dk.solesurvivor-第24节

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　　At　the　far　end　of　the　room；　backlit　by　the　quivering　glow　of　the　three　decorative　oil　lamps　on　the　table；　Lisa　stood　with　her　fists　pressed　to　her　temples；　as　if　struggling　to　contain　a　skull…cracking　pressure。　No　longer　screaming；　she　sobbed；　groaned；　shuddered　out　whispery　words　that　might　have　been　Oh　God；　oh　God。
　　Georgine　was　not　in　sight。
　　As　the　copper　chimes　subsided　like　the　soft　dissonant　music　in　a　dream　of　trolls；　Joe　hurried　toward　Lisa；　and　from　the　corner　of　his　eye；　he　glimpsed　the　open　wine　bottle　where　Charlie　Delmann　had　left　it　on　the　island　counter。　Beside　the　bottle　were　three　glasses　of　Chardonnay。　The　tremulous　surface　of　each　serving　glimmered　jewel…like；　and　Joe　wondered　fleetingly　if　something　had　been　in　the　wine…poison；　chemical；　drug。
　　When　Lisa　saw　Joe　approaching；　she　lowered　her　hands　from　her　temples　and　opened　her　fists；　wet　and　red；　rose…petal　fingers　adrip　with　dew。　A　stinging　salt　of　sounds　shook　from　her；　pure　animal　emotion；　more　raw　with　grief　and　burning　hotter　with　terror　than　any　words　could　have。
　　At　the　end　of　the　centre　island；　on　the　floor　in　front　of　Lisa；　Georgine　Delmann　was　on　her　side　in　the　foetal　position；　curled　not　in　an　unborn's　anticipation　of　life　but　in　an　embrace　of　death；　both　hands　still　impossibly　clenched　on　the　handle　of　the　knife　that　was　her　cold　umbilical。　Her　mouth　was　twisted　in　a　scream　never　voiced。　Her　eyes　were　wide；　welling　with　terminal　tears；　but　without　depth。
　　The　stink　of　evisceration　hit　Joe　hard　enough　to　knock　him　to　the　edge　of　an　anxiety　attack：　the　familiar　sense　of　falling；　falling　as　from　a　great　height。　If　he　succumbed　to　it；　he　would　be　of　no　use　to　anyone；　no　help　to　Lisa　or　to　himself。
　　With　little　effort；　he　looked　away　from　the　horror　on　the　floor。　With　a　much　greater　effort；　he　willed　himself　back　from　the　brink　of　emotional　dissolution。
　　He　turned　toward　Lisa　to　hold　her；　to　fort　her；　to　move　her　away　from　the　sight　of　her　dead　friend；　but　her　back　was　now　toward　him。
　　Glass　shattered；　and　Joe　flinched。　He　thought　wildly　that　some　murderous　adversary　was　breaking　into　the　kitchen　through　the　windows。
　　The　breaking　was　not　windows　but　glass　oil　lamps；　which　Lisa　had　grasped　like　bottles；　by　their　tall　chimneys。　She　had　smashed　the　bulbous　bases　together；　and　a　viscous　spray　of　oil　had　burst　from　them。
　　Bright　points　of　flame　irised　wider　on　the　tabletop；　became　glaring　pools　of　fire。
　　Joe　grabbed　her　and　tried　to　pull　her　away　from　the　spreading　blaze；　but　without　a　word；　she　wrenched　loose　of　him　and　seized　the　third　lamp。
　　'Lisa！'
　　Granite　and　bronze　ignited　in　the　Polaroid　of　Angela　Delmann's　grave；　image　and　medium　curling　like　a　black　burnt　leaf。
　　Lisa　tipped　the　third　lamp；　pouring　the　oil　and　the　floating　wick　across　the　front　of　her　dress。
　　For　an　instant　Joe　was　immobilized　by　shock。
　　The　oil　washed　Lisa；　but　somehow　the　slithering　spot　of　flame　slipped　along　the　bodice　and　waist　of　her　dress　and　was　extinguished　in　the　skirt。
