sk.everythingseventual-第32部分

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play　out　very　fast。
　　'Ramón！'　Escobar　shouted。　'Don't　let　him　fall　on　the　floor；　you　idiot！　Don't　let　him　swallow　his　t…'
　　Ramón　bent　over　and　grabbed　Fletcher's　shaking　shoulders；　perhaps　wanting　to　get　Fletcher's　head　back；　perhaps　wanting　to　make　sure　Fletcher's　tongue　was　still　safely　unswallowed　（a　person　couldn't　swallow　his　own　tongue；　not　unless　it　was　cut　off；　Ramón　clearly　did　not　watch　ER）。　Whatever　he　wanted　didn't　matter。　When　his　face　was　where　Fletcher　could　get　at　it；　Fletcher　struck　the　burning　end　of　the　Marlboro　in　Ramón's　eye。
　　Ramón　shrieked　and　jerked　backward。　His　right　hand　rose　toward　his　face；　where　the　still…burning　cigarette　hung　askew　in　the　socket　of　his　eye；　but　his　left　hand　remained　on　Fletcher's　shoulder。　It　was　now　tightened　down　to　a　clamp；　and　when　he　stepped　back；　Ramón　pulled　Fletcher's　chair　over。　Fletcher　spilled　out　of　it；　rolled　over；　and　got　to　his　feet。
　　Heinz　was　screaming　something；　words；　maybe；　but　to　Fletcher　he　sounded　like　a　girl　of　about　ten　screaming　at　the　sight　of　a　singing　idol…one　of　the　Hansons；　perhaps。　Escobar　wasn't　making　any　noise　at　all　and　that　was　bad。
　　Fletcher　didn't　look　back　at　the　table。　He　didn't　have　to　look　to　know　that　Escobar　was　ing　for　him。　Instead　he　shot　both　hands　forward；　grabbed　the　butt　of　Ramón's　revolver；　and　pulled　it　from　its　holster。　Fletcher　didn't　think　Ramón　ever　knew　it　was　gone。　He　was　screaming　a　flood　of　Spanish　and　pawing　at　his　face。　He　struck　the　cigarette　but　instead　of　ing　free　it　broke　off；　the　burning　end　still　stuck　in　his　eye。
　　Fletcher　turned。　Escobar　was　there；　already　around　the　end　of　the　long　table；　ing　for　him　with　his　fat　hands　out。　Escobar　no　longer　looked　like　a　fellow　who　sometimes　did　the　TV　weather　and　talked　about　high　bressure。
　　'Get　that　Yankee　son　of　a　bitch！'　the　woman　spat。
　　Fletcher　kicked　the　overturned　chair　into　Escobar's　path　and　Escobar　tripped　on　it。　As　he　went　down；　Fletcher　stuck　the　gun　out；　still　held　in　both　hands；　and　shot　it　into　the　top　of　Escobar's　head。　Escobar's　hair　jumped。　Gouts　of　blood　burst　from　his　nose　and　mouth　and　from　the　underside　of　his　chin；　where　the　bullet　came　out。　Escobar　fell　flat　on　his　bleeding　face。　His　feet　drummed　on　the　gray　tile　floor。　The　smell　of　shit　rose　from　his　dying　body。
　　The　woman　was　no　longer　in　her　chair；　but　she　had　no　intention　of　approaching　Fletcher。　She　ran　for　the　door；　fleet　as　a　deer　in　her　dark　shapeless　dress。　Ramón；　still　bellowing；　was　between　Fletcher　and　the　woman。　And　he　was　reaching　for　Fletcher；　wanting　to　grab　him　by　the　neck；　throttle　him。
　　Fletcher　shot　him　twice；　once　in　the　chest　and　once　in　the　face。　The　face…shot　tore　off　most　of　Ramón's　nose　and　right　cheek；　but　the　big　man　in　the　brown　uniform　came　on　just　the　same；　roaring；　the　cigarette　still　dangling　from　his　eye；　his　big　sausage　fingers；　a　silver　ring　on　one　of　them；　opening　and　closing。
　　Ramón　stumbled　over　Escobar　just　as　Escobar　had　stumbled　over　the　chair。　Fletcher　had　a　moment　to　think　of　a　famous　cartoon　that　shows　fish　in　a　line；　each　with　his　mouth　open　to　eat　the　next　one　down　in　size。　The　Food　Chain；　that　drawing　was　called。
　　Ramón；　facedown　and　with　two　bullets　in　him；　reached　out　and　clamped　a　hand　on　Fletcher's　ankle。　Fletcher　tore　free；　staggered；　and　fired　a　fourth　shot　into　the　ceiling　when　he　did。　Dust　sifted　down。　There　was　a　strong　smell　of　gunsmoke　in　the　room　now。　Fletcher　looked　at　the　door。　The　woman　was　still　there；　yanking　at　the　doorknob　with　one　hand　and　fumbling　at　the　turn…lock　with　the　other　hand；　but　she　couldn't　open　the　door。　If　she'd　been　able　to；　she'd　have　already　done　it。　She'd　be　all　the　way　down　the　hall　by　now；　and　screaming　bloody　murder　up　the　stairs。
　　'Hey；'　Fletcher　said。　He　felt　like　an　ordinary　guy　who　goes　to　his　Thursday…night　bowling　league　and　rolls　a　300　game。　'Hey；　you　bitch；　look　at　me。'
