dk.solesurvivor-第51部分

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ould　never　want　to　return　his　little　girl　to　him。
　　Trust　no　one。
　　As　he　got　up　from　his　seat　and　started　forward　toward　the　exit；　he　noticed　a　man　in　white　slacks；　white　shirt；　and　white　Panama　hat　rise　from　a　seat　farther　forward　in　the　cabin　and　glance　back　at　him。　The　guy　was　about　fifty；　stockily　built；　with　a　thick　mane　of　white　hair　that　made　him　look　like　an　aging　rock　star；　especially　under　that　hat。
　　This　was　no　stranger。
　　For　an　instant；　Joe　thought　that　perhaps　the　man　was；　in　fact；　a　lower…case　celebrity…a　musician　in　a　famous　band　or　a　character　actor　from　television。　Then　he　was　certain　that　he　had　seen　him　not　on　screen　or　stage　but　elsewhere；　recently；　and　in　significant　circumstances。
　　Mr。　Panama　looked　away　from　him　after　a　fraction　of　a　second　of　eye　contact；　stepped　into　the　aisle；　and　moved　forward。　Like　Joe；　he　was　not　burdened　by　any　carry…on　luggage；　as　though　he　had　been　on　a　day…trip。
　　Eight　or　ten　passengers　were　between　the　day…tripper　and　Joe。　He　was　afraid　he　would　lose　track　of　his　quarry　before　he　figured　out　where　he　had　previously　seen　him。　He　couldn't　push　along　the　narrow　aisle　past　the　intervening　passengers　without　causing　a　motion；　however；　and　he　preferred　not　to　let　Mr。　Panama　know　that　he　had　been　spotted。
　　When　Joe　tried　to　use　the　distinctive　hat　as　a　prod　to　memory；　he　came　up　blank；　but　when　he　pictured　the　man　without　the　hat　and　focused　on　the　flowing　white　hair；　he　thought　of　the　blue…robed　cult　members　with　the　shaven　heads。　The　connection　eluded　him；　seemed　absurd。
　　Then　he　thought　of　the　bonfire　around　which　the　cultists　had　been　standing　last　night　on　the　beach；　where　he　had　disposed　of　the　McDonald's　bag　that　contained　the　Kleenex　damp　with　Charlie　Delmann's　blood。　And　the　lithe　dancers　in　bathing　suits　around　another　bonfire。　A　third　fire　and　the　gathering　of　surfers　inside　the　totemic　ring　of　their　upended　boards。　And　still　another　fire　around　which　sat　a　dozen　enthralled　listeners　as　a　stocky　man　with　a　broad　charismatic　face　and　a　mane　of　white　hair　narrated　ghost　story　in　a　reverberant　voice。
　　This　man。　The　storyteller。
　　Joe　had　no　doubt　that　they　were　one　and　the　same。
　　He　also　knew　there　was　no　likelihood　whatsoever　that　he　had　crossed　this　man's　path　on　the　beach　last　night　and　again　here　sheerly　by　chance。　All　is　intimately　interwoven　in　this　most　conspiratorial　of　all　worlds。
　　They　must　have　been　conducting　surveillance　on　him　for　weeks　or　months；　waiting　for　Rose　to　contact　him；　when　he　had　finally　bee　aware　of　them　on　Santa　Monica　Beach；　Saturday　morning。
　　During　that　time　they　had　learned　all　his　haunts；　which　were　not　numerous：　the　apartment；　a　couple　of　coffee　shops；　the　cemetery；　and　a　few　favourite　beaches　where　he　went　to　learn　indifference　from　the　sea。
　　After　he　had　disabled　Wallace　Blick；　invaded　their　van；　and　then　fled　the　cemetery；　they　had　lost　him。　He　had　found　the　transponder　on　his　car　and　thrown　it　into　the　passing　gardener's　truck；　and　they　had　lost　him。　They'd　almost　caught　up　with　him　again　at　the　Post；　but　he'd　slipped　away　minutes　ahead　of　them。
　　So　they　had　staked　out　his　apartment；　the　coffee　shops；　the　beaches…waiting　for　him　to　show　up　somewhere。　The　group　being　entertained　by　the　ghost　story　had　been　ordinary　civilians；　but　the　storyteller　who　had　insinuated　himself　into　their　gathering　was　not　in　the　least　ordinary。
　　They　had　picked　Joe　up　once　more　the　past　night　on　the　beach。　He　knew　the　correct　surveillance　jargon：　They　had　reacquired　him　on　the　beach。　Followed　him　to　the　convenience　store　from　which　he　had　telephoned　Mario　Oliveri　in　Denver　and　Barbara　in　Colorado　Springs。　Followed　him　to　his　motel。
　　They　could　have　killed　him　there。　Quietly。　While　he　slept　or　after　waking　him　with　a　gun　to　his　head。　They　could　have　made　it　look　like　a　drug　overdose…or　like　suicide。
　　In　the　heat　of　the　moment；　they　had　been　eager　to　shoot　him　down　at　the　cemetery；　but　they　were　no　longer　in　a　hurry　to　see　him　dead。　Because　maybe；　just　maybe；　he　would　lead　them　again　to　Rose　Marie　Tucker。
