dk.solesurvivor-第13节

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　　He　tore　open　the　envelope。　It　contained　a　single　sheet　of　white　paper　folded　in　thirds。
　　
　　The　three　neatly　typed　sentences　initially　impressed　him　as　a　singularly　cruel　variation　on　the　usual　paranoid　shriek：　I　have　been　trying　to　reach　you；　Joe。　My　life　depends　on　your　discretion。　I　was　aboard　Flight　353。
　　Everyone　aboard　the　airliner　had　perished。　He　didn't　believe　in　ghost　mail　from　the　Other　Side；　which　probably　made　him　unique　among　his　contemporaries　in　this　New…Age　City　of　Angels。
　　At　the　bottom　of　the　page　was　a　name：　Rose　Tucker。　Under　the　name　was　a　phone　number　with　a　Los　Angeles　area　code。　No　address　was　provided。
　　Lightly　flushed　by　the　same　anger　that　had　burned　so　hotly　in　him　earlier；　and　which　could　easily　bee　a　blaze　again；　Joe　almost　snatched　up　the　phone　to　call　Ms。　Tucker。　He　wanted　to　tell　her　what　a　disturbed　and　vicious　piece　of　garbage　she　was；　wallowing　in　her　schizophrenic　fantasies；　psychic　vampire　sucking　on　the　misery　of　others　to　feed　some　sick　need　of　her　own　…And　then　he　heard；　in　memory；　the　words　that　Wallace　Blick　first　said　to　him　in　the　cemetery。　Unaware　that　anyone　was　in　the　white　van；　Joe　had　leaned　through　the　open　passenger　door　and　popped　the　glove　box　in　search　of　a　cellular　phone。　Blick；　briefly　mistaking　him　for　one　of　the　men　in　the　Hawaiian　shirts；　had　said；　Did　you　get　Rose？
　　Rose。
　　Because　Joe　had　been　frightened　by　the　gunmen；　afraid　for　the　woman　they　were　pursuing；　and　startled　to　discover　someone　in　the　van；　the　importance　of　what　Blick　said　had　failed　to　register　with　him。　Everything　happened　so　fast　after　that。　He　had　forgotten　Blick's　words　until　now。
　　Rose　Tucker　must　have　been　the　woman　with　the　Polaroid　camera；　photographing　the　graves。
　　If　she　was　nothing　more　than　a　whacked…out　loser　living　in　some　schizophrenic　fantasy；　Medsped　or　Teknologik…or　whoever　the　hell　they　were…wouldn't　be　throwing　so　much　manpower　and　money　into　a　search　for　her。
　　He　remembered　the　exceptional　presence　of　the　woman　in　the　cemetery。　Her　directness。　Her　self…possession　and　preternatural　calm。　The　power　of　her　unwavering　stare。
　　She　hadn't　seemed　like　a　flake。　Quite　the　opposite。
　　I　have　been　trying　to　reach　you；　Joe。　My　life　depends　on　your　discretion。　I　was　aboard　Flight　353。
　　Without　realizing　that　he　had　gotten　off　the　chair；　Joe　was　standing；　heart　pounding；　electrified。　The　sheet　of　paper　rattled　in　his　hands。
　　
　　He　stepped　into　the　aisle　behind　the　modular　workstation　and　surveyed　what　he　could　see　of　the　subdivided　newsroom；　seeking　someone　with　whom　he　could　share　this　development。
　　Look　here。　Read　this；　read　it。　Something's　terribly　wrong；　Jesus；　all　wrong；　not　what　we　were　told。　Somebody　walked　away　from　the　crash；　lived　through　it。　We　have　to　do　something　about　this；　find　the　truth。　No　survivors；　they　said；　no　survivors；　catastrophic　crash；　total　wipe…out　catastrophic　crash。　What　else　have　they　told　us　that　isn't　true？　How　did　the　people　on　that　plane　really　die？　Why　did　they　die？　Why　did　they　die？
