sk.everythingseventual-第29节

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ll　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　intelligence…three　dials；　one　switch　marked　ON　and　OFF　（now　in　the　OFF　position）；　and　a　rheostat　which　had　been　turned　so　the　white　line　on　it　pointed　to　roughly　eleven　o'clock。　The　needles　on　the　dials　all　lay　flat　on　their　zeroes。
　　Fletcher　picked　up　the　stylus　and　held　it　out　to　Heinz。　Heinz　made　a　wet　sound；　shook　his　head；　and　took　another　step　backward。　His　face　would　lift　and　pull　together　in　a　kind　of　grief…struck　sneer；　then　loosen　again。　His　forehead　was　wet　with　sweat；　his　cheeks　with　tears。　This　second　backward　step　took　him　almost　beneath　one　of　the　caged　lights；　and　his　shadow　puddled　around　his　feet。
　　'Take　it　or　I'll　kill　you；'　Fletcher　said。　'And　if　you　take　another　step　backward　I'll　kill　you。'　He　had　no　time　for　this　and　it　felt　wrong　in　any　case；　but　Fletcher　could　not　stop　himself。　He　kept　seeing　that　picture　of　Tomás；　the　open　eyes；　the　little　scorched　mark　like　a　powder　burn。
　　Sobbing；　Heinz　took　the　blunt　fountain…pen…shaped　object；　careful　to　hold　it　only　by　the　rubber　insulated　sleeve。
　　'Put　it　in　your　mouth；'　Fletcher　said。　'Suck　on　it　like　it　was　a　lollipop。'
　　'No！'　Heinz　cried　in　a　weepy　voice。　He　shook　his　head　and　water　flew　off　his　face。　His　face　was　still　going　through　its　contortions：　cramp　and　release；　cramp　and　release。　There　was　a　green　bubble　of　snot　at　the　entrance　to　one　of　his　nostrils；　it　expanded　and　contracted　with　Heinz's　rapid　breathing　but　didn't　break。　Fletcher　had　never　seen　anything　quite　like　it。　'No；　you　can't　make　me！'
　　But　Heinz　knew　Fletcher　could。　The　Bride　of　Frankenstein　might　not　have　believed　it；　and　Escobar　likely　hadn't　had　time　to　believe　it；　but　Heinz　knew　he　had　no　more　right　of　refusal。　He　was　in　Tomás　Herrera's　position；　in　Fletcher's　position。　In　one　way　that　was　revenge　enough；　but　in　another　way　it　wasn't。　Knowing　was　an　idea。　Ideas　were　no　good　in　here。　In　here　seeing　was　believing。
　　'Put　it　in　your　mouth　or　I'll　shoot　you　in　the　head；'　Fletcher　said；　and　shoved　the　empty　gun　at　Heinz's　face。　Heinz　recoiled　with　a　wail　of　terror。　And　now　Fletcher　heard　his　own　voice　drop；　bee　confidential；　bee　sincere。　In　a　way　it　reminded　him　of　Escobar's　voice。　We　are　havin　an　area　of　low　bressure；　he　thought。　We　are　havin　the　steenkin　rain…showers。　'I'm　not　going　to　shock　you　if　you　just　do　it　and　hurry　up。　But　I　need　you　to　know　what　it　feels　like。'
　　Heinz　stared　at　Fletcher。　His　eyes　were　blue　and　red…rimmed；　swimming　with　tears。　He　didn't　believe　Fletcher；　of　course；　what　Fletcher　was　saying　made　no　sense；　but　Heinz　very　clearly　wanted　to　believe　it　anyway；　because；　sense　or　nonsense；　Fletcher　was　holding　out　the　possibility　of　life。　He　just　needed　to　be　pushed　a　single　step　further。
　　Fletcher　smiled。　'Do　it　for　your　research。'
　　Heinz　was　convinced…not　pletely；　but　enough　to　believe　Fletcher　could　be　Mr。　Maybe　He　Will　after　all。　He　put　the　steel　rod　into　his　mouth。　His　bulging　eyes　stared　at　Fletcher。　Below　them　and　above　the　jutting　stylus…which　looked　not　like　a　lollipop　but　an　old…fashioned　fever　thermometer…that　green　bubble　of　snot　swelled　and　retreated；　swelled　and　retreated。　Still　pointing　the　gun　at　Heinz；　Fletcher　flicked　the　switch　on　the　control　panel　from　OFF　to　ON　and　gave　the　rheostat　a　hard　turn。　The　white　line　on　the　knob　went　from　eleven　in　the　morning　to　five　in　the　afternoon。
　　Heinz　might　have　had　time　to　spit　the　stylus　out；　but　shock　caused　him　to　clamp　his　lips　down　on　the　stainless　steel　barrel　instead。　The　snapping　sound　was　louder　this　time；　like　a　small　branch　instead　of　a　twig。　Heinz's　lips　pressed　down　even　tighter。　The　green　mucus　bubble　in　his　nostril　popped。　So　did　one　of　his　eyes。　Heinz's　entire　body　seemed　to　vibrate　inside　his　clothes。　His　hands　were　bent　at　the　wrists；　the　long　fingers　splayed。　His　cheeks　went　from　white　to　pale　gray　to　a　darkish　purple。　Smoke　began　to　pour　out　of　his　nose。　His　other　eye　popped　out　on　his　cheek。　Above　the　dislocated　eyes　there　were　now　two　raw　sockets　that　stared　at　Fletcher　with　surprise。　One　of　Heinz's　cheeks　either　tore　open　or　melted。　A　quantity　of　smoke　and　a　strong　odor　of　burned　meat　came　out　through　the　hole；　and　Fletcher　observed　small　flames；　orange　and　blue。　Heinz's　mouth　was　on　fire。　His　tongue　was　burning　like　a　rug。
　　Fletcher's　fingers　were　still　on　the　rheostat。　He　turned　it　all　the　way　back　to　the　left；　then　flicked　the　switch　to　OFF。　The　needles；　which　had　swung　all　the　way　to　the　＋50　marks　on　their　little　dials；　immediately　fell　dead　again。　The　moment　the　electricity　left　him；　Heinz　crashed　to　the　gray　tile　floor；　trailing　smoke　from　his　mouth　as　he　went。　The　stylus　fell　free；　and　Fletcher　saw　there　were　little　pieces　of　Heinz's　lips　on　it。　Fletcher's　gorge　gave　a　salty；　burping　lurch；　and　he　closed　his　throat　against　it。　He　didn't　have　time　to　vomit　over　what　he　had　done　to　Heinz；　he　might　consider　vomiting　at　a　later　time。　Still；　he　lingered　a　moment　longer；　leaning　over　to　look　at　Heinz's　smoking　mouth　and　dislocated　eyes。　'How　do　you　describe　it？'　he　asked　the　corpse。　'Now；　while　the　experience　is　still　fresh？　What；　nothing　to　sa