dk.solesurvivor-第21节

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n　anything　that　might　help　us　understand。'
　　They　shook　hands。　The　handshake　became　a　brotherly　hug。
　　Clarise　said；　'What'll　you　do　now；　Joe？'
　　He　checked　the　luminous　dial　of　his　watch。　'It's　only　a　few　minutes　past　nine。　I'm　going　to　try　to　see　another　of　the　families　tonight。'
　　'Be　careful；'　she　said。
　　'I　will。'
　　'Something's　wrong；　Joe。　Something's　wrong　big　time。'
　　'I　know。'
　　Bob　and　Clarise　were　still　standing　on　the　porch；　side　by　side；　watching　Joe　as　he　drove　away。
　　Although　he'd　finished　more　than　half　of　his　second　drink；　Joe　felt　no　effect　from　the　7…and…7。　He　had　never　seen　a　picture　of　Nora　Vadance；　nevertheless；　the　mental　image　he　held　of　a　faceless　woman　in　a　patio　chair　with　a　butcher　knife　was　sufficiently　sobering　to　counter　twice　the　amount　of　whiskey　that　he　had　drunk。
　　The　metropolis　glowed；　a　luminous　fungus　festering　along　the　coast。　Like　spore　clouds；　the　sour…yellow　radiance　rose　and　smeared　the　sky。　Nevertheless；　a　few　stars　were　visible：　icy；　distant　light。
　　A　minute　ago；　the　night　had　seemed　gracious；　and　he　had　seen　nothing　to　fear　in　it。　Now　it　loomed；　and　he　repeatedly　checked　his　rear…view　mirror。
　　
　　　4
　　Charles　and　Georgine　Delmann　lived　in　an　enormous　Georgian　house　on　a　half…acre　lot　in　Hancock　Park。　A　pair　of　magnolia　trees　framed　the　entrance　to　the　front　walk；　which　was　flanked　by　knee…high　box　hedges　so　neatly　groomed　that　they　appeared　to　have　been　trimmed　by　legions　of　gardeners　with　cuticle　scissors。　The　extremely　rigid　geometry　of　the　house　and　grounds　revealed　a　need　for　order；　a　faith　in　the　superiority　of　human　arrangement　over　the　riot　of　nature。
　　The　Delmanns　were　physicians。　He　was　an　internist　specializing　in　cardiology；　and　she　was　both　internist　and　ophthalmologist。　They　were　prominent　in　the　munity；　because　in　addition　to　their　regular　medical　practices；　they　had　founded　and　continued　to　oversee　a　free　clinic　for　children　in　East　Los　Angeles　and　another　in　South　Central。
　　When　the　747…400　fell；　the　Delmanns　lost　their　eighteen…year…old　daughter；　Angela；　who　had　been　returning　from　an　invitation…only；　six…week　watercolour　workshop　at　a　university　in　New　York；　to　prepare　for　her　first　year　at　art　school　in　San　Francisco。　Apparently；　she　had　been　a　talented　painter　with　considerable　promise。
　　Georgine　Delmann　herself　answered　the　door。　Joe　recognized　her　from　her　photo　in　one　of　the　Post　articles　about　the　crash。　She　was　in　her　late　forties；　tall　and　slim；　with　richly　glowing　dusky　skin；　masses　of　curly　dark　hair；　and　lively　eyes　as　purple…black　as　plums。　Hers　was　a　wild　beauty；　and　she　assiduously　tamed　it　with　steel…frame　eyeglasses　instead　of　contacts；　no　makeup；　and　grey　slacks　and　white　blouse　that　were　manly　in　style。
　　When　Joe　told　her　his　name；　before　he　could　say　that　his　family　had　been　on　Flight　353；　she　exclaimed；　to　his　surprise；　'My　God；　we　were　just　talking　about　you！'
　　'Me？'