　　Before　anyone　saw　him　standing　there　in　furious　distress；　before　he　went　in　search　of　a　familiar　face；　Joe　had　second　thoughts　about　sharing　anything　he　had　learned。　Rose　Tucker's　note　said　that　her　life　depended　on　his　discretion。
　　Besides；　he　had　the　crazy　notion；　somehow　more　powerfully　convincing　because　of　its　irrationality；　that　if　he　shared　the　note　with　others；　it　would　prove　to　be　blank；　that　if　he　pressed　Blick's　driver's　license　into　their　hands；　it　would　turn　out　to　be　his　own　license；　that　if　he　took　someone　with　him　to　the　cemetery；　there　would　be　no　spent　cartridges　in　the　grass　and　no　skid　marks　from　the　tyres　of　the　white　van　and　no　one　there　who　had　ever　seen　the　vehicle　or　heard　the　gunshots。
　　This　was　a　mystery　delivered　to　him；　to　no　one　else　but　him；　and　he　suddenly　perceived　that　pursuing　answers　was　not　merely　his　duty　but　his　sacred　duty。　In　the　resolution　of　this　mystery　was　his　mission；　his　purpose；　and　perhaps　an　unknowable　redemption。
　　He　didn't　even　understand　precisely　what　he　meant　by　any　of　that。　He　simply　felt　the　truth　of　it　bone…deep。
　　Trembling；　he　returned　to　the　chair。
　　He　wondered　if　he　was　entirely　sane。
　　
　　　2
　　Joe　called　downstairs　to　the　reception　desk　and　asked　Dewey　Beemis　about　the　woman　who　had　left　the　envelope。
　　'Little　bit　of　a　lady；'　said　Dewey。
　　He　was　a　giant；　however；　and　even　a　six…foot…tall　Amazon　might　seem　petite　to　him。
　　'Would　you　say　five　six；　shorter？'　Joe　asked。
　　'Maybe　five　one；　five　two。　But　mighty。　One　of　those　ladies　looks　like　a　girl　all　her　life　but　been　a　mountain…mover　since　she　graduated　grade　school。'
　　'Black　woman？'　Joe　asked。
　　'Yeah；　she　was　a　sister。'
　　'How　old？'
　　'Maybe　early　forties。　Pretty。　Hair　like　raven　wings。　You　upset　about　something；　Joe？'
　　'No。　No；　I'm　okay。'
　　'You　sound　upset。　This　lady　some　kind　of　trouble？'
　　'No；　she's　okay；　she's　legit。　Thanks；　Dewey。'
　　Joe　put　down　the　phone。
　　The　nape　of　his　neck　was　acrawl　with　gooseflesh。　He　rubbed　it　with　one　hand。
　　His　palms　were　clammy。　He　blotted　them　on　his　jeans。
　　Nervously；　he　picked　up　the　printout　of　the　passenger　manifest　from　Flight　353。　Using　a　ruler　to　keep　his　place；　he　went　down　the　list　of　the　deceased；　line　by　line；　until　he　came　to　Dr。　Rose　Marie　Tucker。
　　Doctor。
　　She　might　be　a　doctor　of　medicine　or　of　literature；　biologist　or　sociologist；　musicologist　or　dentist；　but　in　Joe's　eyes；　her　credibility　was　enhanced　by　the　mere　fact　that　she　had　earned　the　honorific。　The　troubled　people　who　believed　the　mayor　to　be　a　robot　were　more　likely　to　be　patients　than　doctors　of　any　kind。
　　According　to　the　manifest；　Rose　Tucker　was　forty…three　years　old；　and　her　home　was　in　Manassas；　Virginia。　Joe　had　never　been　in　Manassas；　but　he　had　driven　past　it　a　few　times；　because　it　was　an　outer　suburb　of　Washington；　near　the　town　where　Michelle's　parents　lived。
　　Swiveling　to　the　puter　once　more；　he　scrolled　through　the　crash　stories；　seeking　the　thirty　or　more　photographs　of　passengers；　hoping　hers　would　be　among　them。　It　was　not。
