scoonts.theminotaur-第3部分

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　He　was　hungry。　He　turned　into　the　drive…through　lane　of　a　McDonald's　and　was　soon　back　on　the　road　mechanically　munching　a　burger　as　he　headed　west。　The　coffee　was　hot　and　black。
　Passing　through　Gore　he　noticed　headlights　behind　him。　Not　too　dose；　but　glued　there。　How　long　had　that　guy　been　back　there？　A　cop　clocking　him？　Well；　he　wasn't　speeding；　not　on　a　night　like　this。
　The　road　was　a　twisty　two…lane　and　empty。　Almost　no　traffic。　That　was　one　of　the　charms　of　coining　up　here。　The　glare　of　his　headlights　illuminated　the　black　trunks　of　wet；　naked　trees　as　he　cranked　the　wheel　back　and　forth　around　the　switchbacks　up　the　mountain。　The　sign　at　the　top　said：　〃Wele　to　Wild；　Wonderful　West　Virginia。〃　And　the　radio　reception　would　go　on　the　other　side　of　the　signal。　Sure　enough；　on　the　second　curve　down　the　music　faded　to　static。　He　switched　off　the　radio。　The　headlights　were　still　in　the　rear…view　mirror。
　At　the　foot　of　the　mountain　he　went　through　the　village　of　Capon　Bridge。　Almost　there；　just　a　few　more　miles。　He　checked　the　mirror　as　they　went　by　a　sodium　light　on　a　pole　by　the　little　Texaco　station；　which　was　dark　and　deserted　at　this　hour　of　the　evening。　It　was　some　kind　of　pickup　with　a　huge　steel　bumper　welded　to　the　front。　Not　too　new。　Mid…seventies　maybe。
　Impossible　to　make　out　the　color。　Then　a　camper　passed　him　headed　east　and；　curious；　he　glanced　in　the　mirror　again。　The　guy　behind…blue；　I　think。　Maybe　blue。
　Leaving　the　village　the　road　began　to　climb　and　he　was　again　in　switchbacks　at　twenty…five　miles　per　hour。　The　glare　of　the　headlights　from　the　pickup　behind　him　swept　across　the　mirror　going　into　and　ing　out　of　every　curve；　and　he　squinted。　He　turned　the　mirror　so　the　lights　wouldn't　blind　him。　Should've　got　the　day…night　mirror；　he　told　himself；　but　he　had　saved　twenty　bucks　passing　on　that　option。
　Above　the　noise　of　his　engine　he　could　hear　the　rhythmic　slap…slap　of　the　wipers　and　the　protests　of　his　tires　on　the　wet　macadam。
　He　was　almost　at　the　top　of　this　low　mountain。　He　would　build　a　fire　in　the　fireplace　when　he　reached　the　cabin　in　a　few　minutes。　Maybe　a　shot　of　Irish　whiskey　while　the　fire　was　driving　out　the　chill。　Tomorrow　he　would…
　He　could　hear　the　engine　of　the　pickup　behind　roaring　and　the　headlights　spotlighted　his　dash　and　windshield。　He　squinted。　What　was　that　damn　fool　doing？　Did　he　want　to　pass？　We're　right　at　that　overlook…
　The　truck　behind　smashed　into　his　rear　bumper　and　pushed　him。　Strong　fought　the　wheel。　His　vehicle　was　accelerating。　He　applied　the　brakes。　Wheel　lock…up。　He　released　the　brakes　and　jammed　the　throttle　down。　He　was　trying　to　steer　but　the　wheels　wouldn't　bite　on　the　slick　pavement。　Goddamn…the　car　was　going　across　the　road；　straight　for　the　overlook　pullout。
　In　the　gravel　the　car　skidded　sideways　and　Strong　glanced　over　his　shoulder；　straight　into　the　pickup's　headlights。　Then　he　felt　the　lurch　as　the　pickup　slammed　on　its　brakes。
　Panicked；　he　looked　forward　but　saw　nothing；　still　blinded　from　the　headlights'　glare。　He　felt　the　car's　nose　go　down；　then　it　began　to　roll；　over　and　over　and　over。
　The　motion　stopped　suddenly　with　a　terrific；　smashing　impact。
　When　he　came　out　of　his　daze　he　was　in　darkness　and　the　engine　was　silent。　There　was　a　little　light；　but　it　seemed　to　e　from　above　and　behind；　from　the　road。　Jesus。。。　Something　black　and　wet　beside　him。　A　tree　trunk；　where　the　passenger　seat　used　to　be。
　The　car　was　half　wrapped　around　a　tree。　He　had　gone　down　over　the　edge　and　rolled　several　times　and　smashed　into　a　tree。　That　asshole　in　the　pickup。。。　trying　to　kill　him。
　He　wasn't　hurt　too　bad。　Thank　God　for　seat　belts。　Blood　on　his　face；　minute　pieces　of　glass　everywhere。　He　was　still　groggy。　What's　that　smell？　Gasoline！　A　leak。　He　fumbled　for　the　seat…belt　release。
　Someone　was　beside　him；　reaching　in　through　the　smashed　window。　〃Hey…〃
　He　was　being　splashed　with　something　wet　〃What…〃　Gas！　It　was　gas！　〃Please；　you　gotta…〃
　Out　of　the　corner　of　his　eye　he　saw　the　lighted　match　e　floating　through　the　broken　window。　The　roar　of　the　gasoline　igniting　was　the　last　sound　he　heard。
