dk.solesurvivor-第30部分

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　　'I'm　not　trying　to　learn　acceptance；　Ms。　Christman。　I'm　trying　to　find　out　what　really　happened　to　that　airliner。'
　　'It's　not　unusual　for　people　in　your　position　to　take　refuge　in　conspiracy　theories；　Mr。　Carpenter；　because　otherwise　the　loss　seems　so　pointless；　so　random　and　inexplicable。　Some　people　think　we're　covering　up　for　airline　inpetence　or　that　we've　been　bought　off　by　the　Airline　Pilots'　Association　and　that　we've　buried　proof　the　flight　crew　was　drunk　or　on　drugs。　This　was　just　an　accident；　Mr。　Carpenter。　But　if　I　were　to　spend　a　lot　of　time　with　you　on　the　phone；　trying　to　persuade　you　of　that；　I'd　never　convince　you；　and　I'd　be　encouraging　you　in　this　denial　fantasy。　You　have　my　deepest　sympathy；　you　really　do；　but　you　need　to　he　talking　to　a　therapist；　not　to　me。'
　　Before　Joe　could　reply；　Barbara　Christman　hung　up。
　　He　called　her　again。　Although　he　waited　while　the　phone　rang　forty　times；　she　did　not　answer　it。
　　For　the　moment；　he　had　acplished　all　that　was　possible　by　telephone。
　　Halfway　back　to　his　Honda；　he　stopped。　He　turned　and　studied　the　side　of　the　service　station　again；　where　the　exaggerated　and　weirdly　distorted　shadows　of　moths　washed　across　the　white　stucco；　like　nightmare　phantoms　gliding　through　the　pale　mists　of　a　dream。
　　Moths　to　the　flame。　Three　points　of　fire　in　three　oil　lamps。　Tall　glass　chimneys。
　　In　memory；　he　saw　the　three　flames　leap　higher　in　the　chimneys。　Yellow　lamplight　glimmered　across　Lisa's　sombre　face；　and　shadows　swooped　up　the　walls　of　the　Delmanns'　kitchen。
　　At　the　time；　Joe　had　thought　only　that　a　vagrant　draft　had　abruptly　drawn　the　flames　higher　in　the　lamps；　though　the　air　in　the　kitchen　had　been　still。　Now；　in　retrospect；　the　serpentine　fire；　shimmering　several　inches　upward　from　the　three　wicks；　impressed　him　as　possessing　greater　importance　than　he　previously　realized。
　　The　incident　had　significance。
　　He　watched　the　moths　but　pondered　the　oil　wicks；　standing　beside　the　service　station　but　seeing　around　him　the　kitchen　with　its　maple　cabinetry　and　sugar…brown　granite　counters。
　　Enlightenment　did　not　rise　in　him　as　the　flames　had　briefly　risen　in　those　lamps。　Strive　as　he　might；　he　could　not　identify　the　significance　that　he　intuited。
　　He　was　weary；　exhausted；　battered　from　the　trauma　of　the　day。　Until　he　was　rested；　he　could　not　trust　either　his　senses　or　his　hunches。
　　
　　On　his　back　in　the　motel　bed；　head　on　a　foam　pillow；　heart　on　a　rock　of　hard　memory；　Joe　ate　a　chocolate　bar　that　he'd　bought　at　the　service　station。
　　Until　the　final　mouthful；　he　could　discern　no　flavour　whatsoever。　With　the　last　bite；　the　taste　of　blood　flooded　his　mouth；　as　though　he　had　bitten　his　tongue。
　　His　tongue　was　not　cut；　however；　and　what　plagued　him　was　the　familiar　taste　of　guilt。　Another　day　had　ended；　and　he　was　still　alive　and　unable　to　justify　his　survival。
　　
　　Except　for　the　light　of　the　moon　at　the　open　balcony　door　and　the　green　numerals　of　the　digital　alarm　clock；　the　room　was　dark。　He　stared　at　the　ceiling　light　fixture；　which　was　vaguely　visible…and　only　visible　at　all　because　the　convex　disc　of　glass　was　lightly　frosted　with　moonglow。　It　floated　like　a　ghostly　visitant　above　him。
　　He　thought　of　the　luminous　Chardonnay　in　the　three　glasses　on　the　counter　in　the　Delmanns'　kitchen。　No　explanation　there。　Though　Charlie　might　have　tasted　the　wine　before　pouring　it；　Georgine　and　Lisa　had　never　touched　their　glasses。
　　Thoughts　like　agitated　moths　swooped　and　fluttered　through　his　mind；　seeking　light　in　his　darkness。
　　He　wished　that　he　could　talk　with　Beth　in　Virginia。　But　they　might　have　her　phone　tapped　and　trace　his　call　to　find　him。　Besides；　he　was　concerned　that　he　would　be　putting　Beth　and　Henry　in　jeopardy　if　he　told　them　anything　about　what　had　happened　to　him　since　he'd　found　himself　under　surveillance　at　the　beach。
　　Lulled　by　the　maternal　heart　sound　of　the　rhythmic　surf；　weighed　down　by　weariness；　wondering　why　he　had　escaped　the　plague　of　suicide　at　the　Delmanns'　house；　he　slipped　into　sleep　with　nightmares。