　　Judging　by　Dewey's　description；　the　woman　who　had　written　this　note　and　the　woman　in　the　cemetery…whom　Blick　had　called　Rose…were　the　same　person。　If　this　Rose　was　truly　Dr。　Rose　Marie　Tucker　of　Manassas；　Virginia…which　couldn't　be　confirmed　without　a　photo…then　she　had　indeed　been　aboard　Flight　353。
　　And　had　survived。
　　Reluctantly；　Joe　returned　to　the　two　largest　accident…scene　photographs。　The　first　was　the　eerie　shot　with　the　stormy　sky；　the　scorched…black　trees；　the　debris　pulverized　and　twisted　into　surreal　sculpture；　where　the　NTSB　investigators；　faceless　in　bio…hazard　suits　and　hoods；　seemed　to　drift　like　praying　monks　or　like　ominous　spirits　in　a　cold　and　flameless　chamber　in　some　forgotten　level　of　Hell。　The　second　was　an　aerial　shot　revealing　wreckage　so　shattered　and　so　widely　strewn　that　the　term　'catastrophic　accident'　was　a　woefully　inadequate　description。
　　No　one　could　have　survived　this　disaster。
　　Yet　Rose　Tucker；　if　she　was　the　same　Rose　Tucker　who　had　boarded　the　plane　that　night；　had　evidently　not　only　survived　but　had　walked　away　under　her　own　power。　Without　serious　injury。　She　had　not　been　scarred　or　crippled。
　　Impossible。　Dropping　four　miles　in　the　clutch　of　planetary　gravity；　four　long　miles；　accelerating　unchecked　into　hard　earth　and　rock；　the　747　had　not　just　smashed　but　splattered　like　an　egg　thrown　at　a　brick　wall；　and　then　exploded；　and　then　tumbled　in　seething　furies　of　flame。　To　escape　unmarked　from　the　God…rattled　ruins　of　Gomorrah；　to　step　as　unburnt　as　Shadrach　from　the　fiery　furnace　of　Nebuchadnezzar；　to　arise　like　Lazarus　after　four　days　in　the　grave　would　have　been　less　miraculous　than　to　walk　away　untouched　from　the　fall　of　Flight　353。
　　If　he　genuinely　believed　it　was　impossible；　however；　his　mind　would　not　have　been　roily　with　anger　and　anxiety；　with　a　strange　awe　and　with　urgent　curiosity。　In　him　was　a　crazy　yearning　to　embrace　incredibility's；　walk　with　wonder。
　　
　　He　called　directory　assistance　in　Maryland；　seeking　a　telephone　number　for　Dr。　Rose　Marie　Tucker。　He　expected　to　be　told　that　there　was　no　such　listing　or　that　her　service　had　been　disconnected。　After　all；　officially　she　was　dead。
　　Instead；　he　was　given　a　number。
　　She　could　not　have　walked　away　from　the　crash　and　gone　home　and　picked　up　her　life　without　causing　a　sensation。　Besides；　dangerous　people　were　hunting　her。　They　would　have　found　her　if　she　had　ever　returned　to　Manassas。
　　Perhaps　family　still　lived　in　the　house。　For　whatever　reasons；　they　might　have　kept　the　phone　in　her　name。
　　Joe　punched　in　the　number。
　　The　call　was　answered　on　the　second　ring。　'Yes？'
　　'Is　this　the　Tucker　residence？'　Joe　asked。
　　The　voice　was　that　of　a　man；　crisp　and　without　a　regional　accent：
　　'Yes；　it　is。'
　　'Could　I　speak　to　Dr。　Tucker；　please？'
　　'Who's　calling？'
　　Intuition　advised　Joe　to　guard　his　own　name。　'Wally　Blick。'
　　'Excuse　me。　Who？'
　　'Wallace　Blick。'
　　The　man　at　the　other　end　of　the　line　was　silent。　Then：　'What　is　this　in　regard　to？'　His　voice　had　barely　changed；　but　a　new　alertness　coloured