dk.solesurvivor-第17部分

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　rise　from　the　ashes　like　a　drab　phoenix　with　no　hope　except　the　cold　peace　of　indifference。　Now　that　events　forced　him　to　open　himself　to　the　world　again；　he　was　swamped　by　emotion　as　a　novice　surfer　was　overwhelmed　by　each　cresting　wave。
　　In　the　reception　lounge；　as　Joe　entered；　Dewey　Beemis　was　on　the　telephone。　He　was　listening　so　intently　that　his　usually　smooth　dark　face　was　furrowed。　He　murmured；　'Yes；　uh…huh；　uh…huh；　yes。'
　　Heading　toward　the　outer　door；　Joe　waved　good…bye。
　　Dewey　said；　'Joe；　wait；　wait　a　second。'
　　Joe　stopped　and　turned。
　　Though　Dewey　was　listening　to　the　caller　again；　his　eyes　were　on　Joe。
　　To　indicate　that　he　was　in　a　hurry；　Joe　tapped　one　finger　against　his　wristwatch。
　　　Hold　on；'　Dewey　said　into　the　phone；　and　then　to　Joe；　he　said；　a　man　here　calling　about　you。'
　　Joe　shook　his　head　adamantly。
　　'Wants　to　talk　to　you；'　Dewey　said。
　　Joe　started　toward　the　door　again。
　　'Wait；　Joe；　man　says　he's　FBI。'
　　At　the　door；　Joe　hesitated　and　looked　back　at　Dewey。　The　FBI　couldn't　be　associated　with　the　men　in　the　Hawaiian　shirts；　not　with　men　who　shot　at　innocent　people　without　bothering　to　ask　questions；　not　with　men　like　Wallace　Blick。　Could　they？　Wasn't　he　letting　his　fear　run　away　with　him　again；　succumbing　to　paranoia？　He　might　get　answers　and　protection　from　the　FBI。
　　Of　course；　the　man　on　the　phone　could　be　lying。　He　might　not　be　with　the　Bureau。　Possibly　he　was　hoping　to　delay　Joe　until　Blick　and　his　friends…or　others　aligned　with　them…could　get　here。
　　With　a　shake　of　his　head；　Joe　turned　away　from　Dewey。　He　pushed　through　the　door　and　into　the　August　heat。
　　Behind　him；　Dewey　said；　'Joe？'
　　Joe　walked　toward　his　car。　He　resisted　the　urge　to　break　into　a　run。
　　At　the　far　end　of　the　parking　lot；　by　the　open　gate；　the　young　attendant　with　the　shaved　head　and　the　gold　nose　ring　was　watching。　In　this　city　where　sometimes　money　mattered　more　than　fidelity　or　honour　or　merit；　style　mattered　more　than　money；　fashions　came　and　went　even　more　frequently　than　principles　and　convictions；　leaving　only　the　unchanging　signal　colours　of　youth　gangs　as　a　sartorial　tradition。　This　kid's　look；　punk…grungeneopunk…whatever；　was　already　as　dated　as　spats；　making　him　look　less　threatening　than　he　thought　and　more　pathetic　than　he　would　ever　be　able　to　prehend。　Yet　under　these　circumstances；　his　interest　in　Joe　seemed　ominous。
　　Even　at　low　volume；　the　hard　beat　of　rap　music　thumped　through　the　blistering　air。
　　The　interior　of　the　Honda　was　hot　but　not　intolerable。　The　side　window；　shattered　by　a　bullet　at　the　cemetery；　provided　just　enough　ventilation　to　prevent　suffocation。
　　The　attendant　had　probably　noticed　the　broken…out　window　when　Joe　had　driven　in。　Maybe　he'd　been　thinking　about　it。
　　What　does　it　matter　if　he　has　been　thinking？　It's　only　a　broken　Window。
　　He　was　certain　the　engine　wouldn't　start；　but　it　did。
　　As　Joe　backed　out　of　the　parking　slot；　Dewey　Beemis　opened　the　reception…lounge　door　and　stepped　outside　onto　the　small　concrete　stoop　under　the　awning　that　bore　the　logo　of　the　Post。　The　big　man　looked　not　alarmed　but　puzzled。
　　Dewey　wouldn't　try　to　stop　him。　They　were　friends；　after　all；　or　had　once　been　friends；　and　the　man　on　the　phone　was　just　a　voice。
　　Joe　shifted　the　Honda　into　drive。
　　ing　down　the　steps；　Dewey　shouted　something。　He　didn't　sound　alarmed。　He　sounded　confused；　concerned。
　　Ignoring　him　nonetheless；　Joe　drove　toward　the　exit。　Under　the　dirty　Cinzano　umbrella；　the　attendant　rose　from　the　folding　chair。　He　was　only　two　steps　from　the　rolling　gate　that　would　close　off　the　lot。
　　Atop　the　chain…link　fence；　the　coils　of　razor　wire　flared　with　silver　reflections　of　late…afternoon　sunlight。
　　Joe　glanced　at　the　rear…view　mirror。　Back　there；　Dewey　was　standing　with　his　hands　on　his　hips。
　　As　Joe　went　past　the　Cinzano　umbrella；　the　attendant　didn't　even　e　forth　out　of　the　shade。　Watching　with　heavy…lidded　eyes；　as　expressionless　as　an　iguana；　he　wiped　sweat　off　his　brow　with　one　hand；　black　fingernails　glistening。