　　Later；　he　half　woke　in　darkness；　lying　on　his　side；　facing　the　alarm　clock　on　the　nightstand。　The　glowing　green　numbers　reminded　him　of　those　on　the　clock　in　Charles　Delmann's　bloodied　bedroom：　time　flashing　backward　in　ten…minute　increments。
　　Joe　had　supposed　that　a　stray　shotgun　pellet　must　have　struck　the　clock；　damaging　it。　Now；　in　a　swoon　of　sleep；　he　perceived　that　the　explanation　was　different　from　what　he　had　thought…something　more　mysterious　and　more　significant　than　a　mere　bead　of　lead。
　　The　clock　and　the　oil　lamps。
　　Numbers　flashing；　flames　leaping。
　　Connections。
　　Significance。
　　Dreams　reclaimed　him　briefly；　hut　the　alarm　woke　him　long　before　dawn。　He　had　been　out　less　than　three　and　a　half　hours；　but　after　a　year　of　restless　nights；　he　was　refreshed　even　by　this　much　sleep。
　　Following　a　quick　shower；　as　Joe　dressed；　he　studied　the　digital　clock。　Revelation　eluded　him　now　as　it　had　eluded　him　when　he　Had　been　sotted　with　sleep。
　　
　　Joe　drove　to　LAX　while　the　coast　was　still　waiting　for　dawn。
　　He　purchased　a　same…day；　round…trip　ticket　to　Denver。　The　return　flight　would　bring　him　back　to　Los　Angeles　in　time　to　keep　the　six…o'clock　meeting　with　Demi…she　of　the　sexy…smoky　voice…at　the　coffee　house　in　Westwood。
　　As　he　was　on　his　way　to　the　gate　where　his　plane　was　already　boarding；　he　saw　two　young　men　in　blue　robes　at　the　check…in　desk　for　a　flight　to　Houston。　Their　shaved　heads；　the　gold　rings　in　their　left　ears；　and　their　white　tennis　shoes　identified　them　as　members　of　the　same　cult　as　the　group　that　he　had　encountered　around　the　bonfire　on　the　beach　only　hours　earlier。
　　One　of　these　men　was　black；　the　other　was　white；　and　both　were　carrying　NEC　laptops。　The　black　man　checked　his　wristwatch；　which　appeared　to　be　a　gold　Rolex。　Whatever　their　religious　beliefs　might　be；　they　evidently　didn't　take　vows　of　poverty　or　have　much　in　mon　with　the　Hare　Krishnas。
　　Although　this　was　the　first　time　Joe　had　been　aboard　an　aircraft　since　receiving　the　news　about　Michelle　and　the　girls　a　year　earlier；　he　was　not　nervous　during　the　trip　to　Denver。　Initially　he　worried　that　he　would　have　an　anxiety　attack　and　begin　to　relive　the　plunge　of　Flight　353　as　he　had　so　often　imagined　it；　but　after　just　a　few　minutes；　he　knew　that　he　would　be　all　right。
　　He　wasn't　apprehensive　about　dying　in　another　crash。　Perversely；　if　he　perished　in　the　same　way　that　his　wife　and　daughters　had　been　taken；　he　would　be　calm　and　without　fear　on　the　long　ride　down　into　the　earth；　because　such　a　fate　would　seem　like　a　wele　return　to　balance　in　the　universe；　an　open　circle　closed；　a　wrongness　made　right　at　last。
　　Of　greater　concern　to　him　was　what　he　might　learn　from　Barbara　Christman　at　the　far　end　of　his　journey。
　　He　was　convinced　that　she　didn't　trust　the　privacy　of　telephone　conversations　but　would　talk　with　him　face…to…face。　He　didn't　think　he　had　imagined　the　note　of　disappointment　in　her　voice　when　she　learned　that　he　was　not　calling　her　from　Colorado　Springs。　Likewise；　her　speech　about　the　dangers　of　believing　in　conspiracy　theories　and　the　need　for　grief　therapy；　although　passionate　and　well　stated；　sounded　to　Joe　as　though　it　had　been　intended　less　for　him　than　for　the　ears　of　eavesdroppers。
　　If　Barbara　Christman　was　carrying　a　burden　that　she　longed　to　put　down；　the　solution　to　the　mystery　of　Flight　353　might　be　close　at　hand。
　　Joe　wanted　to　know　the　whole　truth；　needed　to　know；　but　dreaded　knowing。　The　peace　of　indifference　would　forever　be　beyond　his　reach　if　he　learned　that　men；　not　fate；　had　been　responsible　for　taking　his　family　from　him。　The　journey　toward　this　particular　truth　was　not　an　ascension　toward　a　glorious　light　but　a　descent　into　darkness；　chaos；　the　maelstrom。
　　He'd　brought　the　printouts　of　four　articles　about　Teknologik；　which　he　had　gotten　from　Randy　Colway's　puter　at　the　Post。　The　business…section　prose　was　so　dry；　however…and　his　attention　span　so　short　after　only　three　and　a　half　hours　of　sleep…that　he　wasn't　able　to　concentrate。
　　He　dozed　fitfully　across　the　Mojave　Desert　and　the　Rockies：　two　hours　and　fift