pdouglas.thecodex-第55部分

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e。　I　could've　lived　with　that。　It　was　his　money。　But　no；　he　had　to　e　up　with　a　plan　to　torture　us　with　it。〃
　Borabay　glared　at　him。　〃Shut　up；　brother。〃
　Philip　turned　on　him。　〃I　don't　care　if　you　did　save　our　lives；　stay　out　of　our　family　business。〃　A　vein　pulsed　in　Philip's　forehead；　Tom　had　rarely　seen　him　so　furious。
　〃You　listen　me；　little　brother；　or　I　wimp　your　ass。〃　Borabay　said　defiantly；　standing　up　to　his　full　five　feet　of　height；　his　fists　balled。
　There　was　a　beat；　then　Philip　began　to　laugh　and　shake　his　head。　His　body　relaxed。　〃Christ；　is　this　guy　for　real？〃
　〃We're　all　a　little　stressed；〃　said　Tom。　〃But　Borabay's　right。　This　is　no　place　to　argue。〃
　〃Tonight；〃　Borabay　said；　〃we　talk；　very　important。〃
　〃About　what？〃　Philip　demanded。
　Borabay　turned　to　the　stewpot　and　began　stirring；　his　painted　face　unreadable。　〃You　see。〃
　
　48
　
　Lewis　Skiba　settled　back　in　the　leather　armchair　of　his　paneled　den　and　shook　out　the　Journal　to　the　editorial　page。　He　tried　to　read　but　the　distant　squeaks　and　blats　of　his　son's　trumpet　practice　kept　him　from　concentrating。　Almost　two　weeks　had　passed　since　Hauser's　last　call。　The　man　was　evidently　playing　with　him；　keeping　him　in　suspense。　Or　had　something　happened？　Had　he　。。。　done　it？
　His　eyes　fastened　on　the　lead　editorial　in　an　effort　to　drown　out　the　rush　of　self…accusation；　but　the　words　just　ran　through　his　head　without　any　of　the　meaning　sticking。　Central　Honduras　was　a　dangerous　place。　It　was　quite　possible　Hauser　had　slipped　up　somewhere；　made　a　mistake；　misjudged　something；　caught　a　fever　。。。　A　lot　of　things　could　have　happened　to　him。　The　point　was；　he　had　disappeared。　Two　weeks　was　a　long　time。　Maybe　he　had　tried　to　kill　the　Broadbents　and　they　proved　too　good　for　him　and　killed　him　instead。
　Skiba　hoped　against　all　hope　that　this　was　what　had　happened。　Had　he　really　told　Hauser　to　kill　them？　What　had　he　been　thinking？　An　involuntary　moan　escaped　him。　If　only　Hauser　was　dead。　Skiba　now　knew；　too　late；　that　he　would　rather　lose　everything　than　be　guilty　of　murder。　He　was　a　murderer。　He　said　it；　Kill　them。　He　wondered　why　Hauser　had　been　so　insistent　on　having　him　say　it。　Christ。　How　was　it　that　he；　Lewis　Skiba；　high　school　football　star；　graduate　of　Stanford　and　Wharton；　Fulbright　scholar；　CEO　of　a　Fortune　500　pany…how　was　it　that　he　had　allowed　himself　to　bee　trapped　and　bullied　and　dominated　by　a　cheap　polyester　criminal？　Skiba　had　always　thought　of　himself　as　a　man　of　moral　and　intellectual　weight；　a　man　of　ethics；　a　good　man。　He　was　a　good　father。　He　didn't　cheat　on　his　wife。　He　went　to　church。　He　sat　on　boards　and　gave　away　a　good　portion　of　his　earnings　to　charity。　And　yet　a　collar…sniffing　gumshoe　dick　with　a　bover　had　somehow　gotten　the　drop　on　him；　pulled　off　his　mask；　shown　him　for　what　he　really　was。　That's　what　Skiba　could　never　forget　and　never　forgive。　Neither　himself　nor　Hauser。
　His　mind　drifted　once　again　to　his　childhood　summers　at　the　lake；　the　battenboard　cottage；　the　crooked　dock　running　into　the　still　water；　the　smell　of　woodsmoke　and　pine。　If　only　he　could　roll　back　the　clock；　go　back　to　one　of　those　long　summers　and　start　his　life　anew。　What　he　would　give　to　do　it　all　over　again。
　With　a　groan　of　agony　he　forced　it　all　from　his　head；　taking　a　sip　from　the　glass　of　scotch　at　his　elbow。　It　was　gone；　all　gone。　He　had　to　stop　thinking　about　it。　What　was　done　was　done。　He　couldn't　turn　back　the　clock。　They'd　get　the　Codex；　and　maybe　there　would　be　a　fresh　beginning　for　Lampe　and　no　one　would　ever　know。　Or　Hauser　was　dead　and　they　wouldn't　get　the　Codex；　but　still　no　one　would　know。　No　one　would　know。　He　could　live　with　that。　He'd　have　to　live　with　it。　Except　he　would　know。　He　would　know　that　he　was　a　man　capable　of　murder。
　He　angrily　shook　out　the　paper　and　began　the　editorial　again。
　At　that　moment　the　phone　rang。　It　was　the　corporate　phone；　the　secure　line。　He　folded　the　paper　down；　walked　over；　and　picked　it　up。
　He　heard　a　voice　speaking　as　if　from　far　away；　yet　as　clear　as　a　bell。　It　was　his　own　voice。