　　Through　the　open　gate　and　turning　right　into　the　street；　Joe　was　driving　too　fast。　The　tyres　squealed　and　sucked　wetly　at　the　sun…softened　blacktop；　but　he　didn't　slow　down。
　　He　went　west　on　Strathern　Street　and　heard　sirens　by　the　time　that　he　turned　south　on　Lankershim　Boulevard。　Sirens　were　part　of　the　music　of　the　city；　day　and　night；　they　didn't　necessarily　have　anything　to　do　with　him。
　　Nevertheless；　all　the　way　to　the　Ventura　Freeway；　under　it；　and　then　west　on　Moorpark；　he　repeatedly　checked　the　rear…view　mirror　for　pursuing　vehicles；　either　marked　or　unmarked。
　　He　was　not　a　criminal。　He　should　have　felt　safe　going　to　the　authorities　to　report　the　men　in　the　cemetery；　to　tell　them　about　the　message　from　Rose　Marie　Tucker；　and　to　report　his　suspicions　about　Flight　353。
　　On　the　other　hand；　in　spite　of　being　on　the　run　for　her　life；　Rose　apparently　hadn't　sought　protection　from　the　cops；　perhaps　because　there　was　no　protection　to　be　had。　My　life　depends　on　your　discretion。　He　had　been　a　crime　reporter　long　enough　to　have　seen　more　than　a　few　cases　in　which　the　victim　had　been　targeted　not　because　of　anything　he　had　done；　not　because　of　money　or　other　possessions　that　his　assailant　desired；　but　merely　because　of　what　he　had　known。　A　man　with　too　much　knowledge　could　be　more　dangerous　than　a　man　with　a　gun。
　　What　knowledge　Joe　had　about　Flight　353　seemed；　however；　to　be　pathetically　inadequate。　If　he　was　a　target　merely　because　he　knew　that　Rose　Tucker　existed　and　that　she　claimed　to　have　survived　the　crash；　then　the　secrets　she　possessed　must　be　so　explosive　that　the　power　of　them　could　be　measured　only　in　megatonnage。
　　As　he　drove　west　toward　Studio　City；　he　thought　of　the　red　letters　emblazoned　on　the　black　T…shirt　worn　by　the　attendant　at　the　Post　parking　lot：　FEAR　NADA。　That　was　a　philosophy　Joe　could　never　embrace。　He　feared　so　much。
　　More　than　anything；　he　was　tormented　by　the　possibility　that　the　crash　had　not　been　an　accident；　that　Michelle　and　Chrissie　and　Nina　died　not　at　the　whim　of　fate　but　by　the　hand　of　man。　Although　the　National　Transportation　Safety　Board　hadn't　been　able　to　settle　on　a　probable　cause；　hydraulic　control　systems　failure　plicated　by　human　error　was　one　possible　scenario…and　one　with　which　he　had　been　able　to　live　because　it　was　so　impersonal；　as　mechanical　and　cold　as　the　universe　itself。　He　would　find　it　intolerable；　however；　if　they　had　perished　from　a　cowardly　act　of　terrorism　or　because　of　some　more　personal　crime；　their　lives　sacrificed　to　human　greed　or　envy　or　hatred。
　　He　feared　what　such　a　discovery　would　do　to　him。　He　feared　what　he　might　bee；　his　potential　for　savagery；　the　hideous　ease　with　which　he　might　embrace　vengeance　and　call　it　justice。
　　
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　　In　the　current　atmosphere　of　fierce　petitiveness　that　marked　their　industry；　California　bankers　were　keeping　their　offices　open　on　Saturdays；　some　as　late　as　five　o'clock。　Joe　arrived　at　the　Studio　City　branch　of　his　bank　twenty　minutes　before　the　doors　closed。
　　When　he　sold　the　house　here；　he　had　not　bothered　to　switch　his　account　to　a　branch　nearer　his　one…room　apartment　in　Laurel　Canyon。　Convenience　wasn't　a　consideration　when　time　no　longer　mattered。
　　He　went　to　a　window　where　a　woman　named　Heather　was　tending　to　paperwork　as　she　waited　for　last…minute　business。　She　had　worked　at　this　bank　since　Joe　had　first　opened　an　account　a　decade　ago。
　　'I　need　to　make　a　cash　withdrawal；'　he　said；　after　the　requisite　small　talk；　'but　I　don't　have　my　chequebook　with　me。'
　　'That's　no　problem；'　she　assured　him。
　　It　became　a　small　problem；　however；　when　Joe　asked　for　twenty　thousand　dollars　in　hundred…dollar　bills。　Heather　went　to　the　other　end　of　the　bank　and　huddled　in　conversation　with　the　head　teller；　who　then　consulted　the　assistant　manager。　This　was　a　young　man　no　less　handsome　than　the　current　hottest　movie　hero；　perhaps　he　was　one　of　the　legion　of　would…be　stars　who　laboured　in　the　real　world　to　survive　while　waiting　for　the　fantasy　of　fame。　They　glanced　at　Joe　as　if　his　identity　was　now　in　doubt。
　　Taking　in　money；　banks　were　like