　　On　the　table；　the　blazing　pools　overlapped；　and　molten　streams　flowed　to　all　edges。　Incandescent　drizzle　sizzled　to　the　floor。
　　Joe　reached　for　her　again；　but　as　if　dipping　into　a　wash　basin；　she　scooped　handfuls　of　flames　off　the　table；　splashing　them　against　her　breast。　As　Lisa's　oil…soaked　clothes　exploded　with　fire；　Joe　snatched　his　hand　back　from　her　and　cried；　'No！'
　　Without　a　scream；　which　at　least　she　had　managed　in　reaction　to　Georgine's　suicide；　without　a　groan　or　even　as　much　as　a　whimper；　she　raised　her　hands；　in　which　balls　of　flame　roiled。　She　stood　briefly　like　the　ancient　goddess　Diana　with　fiery　moons　balanced　on　her　palms；　and　she　brought　her　hands　to　her　face；　to　her　hair。
　　Joe　reeled　backward　from　the　burning　woman；　from　the　sight　that　scorched　his　heart；　from　the　hideous　stench　that　withered　him；　from　an　insoluble　mystery　that　left　him　empty　of　hope。　He　collided　with　cabinetry。
　　Remaining　miraculously　on　her　feet；　as　calm　as　though　standing　only　in　a　cool　rain；　reflected　in　every　angle　of　the　big　bay　window；　Lisa　turned　as　if　to　look　at　Joe　through　her　fuming　veil。　Mercifully；　he　could　see　nothing　of　her　face。
　　Paralyzed　by　horror；　he　realized　he　was　going　to　die　next；　not　from　the　flames　that　licked　the　maple　flooring　around　his　shoes　but　by　his　own　hand；　in　some　fashion　as　monstrous　as　a　self…inflicted　shotgun　wound；　self…evisceration；　self…immolation。　The　plague　of　suicide　had　not　yet　infected　him；　but　it　would　claim　him　the　moment　that　Lisa；　entirely　dead；　crumpled　in　a　heap　on　the　floor…and　yet　he　could　not　move。
　　Wrapped　in　a　whirlwind　of　tempestuous　flames；　she　flung　off　phantoms　of　light　and　ghosts　of　shadow；　which　crawled　up　the　walls　and　swarmed　across　the　ceiling；　and　some　shadows　were　shadows　but　some　were　unspooling　ribbons　of　soot。
　　The　bone…piercing　shriek　of　the　kitchen　smoke　alarm　cracked　the　ice　in　Joe's　marrow。　He　was　jarred　out　of　his　trance。
　　He　ran　with　the　phantoms　and　the　ghosts；　out　of　that　hell；　past　suspended　copper　pots　like　bright　blank　faces　in　a　forge　light；　past　three　glasses　of　Chardonnay　sparkling　with　images　of　flames　and　now　the　colour　of　claret。
　　Through　the　swinging　door；　along　the　hallway；　across　the　foyer；　Joe　felt　closely　pursued　by　something　more　than　the　blatting　of　the　smoke　alarm；　as　though　a　killer　had　been　in　the　kitchen；　after　all；　standing　so　still　in　a　darkish　corner　that　he　had　watched　unnoticed。　At　the　front　door；　as　Joe　grasped　the　knob；　he　expected　a　hand　to　drop　upon　his　shoulder；　expected　to　be　spun　around　and　confronted　by　a　smiling　assassin。
　　From　behind　him　came　not　a　hand　and　not；　as　he　might　have　expected；　a　blast　of　heat；　but　a　hissing　cold　that　first　prickled　the　nape　of　his　neck　and　then　seemed　to　drill　into　the　summit　of　his　spine；　through　the　base　of　his　skull。　He　was　so　panicked　that　he　did　not　remember　opening　the　door　or　leaving　the　house；　but　found　himself　crossing　the　porch；　casting　off　the　chill。
　　He　hurried　along　the　brick　walk　between　the　perfect　box　hedges。　When　he　reached　the　pair　of　matched　magnolias；　where　large　flowers　like　the　white　faces　of　monkeys　peered　from　among　the　glossy　leaves；　he　glanced　back。　He　was　not；　after　all；　being　pursued　by　anyone。