　
　2
　
　The　airplanes　were　shiny　and　brilliant　in　their　bright　colors　of　red；　yellow　and　blue。　They　hung　in　the　window　suspended　on　wires；　frozen　in　flight；　the　spring　sunlight　firing　the　wings　and　fuselages　and　emphasizing　the　sleek　perfection　of　their　forms。
　Jake　Grafton　stood　on　the　sidewalk　and　stared。　He　examined　each　one　carefully；　letting　his　eyes　roam　from　tail　to　prop　to　gull…like　wingtip。　After　a　moment　he　pushed　the　door　open　and　went　into　the　warm　shop；　out　of　the　weak　sunshine　and　the　cool　breeze　ing　off　the　ocean。
　As　he　stood　and　gazed　at　another　dozen　or　so　planes　banging　from　the　ceiling；　the　shop　proprietor　behind　the　glass　counter　laid　aside　his　newspaper　and　cleared　his　throat。　〃Good　morning。〃
　〃Hi。〃　Jake　glanced　at　the　man。　He　was　balding　and　bearlike　and　perched　on　a　stool。　〃You've　got　some　nice　airplanes　here。〃
　〃Sure　do。　You　have　a　son　interested　in　radio　control？〃
　Jake　let　his　eyes　find　the　swooping；　soaring　forms　above　his　head。　〃No；〃　he　said　thoughtfully。　〃Just　looking。〃
　The　proprietor　began　turning　the　pages　of　his　newspaper　as　Jake　moved　deeper　into　the　shop。　He　wandered　slowly；　examining　the　counter　displays；　fingering　balsa　from　a　wire　bin；　scanning　the　rack　of　X…actokmves　and　miniature　drills；　looking　at　the　rows　and　rows　of　boxes　with　airplanes　and　cars　on　the　covers　that　stood　on　shelves　behind　the　counter。　Finally；　back　at　the　door；　he　muttered　his　thanks　to　the　shopkeeper　and　went　out　onto　the　sidewalk。
　The　sea　breeze　was　brisk　this　morning　and　tangy　with　salt。　Not　many　people　on　the　street。　This　Delaware　beach　town　lived　on　tourists　and　summer　was　a　long　way　off。　At　least　the　sun　was　out　after　a　week　of　low；　scuddy　clouds　and　intermittent　drizzle。　Standing　there；　Jake　could　faintly　hear　the　gulls　crying　as　they　soared　above　the　beach　and　boardwalk　a　half　block　away。　He　looked　again　at　the　airplanes　in　the　window；　then　went　back　into　the　shop。
　〃Sell　me　an　airplane；〃　he　said　as　the　proprietor　looked　up　from　his　newspaper。
　〃Delighted　to。　Which　one　you　want？〃
　Jake　scanned　the　planes　hanging　from　the　ceiling。　He　began　to　examine　them　critically。
　〃You　ever　build　an　RC　plane　before？〃
　〃Build？　You　mean　I　can't　buy　one　already　made？〃
　〃Not　any　of　these；　you　can't。　My　son　built　all　these　years　ago；　before　he　went　to　the　air　force。　They're　his。〃
　〃Build　one；〃　Jake　said　softly；　weighing　it。　He　hadn't　figured　on　that。　Oh　well；　the　decision　was　already　made。　Now　he　wanted　a　plane。　〃Let　me　see　what　you　have。〃
　Forty　minutes　later；　with　a　yellow　credit　card　invoice　for　S349。52　tucked　into　his　wallet；　Jake　Grafton　left　the　hobby　store　carrying　two　large　sacks　and　walked　the　block　to　his　car。　He　walked　purposefully；　quickly。　For　the　first　time　in　months　he　had　a　task　ahead　that　would　be　worth　doing。
　Fifteen　minutes　later　he　parked　the　car　in　the　sand…and…crushed…seashell　parking　area　in　front　of　his　house。　He　could　hear　the　faint　ringing　of　the　telephone　as　he　climbed　the　steps　to　the　little　wooden　porch。　He　unlocked　the　front　door；　sat　one　of　the　paper　sacks　on　the　floor　and　strode　across　the　living　room　for　the　phone　on　the　wall　by　the　kitchen　table。　The　ringing　stopped　just　as　he　reached　for　the　receiver。　He　went　back　to　the　car　for　the　other　sack。
　The　airplane　on　the　lid　of　the　box　looked　gorgeous；　mouthwateringly　gorgeous；　but　inside　the　box　was　sheet　after　sheet　of　raw　balsa　wood。　At　least　the　aircraft　parts　were　impressed；　stamped；　into　the　wood。　All　you　would　have　to　do　was　pick　them　out　and　maybe　trim　the　pieces。　The　instruction　booklet　looked　devilishly　plicated；　with　photos　and　line　drawings。　Jake　studied　the　pictures。　After　a　bit　he　began　laying　out　the　balsa　pieces　from　the　box　on　the　kitchen　table；　referring　frequently　to　the　pictures　in　the　booklet。　When　the　box　was　empty　he　surveyed　the　mess　and　rubbed　his　temples。　This　was　going　to　be　a　big　job；　even　bigger　than　he　thought。
　He　put　coffee　and　water　in　the　brewer　and　was　waiting　for　the　Pyrex　pot　to　fill　when　the　phone　rang　again。　〃Hello。〃
　〃Jake。　How　are　you　feeling　this　morning？〃　Callie；　his　wife；　called　twice　a