　　Grabbing　his　hand；　pulling　him　across　the　threshold　into　the　marble…floored　foyer；　pushing　the　door　shut　with　her　hip；　she　didn't　take　her　astonished　gaze　from　him。　'Lisa　was　telling　us　about　your　wife　and　daughters；　about　how　you　just　dropped　out；　went　away。　But　now　here　you　are；　here　you　are。'
　　'Lisa？'　he　said；　perplexed。
　　This　night；　at　least；　the　sober…physician　disguise　of　her　severe　clothes　and　steel…rimmed　spectacles　could　not　conceal　the　sparkling　depths　of　Georgine　Delmann's　natural　ebullience。　She　threw　her　arms　around　Joe　and　kissed　him　on　the　cheek　so　hard　that　he　was　rocked　back　on　his　heels。　Then　face　to　face　with　him；　searching　his　eyes；　she　said　excitedly；　'She's　been　to　see　you；　too；　hasn't　she？'
　　'Lisa？'
　　'No；　no；　not　Lisa。　Rose。'
　　An　inexplicable　hope　skipped　like　a　thrown　stone　across　the　lake…dark　surface　of　his　heart。　'Yes。　But…'
　　'e；　e　with　me。'　Clutching　his　hand　again；　pulling　him　out　of　the　foyer　and　along　a　hall　toward　the　back　of　the　house；　she　said；　'We're　back　here；　at　the　kitchen　table…me　and　Charlie　and　Lisa。'
　　At　meetings　of　The　passionate　Friends；　Joe　had　never　seen　any　bereaved　parent　capable　of　this　effervescence。　He'd　never　heard　of　such　a　creature；　either。　Parents　who　lost　young　children　spent　five　or　six　years…sometimes　a　decade　or　even　more　…striving；　often　fruitlessly；　merely　to　overe　the　conviction　that　they　themselves　should　be　dead　instead　of　their　offspring；　that　outliving　their　children　was　sinful　or　selfish…or　even　monstrously　wicked。　It　wasn't　much　different　for　those　who；　like　the　Delmanns；　had　lost　an　eighteen…year…old。　In　fact；　it　was　no　different　for　a　sixty…year…old　parent　who　lost　a　thirty…year…old　child。　Age　had　nothing　to　do　with　it。　The　loss　of　a　child　at　any　stage　of　life　is　unnatural；　so　wrong　that　purpose　is　difficult　to　rediscover。　Even　when　acceptance　is　achieved　and　a　degree　of　happiness　attained；　joy　often　remains　elusive　forever；　like　a　promise　of　water　in　a　dry　well　once　brimming　but　now　holding　only　the　deep；　damp　smell　of　past　sustenance。
　　Yet　here　was　Georgine　Delmann；　flushed　and　sparkling；　girlishly　excited；　as　she　pulled　Joe　to　the　end　of　the　hallway　and　through　a　swinging　door。　She　seemed　not　merely　to　have　recovered　from　the　loss　of　her　daughter　in　one　short　year　but　to　have　transcended　it。
　　Joe's　brief　hope　faded；　because　it　seemed　to　him　that　Georgine　Delmann　must　be　out　of　her　mind　or　inprehensibly　shallow。　Her　apparent　joy　shocked　him。
　　The　lights　were　dimmed　in　the　kitchen；　but　he　could　see　the　space　was　cosy　in　spite　of　being　large；　with　a　maple　floor；　maple　cabinetry；　and　sugar…brown　granite　counters。　From　overhead　racks；　in　the　low　amber　light；　gleaming　copper　pots　and　pans　and　utensils　dangled　like　festoons　of　temple　bells　waiting　for　the　vespers　hour。
　　Leading　Joe　across　the　kitchen　to　a　breakfast　table　in　a　bay…window　alcove；　Georgine　Delmann　said；　'Charlie；　Lisa；　look　who's　here！　It's　almost　a　miracle；　isn't　it？'
　　Beyond　the　bevelled…glass　windows　was　a　backyard　and　pool；　which　outdoor　lighting　had　transformed　into　a　storybook　scene　full　of　sparkle　and　glister。　On　the　oval　table　this　side　of　the　window　were　three　decorative；　glass　oil　lamps　with　flames　a…dance　on　floating　wicks。