　　Evidently　they　weren't　aware　that　he　had　been　at　the　Delmann　house；　among　other　places；　during　the　hours　they　had　lost　contact　with　him。　If　they　knew　he'd　seen　what　had　happened　to　the　Delmanns　and　to　Lisa…even　though　he　could　not　understand　it…they　probably　would　terminate　him。　Take　no　chances。　Terminate　him　'with　extreme　prejudice；'　as　their　kind　phrased　it。
　　During　the　night；　they　had　placed　another　tracking　device　on　his　car。　In　the　hour　before　dawn；　they　followed　him　to　LAX；　always　at　a　distance　where　they　were　in　no　danger　of　being　spotted。　Then　to　Denver　and　perhaps　beyond。
　　Jesus。
　　What　had　frightened　the　deer　in　the　woods？
　　Joe　felt　stupid　and　careless；　although　he　knew　that　he　was　not　either。　He　couldn't　expect　to　be　as　good　at　this　game　as　they　were；　he'd　never　played　it　before；　but　they　played　it　every　day。
　　He　was　getting　better；　though。　He　was　getting　better。
　　Farther　up　the　aisle；　the　storyteller　reached　the　exit　door　and　disappeared　into　the　debarkation　umbilical。
　　Joe　was　afraid　of　losing　his　stalker；　but　it　was　imperative　that　they　continue　to　believe　that　he　was　unaware　of　them。
　　Barbara　Christman　was　in　terrible　danger。　First　thing；　he　had　to　find　a　phone　and　warn　her。
　　Faking　patience　and　boredom；　he　shuffled　forward　with　the　other　passengers。　In　the　umbilical；　which　was　much　wider　than　the　aisle　in　the　airplane；　he　finally　slipped　past　them　without　appearing　to　be　alarmed　or　in　a　hurry。　He　didn't　realize　that　he　was　holding　his　breath　until　he　exhaled　hard　with　relief　when　he　spotted　his　quarry　ahead　of　him。
　　The　huge　terminal　was　busy。　At　the　gates；　the　ranks　of　chairs　were　filled　with　passengers　wailing　to　catch　a　late…afternoon　flight　in　the　fast…fading　hours　of　the　weekend。　Chattering；　laughing；　arguing；　brooding　in　silence；　shuffling…striding…strolling…limping…ambling；　arriving　passengers　poured　out　of　other　gates　and　along　the　concourse。　There　were　singles；　couples；　entire　families；　blacks　and　whites　and　Asians　and　Latinos　and　four　towering　Samoan　men　all　with　black　porkpie　hats；　beautiful　sloe…eyed　women　willow　graceful　in　their　turquoise　or　ruby　or　sapphire　saris；　others　in　chadors　and　others　in　jeans；　men　in　business　suits；　men　in　shorts　and　bright　Polo　shirts；　four　young　Hasidic　Jews　arguing　（but　joyfully）　over　the　most　mystical　of　all　documents　（a　Los　Angeles　freeway　map）；　uniformed　soldiers；　giggling　children　and　shrieking　children　and　two　placid　octogenarians　in　wheelchairs；　a　pair　of　tall　Arab　princes　in　akals　and　keffiyehs　and　flowing　jellabas；　preceded　by　fierce　bodyguards　and　trailed　by　retinues；　beacon…red　tourists　drifting　homeward　on　the　astringent　fumes　of　medicated　sunburn　lotion；　pale　tourists　arriving　with　the　dampish　smell　of　cloudy　country　clinging　to　them　…and；　like　a　white　boat　strangely　serene　in　a　typhoon；　the　man　in　the　Panama　hat　sailing　imperiously　through　the　polygenic　sea。
　　As　far　as　Joe　was　concerned；　they　might　all　be　stage　dressing；　every　one　of　them　an　agent　of　Teknologik　or　of　institutions　unknown；　all　watching　him　surreptitiously；　snapping　photographs　of　him　with　trick　cameras　concealed　in　their　purses　and　attaché　cases　and　tote　bags；　all　conferring　by　hidden　microphones　as　to　whether　he　should　be　permitted　to　proceed　or　gunned　down　on　the　spot。
　　He　had　never　before　felt　so　alone　in　a　crowd。　Dreading　what　might　happen…might　even　now　be　happening…to　Barbara；　he　tried　to　keep　the　storyteller　in　sight　while　also　searching　for　a　telephone。
　　
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　　The　public　telephone；　one　in　a　cluster　of　four；　was　not　in　a　booth；　but　the　wings　of　a　sound　shield　provided　a　small　measure　of　privacy。
　　As　he　entered　Barbara's　Colorado　Springs　number　on　the　keypad；　Joe　ground　his　teeth　together　as　though　he　could　bite　off　the　noise　of　the　crowded　terminal　and　chew　it　into　a　silence　that　would　allow　him　to　concentrate。　He　needed　to　think　through　what　he　would　say　to　her；　but　he　had　neither　the　time　nor　the　solitude　to　craft　the　ideal　speech；　and　he　was　afraid　of　mitting　a　blunder　that　would　pitch　her　deeper　into　trouble。
　　Even　if　her　phone　had　not　been　tapped　the　pre