　Do　it！　Kill　them；　goddamn　you！　Kill　the　Broadhents！
　Skiba　felt　as　if　he'd　been　punched。　He　lost　all　his　air　in　a　rush；　he　couldn't　breathe。　There　was　a　hiss；　and　then　his　voice　repeated；　like　some　ghost　from　the　past：
　Do　it！　Kill　them；　goddamn　you！　Kill　the　Broadbents！
　Hauser's　voice　came　on　next；　the　scrambler　back　on；　〃Did　you　catch　that；　Skiba？〃
　Skiba　swallowed；　gasped；　tried　to　get　his　lungs　working。
　〃Hello？〃
　〃Don't　ever　call　me　at　home；〃　Skiba　croaked。
　〃You　never　told　me　that。〃
　〃How　did　you　get　the　number？〃
　〃I'm　a　private　eye；　remember？〃
　Skiba　swallowed。　No　point　in　responding。　Now　he　knew　why　Hauser　had　been　so　insistent　on　him　saying　it。　He'd　been　trapped。
　〃We're　there。　We're　at　the　White　City。〃
　Skiba　waited。
　〃We　know　this　is　where　Broadbent　went。　Had　a　bunch　of　Indians　bury　him　in　a　tomb　up　here　that　he'd　robbed　forty　years　ago。　Probably　the　same　tomb　he　found　the　Codex　in。　How's　that　for　irony？　We're　here　now；　in　the　lost　city；　and　all　we　have　to　do　is　find　the　tomb。〃
　Skiba　heard　a　muffled　thump；　distorted　by　the　scrambler　into　a　long　squawk。　Hauser　must　have　turned　off　the　scrambler　at　just　the　right　moment　to　record　his　words　in　his　own　voice。　There'd　be　no　stiffing　Hauser　now　out　of　his　fifty　million。　On　the　contrary；　Skiba　had　a　feeling　he'd　be　paying　more；　a　lot　more…for　the　rest　of　his　life。　Hauser　had　him　by　the　short　hairs。　What　a　goddamn　fool　he'd　been；　outmaneuvered　at　every　turn。　Unbelievable。
　〃Hear　that？　That's　the　beautiful　sound　of　dynamite。　My　men　are　working　over　a　pyramid。　Unfortunately　the　White　City　is　a　big；　overgrown　place；　and　Max　could　be　buried　anywhere。　Anyway；　I　called　to　tell　you　there's　been　a　change。　When　we　find　the　tomb　and　get　the　Codex；　we're　heading　west；　out　over　the　mountains；　through　El　Salvador　to　the　Pacific。　On　foot　and　then　downriver。　It'll　take　a　little　more　time。　You'll　have　the　Codex　within　a　month。〃
　〃You　said…〃
　〃Yeah；　yeah。　Originally　I　was　planning　to　helicopter　the　Codex　out　to　San　Pedro　Sula。　But　all　of　a　sudden　we　got　a　couple　of　dead　Honduran　army　soldiers　to　explain。　And　you　never　know　when　some　tinhorn　general's　going　to　expropriate　your　property　as　national　patrimony。　The　only　helicopters　down　here　belong　to　the　military；　and　just　to　fly　out　here　you　have　to　cross　military　airspace。　So　we're　continuing　west　in　an　unexpected　direction；　nice　and　quiet。　Trust　me；　it's　the　best　way。
　Skiba　swallowed　again。　Dead　soldiers？　Talking　to　Hauser　made　him　feel　sick。　He　wanted　to　ask　if　Hauser　had　done　it；　but　he　couldn't　bring　himself　to　mouth　the　words。
　〃In　case　you're　wondering；　I　haven't　followed　through　on　your　order。　The　three　Broadbent　sons　are　still　alive。　Tenacious　buggers。　But　I　haven't　forgotten。　I　promise　you；　I'll　do　it。〃
　His　order。　That　lump　was　forming　in　Skiba's　throat　again。　He　swallowed；　just　about　choked　on　it。　They　were　alive。　〃I've　changed　my　mind；〃　he　croaked。
　〃What's　that？〃
　〃Don't　do　it。〃
　〃Don't　do　what？〃
　〃Don't　kill　them。〃
　There　was　a　low　chuckle。　〃It's　way　too　late　for　that。〃
　〃For　God's　sake；　Hauser；　don't　do　it；　I　order　you　not　to　kill　them；　we　can　work　this　out　another　way…〃
　But　the　line　had　gone　dead。　He　heard　a　noise　and　turned；　his　face　crawling　with　sweat。　There　was　his　son　standing　in　the　doorway；　in　baggy　pajamas；　blond　hair　sticking　out；　trumpet　dangling　in　one　hand。　〃Don't　kill　who；　Daddy？〃
　
　49
　
　That　night　Borabay　served　them　a　three…course　dinner；　starting　with　a　fish　soup　and　vegetables；　followed　by　roasted　steaks　and　a　mess　of　tiny　boiled　eggs　with　baby　birds　inside　them；　and　then；　for　dessert；　a　gruel　of　cooked　fruit。　He　urged　second　and　third　helpings　on　them；　forcing　them　to　eat　almost　to　the　point　of　being　sick。　When　the　last　dish　was　consumed；　the　pipes　came　out　against　the　insects　of　dusk。　It　was　a　clear　evening；　and　a　gibbous　moon　was　rising　behind　the　dark　outline　of　the　Sierra　Azul。　They　sat　in　a　semicircle　around　the　fire；　the　three　brothers　and　Sally；　all　smoking　quietly；　waiting　for　Borabay　to　speak。　The　Indian　puffed　for　a　while；　then　laid　down　his　pipe　and　looked　around。　His　eyes；　glistening　in　the　firelight；　rested　on　each　of