　　The　residential　street　was　quiet　but　for　the　muffled　blaring　of　the　smoke　alarms　in　the　Delmann　house：　no　traffic　at　the　moment；　no　one　out　for　a　walk　in　the　warm　August　night。　On　nearby　porches　and　lawns；　no　one　had　yet　been　drawn　outside　by　the　motion。　Here　the　properties　were　so　large　and　the　stately　houses　so　solidly　built；　with　thick　walls；　that　the　screams　might　not　have　penetrated　to　the　attention　of　the　neighbours；　and　even　the　single　gunshot　might　have　been　apprehended　only　as　a　car　door　slamming　or　a　truck　backfiring。
　　He　considered　waiting　for　the　firemen　and　police；　but　he　could　not　imagine　how　he　would　convincingly　describe　what　had　transpired　in　that　house　in　a　mere　three　or　four　hellish　minutes。　As　he　had　lived　those　feverish　events；　they　had　seemed　hallucinatory；　from　the　sound　of　the　shotgun　to　the　moment　when　Lisa　swathed　herself　in　flames；　and　now　they　were　like　fragments　of　a　deeper　dream　in　the　ongoing　nightmare　of　his　life。
　　The　fire　would　destroy　much　of　the　evidence　of　suicide；　and　the　police　would　detain　him　for　questioning…then　possibly　on　suspicion　of　murder。　They　would　see　a　deeply　troubled　man　who　had　lost　his　way　after　losing　his　family；　who　held　no　job；　who　lived　in　one　room　above　a　garage；　who　was　gaunt　from　weight　loss；　whose　eyes　were　haunted；　who　kept　twenty　thousand　dollars　in　cash　in　the　spare…tyre　well　in　the　trunk　of　his　car。　His　circumstances　and　his　psychological　profile　would　not　dispose　them　to　believe　him　even　if　his　story　had　not　been　so　far　beyond　the　bounds　of　reason。
　　Before　Joe　could　win　his　freedom；　Teknologik　and　its　associates　would　find　him。　They　had　tried　to　shoot　him　down　merely　because　Rose　might　have　told　him　something　they　didn't　want　known
　　…　and　now　he　knew　more　than　he'd　known　then；　even　if　he　didn't　have　any　idea　what　the　hell　to　make　of　it。　Considering　Teknologik's　suspected　connections　to　political　and　military　power　grids；　Joe　more　likely　than　not　would　be　killed　in　jail　during　a　meticulously　planned　altercation　with　other　prisoners　well　paid　to　waste　him。　If　he　survived　jail；　he　would　be　followed　on　his　release　and　eliminated　at　the　first　opportunity。
　　Trying　not　to　break　into　a　run　and　thereby　draw　attention　to　himself；　he　walked　to　the　Honda　across　the　street。
　　At　the　Delmann　house；　kitchen　windows　exploded。　Following　the　brief　ringing　of　falling　glass；　the　shriek　of　the　smoke　alarm　was　considerably　more　audible　than　previously。
　　Joe　glanced　back　and　saw　fire　writhing　out　of　the　back　of　the　house。　The　lamp　oil　served　as　an　accelerant：　Just　inside　the　front　door；　which　he　had　left　standing　open；　tongues　of　fire　already　licked　the　walls　of　the　downstairs　hallway。
　　He　got　in　the　car。　Pulled　the　door　shut。
　　He　had　blood　on　his　right　hand。　Not　his　own　blood。
　　Shuddering；　he　popped　open　the　console　between　the　seats　and　tore　a　handful　of　tissues　from　a　box　of　Kleenex。　He　scrubbed　at　his　hand。
　　He　stuffed　the　wadded　tissues　into　the　bag　that　had