Joe。　My　life　depends　on　your　discretion。　I　was　aboard　Flight　353。
　　Everyone　aboard　the　airliner　had　perished。　He　didn't　believe　in　ghost　mail　from　the　Other　Side；　which　probably　made　him　unique　among　his　contemporaries　in　this　New…Age　City　of　Angels。
　　At　the　bottom　of　the　page　was　a　name：　Rose　Tucker。　Under　the　name　was　a　phone　number　with　a　Los　Angeles　area　code。　No　address　was　provided。
　　Lightly　flushed　by　the　same　anger　that　had　burned　so　hotly　in　him　earlier；　and　which　could　easily　bee　a　blaze　again；　Joe　almost　snatched　up　the　phone　to　call　Ms。　Tucker。　He　wanted　to　tell　her　what　a　disturbed　and　vicious　piece　of　garbage　she　was；　wallowing　in　her　schizophrenic　fantasies；　psychic　vampire　sucking　on　the　misery　of　others　to　feed　some　sick　need　of　her　own　…And　then　he　heard；　in　memory；　the　words　that　Wallace　Blick　first　said　to　him　in　the　cemetery。　Unaware　that　anyone　was　in　the　white　van；　Joe　had　leaned　through　the　open　passenger　door　and　popped　the　glove　box　in　search　of　a　cellular　phone。　Blick；　briefly　mistaking　him　for　one　of　the　men　in　the　Hawaiian　shirts；　had　said；　Did　you　get　Rose？
　　Rose。
　　Because　Joe　had　been　frightened　by　the　gunmen；　afraid　for　the　woman　they　were　pursuing；　and　startled　to　discover　someone　in　the　van；　the　importance　of　what　Blick　said　had　failed　to　register　with　him。　Everything　happened　so　fast　after　that。　He　had　forgotten　Blick's　words　until　now。
　　Rose　Tucker　must　have　been　the　woman　with　the　Polaroid　camera；　photographing　the　graves。
　　If　she　was　nothing　more　than　a　whacked…out　loser　living　in　some　schizophrenic　fantasy；　Medsped　or　Teknologik…or　whoever　the　hell　they　were…wouldn't　be　throwing　so　much　manpower　and　money　into　a　search　for　her。
　　He　remembered　the　exceptional　presence　of　the　woman　in　the　cemetery。　Her　directness。　Her　self…possession　and　preternatural　calm。　The　power　of　her　unwavering　stare。
　　She　hadn't　seemed　like　a　flake。　Quite　the　opposite。
　　I　have　been　trying　to　reach　you；　Joe。　My　life　depends　on　your　discretion。　I　was　aboard　Flight　353。
　　Without　realizing　that　he　had　gotten　off　the　chair；　Joe　was　standing；　heart　pounding；　electrified。　The　sheet　of　paper　rattled　in　his　hands。
　　
　　He　stepped　into　the　aisle　behind　the　modular　workstation　and　surveyed　what　he　could　see　of　the　subdivided　newsroom；　seeking　someone　with　whom　he　could　share　this　development。
　　Look　here。　Read　this；　read　it。　Something's　terribly　wrong；　Jesus；　all　wrong；　not　what　we　were　told。　Somebody　walked　away　from　the　crash；　lived　through　it。　We　have　to　do　something　about　this；　find　the　truth。　No　survivors；　they　said；　no　survivors；　catastrophic　crash；　total　wipe…out　catastrophic　crash。　What　else　have　they　told　us　that　isn't　true？　How　did　the　people　on　that　plane　really　die？　Why　did　they　die？　Why　did　they　die？
　　Before　anyone　saw　him　standing　there　in　furious　distress；　before　he　went　in　search　of　a　familiar　face；　Joe　had　second　thoughts　about　sharing　anything　he　had　learned。　Rose　Tucker's　note　said　that　her　life　depended　on　his　discretion。
　　Besides；　he　had　the　crazy　notion；　somehow　more　powerfully　convincing　because　of　its　irrationality；　that　if　he　shared　the　note　with　others；　it　would　prove　to　be　blank；　that　if　he　pressed　Blick's　driver's　license　into　their　hands；　it　would　turn　out　to　be　his　own　license；　that　if　he　took　someone　with　him　to　the　cemetery；　there　would　be　no　spent　cartridges　in　the　grass　and　no　skid　marks　from　the　tyres　of　the　white　van　and　no　one　there　who　had　ever　seen　the　vehicle　or　heard　the　gunshots。
　　This　was　a　mystery　delivered　to　him；　to　no　one　else　but　him；　and　he　suddenly　perceived　that　pursuing　answers　was　not　merely　his　duty　but　his　sacred　duty。　In　the　resolution　of　this　mystery　was　his　mission；　his　purpose；　and　perhaps　an　unknowable　redemption。
　　He　didn't　even　understand　precisely　what　he　meant　by　any　of　that。　He　simply　felt　the　truth　of　it　bone…deep。
　　Trembling；　he　returned　to　the　chair。