　　Beside　the　table　stood　a　tall　good…looking　man　with　thick；　silver　hair：　Dr。　Charles　Delmann。
　　As　Georgine　approached　with　Joe　in　tow；　she　said；　'Charlie；　it's　Joe　Carpenter。　The　Joe　Carpenter。'
　　Staring　at　Joe　with　something　like　wonder；　Charlie　Delmann　came　forward　and　vigorously　shook　his　hand。　'What's　happening　here；　son？'
　　'I　wish　I　knew；'　Joe　said。
　　'Something　strange　and　wonderful　is　happening；'　Delmann　said；　as　transported　by　emotion　as　was　his　wife。
　　Rising　from　a　chair　at　the　table；　blond　hair　further　gilded　by　the　lambent　light　of　the　oil　lamps；　was　the　Lisa　to　whom　Georgine　had　referred。　She　was　in　her　forties；　with　the　smooth　face　of　a　college　girl　and　faded…denim　eyes　that　had　seen　more　than　one　level　of　Hell。
　　Joe　knew　her　well。　Lisa　Peccatone。　She　worked　for　the　Post。　A　former　colleague。　She　was　an　investigative　reporter　specializing　in　stories　about　particularly　heinous　criminals…serial　killers；　child　abusers；　rapists　who　mutilated　their　victims…driven　by　an　obsession　that　Joe　had　never　fully　understood；　prowling　the　bleakest　chambers　of　the　human　heart；　pelled　to　immerse　herself　in　stories　of　blood　and　madness；　seeking　meaning　in　the　most　meaningless　acts　of　human　savagery。　He　sensed　that　a　long　time　ago　she　had　endured　unspeakable　offences；　had　e　out　of　childhood　with　a　beast　on　her　back；　and　could　not　shrive　herself　of　the　demon　memory　other　than　by　struggling　to　understand　what　could　never　be　understood。　She　was　one　of　the　kindest　people　he　had　ever　known　and　one　of　the　angriest；　brilliant　and　deeply　troubled；　fearless　but　haunted；　able　to　write　prose　so　fine　that　it　could　lift　the　hearts　of　angels　or　strike　terror　into　the　hollow　chests　of　devils。　Joe　admired　the　hell　out　of　her。　She　was　one　of　his　best　friends；　yet　he　had　abandoned　her　with　all　of　his　other　friends　when　he　had　followed　his　lost　family　into　a　graveyard　of　the　heart。
　　'Joey；'　she　said；　'you　worthless　sonofabitch；　are　you　back　on　the　job　or　are　you　here　just　because　you're　part　of　the　story？'
　　'I'm　on　the　job　because　I'm　part　of　the　story。　But　I'm　not　writing　again。　Don't　have　much　faith　in　the　power　of　words　any　more。'
　　'I　don't　have　much　faith　in　anything　else。'
　　'What're　you　doing　here？'　he　asked。
　　'We　called　her　just　a　few　hours　ago；'　said　Georgine。　'We　asked　her　to　e。'
　　'No　offence；'　Charlie　said；　clapping　a　hand　on　Joe's　shoulder；　'but　Lisa's　the　only　reporter　we　ever　knew　that　we　have　a　lot　of　respect　for。'
　　'Almost　a　decade　now；'　Georgine　said；　'she's　been　doing　eight　hours　a　week　of　volunteer　work　at　one　of　the　free　clinics　we　operate　for　disadvantaged　kids。'
　　Joe　hadn't　known　this　about　Lisa　and　wouldn't　have　suspected　it。
　　She　could　not　repress　a　crooked；　embarrassed　smile。　'Yeah；　Joey；　I'm　a　regular　Mother　Theresa。　But　listen；　you　shithead；　don't　you　ruin　my　reputation　by　telling　people　at　the　Post。'
　　'I　want　some　wine。　Who　wants　wine？　A　good　Chardonnay；　maybe　a　Cakebread　or　a　Grgich　Hills；'　Charlie　enthused。　He　was　infected　with　his　wife's　inappropriate