　　She　turned　and　put　her　palms　flat　against　the　door；　as　if　she　were　holding　it　up。　There　was　still　a　little　nailhead　of　light　in　each　of　her　eyes。　She　began　to　tell　him　he　mustn't　hurt　her。　She　started　in　Spanish；　hesitated；　then　began　to　say　the　same　thing　in　English。　'You　mustn't　hurt　me　in　any　way；　Mr。　Fletcher；　I　am　the　only　one　who　can　guarantee　your　safe　conduct　from　here；　and　I　swear　I　will　on　my　solemn　oath；　but　you　must　not　hurt　me。'
　　From　behind　them；　Heinz　was　keening　like　a　child　in　love　or　terror。　Now　that　Fletcher　was　close　to　the　woman…the　woman　standing　against　the　door　of　the　deathroom　with　her　hands　pressed　flat　against　its　metal　surface…he　could　smell　some　bittersweet　perfume。　Her　eyes　were　shaped　like　almonds。　Her　hair　streamed　back　above　the　top　of　her　head。　We're　not　just　fucking　around；　she　had　told　him；　and　Fletcher　thought：　Neither　am　I。
　　The　woman　saw　the　news　of　her　death　in　his　eyes　and　began　to　talk　faster；　pressing　her　butt　and　back　and　palms　harder　and　harder　against　the　metal　door　as　she　talked。　It　was　as　if　she　believed　she　could　somehow　melt　herself　through　the　door　and　e　out　whole　on　the　other　side　if　she　just　pushed　hard　enough。　She　had　papers；　she　said；　papers　in　his　name；　and　she　would　give　him　these　papers。　She　also　had　money；　a　great　deal　of　money；　also　gold；　there　was　a　Swiss　bank　account　which　he　could　access　by　puter　from　her　home。　It　occurred　to　Fletcher　that　in　the　end　there　might　only　be　one　way　to　tell　the　thugs　from　the　patriots：　when　they　saw　their　own　death　rising　in　your　eyes　like　water；　patriots　made　speeches。　The　thugs；　on　the　other　hand；　gave　you　the　number　of　their　Swiss　bank　account　and　offered　to　put　you　on…line。
　　'Shut　up；'　Fletcher　said。　Unless　this　room　was　very　well　insulated　indeed；　a　dozen　ordinary　troops　from　upstairs　were　probably　on　their　way　now。　He　had　no　means　of　standing　them　off；　but　this　one　was　not　going　to　get　away。
　　She　shut　up；　still　standing　against　the　door；　pressing　it　with　her　palms。　Still　with　the　nailheads　in　her　eyes。　How　old　was　she？　Fletcher　wondered。　Sixty…five？　And　how　many　had　she　killed　in　this　room；　or　rooms　like　it？　How　many　had　she　ordered　killed？
　　'Listen　to　me；'　Fletcher　said。　'Are　you　listening？'
　　What　she　was　undoubtedly　listening　for　were　the　sounds　of　approaching　rescue。　In　your　dreams；　Fletcher　thought。
　　'The　weatherman　there　said　that　El　Cóndor　uses　cocaine；　that　he's　a　munist　butt…boy；　a　whore　for　United　Fruit；　who　knows　what　else。　Maybe　he's　some　of　those　things；　maybe　none。　I　don't　know　or　care。　What　I　know　about；　what　I　care　about；　was　he　was　never　in　charge　of　the　ordinaries　patrolling　the　Caya　River　in　the　summer　of　1994。　Nú？ez　was　in　New　York　then。　At　NYU。　So　he　wasn't　part　of　the　bunch　that　found　the　nuns　on　retreat　from　La　Caya。　They　put　three　of　the　nuns'　heads　up　on　sticks；　there　by　the　water's　edge。　The　one　in　the　middle　was　my　sister。'
　　Fletcher　shot　her　twice　and　then　Ramón's　gun　clicked　empty。　Two　was　enough。　The　woman　went　sliding　down　the　door；　her　bright　eyes　never　leaving　Fletcher's。　You　were　the　one　who　was　supposed　to　die；　those　eyes　said。　I　don't　understand　this；　you　were　the　one　who　was　supposed　to　die。　Her　hand　clawed　at　her　throat　once；　twice；　then　was　still。　Her　eyes　remained　on　his　a　moment　longer；　the　bright　eyes　of　an　ancient　mariner　with　a　whale　of　a　tale　to　tell；　and　then　her　head　fell　forward。
　　Fletcher　turned　around　and　began　walking　toward　Heinz　with　Ramón's　gun　held　out。　As　he　walked　he　realized　that　his　right　shoe　was　gone。　He　looked　at　Ramón；　who　was　still　lying　facedown　in　a　spreading　pool　of　blood。　Ramón　still　had　hold　of　Fletcher's　loafer。　He　was　like　a　dying　weasel　that　refuses　to　let　go　of　a　chicken。　Fletcher　stopped　long　enough　to　put　it　on。
　　Heinz　turned　as　if　to　run；　and　Fletcher　waggled　the　gun　at　him。　The　gun　was　empty　but　Heinz　didn't　seem　to　know　that。　And　maybe　he　remembered　there　was　nowhere　to　run　anyway；　not　here　in　the　deathroom。　He　stopped　moving　and　only　stared　at　the　oning　gun　and　the　oning　man　behind　it。　Heinz　was　crying。　'One　step　back；'　Fletcher　said；　and；　still　crying；　Heinz　took　one　step　back。
　　Fletcher　stopped　in　front　of　Heinz's　machine。　What　was　the　word　Heinz　had　used？　Atavism；　wasn't　it？
　　The　machine　on　the　trolley　looked　much　too　simple　for　a　man　of　Heinz's　in