dk.solesurvivor-第49节

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　　When　Joe　reached　the　intersection　just　past　the　camper　truck；　there　was　no　cross　traffic。　He　slowed；　did　not　e　to　a　full　stop；　and　instead　put　his　foot　down　heavily　on　the　accelerator。
　　In　the　rear…view　mirror；　he　saw　the　man　from　the　bus　stop　hurrying　toward　the　camper；　which　was　already　backing　into　the　street。　Without　the　transponder　to　guide　them；　they　would　have　to　maintain　visual　contact　and　risk　following　him　close　enough　to　blow　their　cover…which　they　thought　they　still　enjoyed。
　　Within　four　miles　Joe　lost　them　at　a　major　intersection　when　he　sped　through　a　yellow　traffic　signal　that　was　changing　to　red。　When　the　camper　tried　to　follow　him；　it　was　thwarted　by　the　surging　cross…traffic。　Even　over　the　whine　and　rattle　of　the　Suburu　engine；　he　heard　the　sharp　bark　of　their　brakes　as　they　slid　to　a　halt　inches　short　of　a　collision。
　　
　　Twenty　minutes　later　he　abandoned　the　Suburu　on　Hilgarde　Street　near　the　UCLA　campus；　as　far　as　he　dared　from　the　address　where　he　was　to　meet　Demi。　He　walked　fast　to　Westwood　Boulevard；　trying　not　to　break　into　a　run　and　draw　attention　to　himself。
　　Not　long　ago　Westwood　Village　had　been　an　island　of　quaint　charm　in　the　more　turbulent　sea　of　the　city　around　it；　a　mecca　for　shoppers　and　theatregoers。　Midst　some　of　the　most　interesting　small…scale　architecture　of　any　Los　Angeles　mercial　district　and　along　the　tree…lined　streets　had　thrived　trendy　clothing　stores；　galleries；　restaurants；　prosperous　theatres　featuring　the　latest　cutting…edge　dramas　and　edies；　and　popular　movie　houses。　It　was　a　place　to　have　fun；　people…watch；　and　be　seen。
　　Then；　during　a　time　when　the　city's　ruling　elite　was　in　one　of　its　periodic　moods　to　view　certain　forms　of　sociopathic　behaviour　as　a　legitimate　protest；　vagrancy　increased；　gang　members　began　to　loiter　in　groups；　and　open　drug　dealing　menced。　A　few　shootings　occurred　in　turf　disputes；　and　many　of　the　fun　lovers　and　shoppers　decided　that　the　scene　was　too　colourful　and　that　to　be　seen　here　was　to　be　marked　as　a　victim。
　　Now　Westwood　was　struggling　back　from　the　precipice。　The　streets　were　safer　than　they　had　been　for　a　while。　Many　shops　and　galleries　had　closed；　however；　and　new　businesses　had　not　moved　into　all　of　the　empty　storefronts。　The　lingering　atmosphere　of　despair　might　take　years　to　dissipate　entirely。　Built　at　the　solemn　pace　of　coral　reefs；　civilization　could　be　destroyed　with　frightening　swiftness；　even　by　a　blast　of　good　intentions；　and　all　that　was　lost　could　be　regained；　if　ever；　only　with　determination。
　　The　gourmet　coffee　house　was　busy。　From　the　open　door　came　the　delicious　aromas　of　several　exotic　brews　and　the　music　of　a　lone　guitarist　playing　a　New　Age　tune　that　was　mellow　and　relaxing　though　filled　with　tediously　repetitive　chords。
　　Joe　intended　to　scout　the　meeting　place　from　across　the　street　and　farther　along　the　block；　but　he　arrived　too　late　to　do　so。　At　two　minutes　past　six　o'clock；　he　stood　outside　of　the　coffee　house　as　instructed；　to　the　right　of　the　entrance；　and　waited　to　be　contacted。
　　Over　the　noise　of　the　street　traffic　and　the　guitar；　he　heard　a　soft　tuneless　jangling…tinkling。　The　sound　instantly　alarmed　him　for　reasons　he　could　not　explain；　and　he　looked　around　nervously　for　the　source。
　　Above　the　door　were　wind　chimes　crafted　from　at　least　twenty　spoons　of　various　sizes　and　materials。　They　clinked　together　in　the　light　breeze。
　　Like　a　mischievous　childhood　playmate；　memory　taunted　him　from　hiding　place　after　hiding　place　in　a　deep　garden　of　the　past　dappled　by　light　and　shadow。　Then　suddenly　he　recalled　the　ceiling…mounted　rack　of　copper　pots　and　pans　in　the　Delmanns'　kitchen。
　　Returning　from　Charlie　Delmann's　bedroom；　in　answer　to　Lisa's　scream；　Joe　had　heard　the　cookware　clinking　and　softly　clanging　as　he　had　hurried　along　the　downstairs　hall。　ing　through　the　door　into　the　kitchen；　he　saw　the　pots　and　pans　swinging　like　pendulums　from　their　hooks。
　　By　the　time　he　reached　Lisa　and　saw　Georgine's　corpse　on　the　floor；　the　cookware　had　settled　into　silence。　But　what　set　those　items　in　motion　in　the　first　place？　Lisa　and　Georgine　were　at　the　far　end　of　the　long　room；　nowhere　near　the　dangling　pots。
　　Like　the　flashing　green　numbers　on　the　digital　clock　at　Charlie　Delmann's　bedside；　like　the　swelling　of　flames　in　the　three　oil　lamps　on　the　kitchen　table；　this　coppery　music　was　important。
　　He　felt　as　though　a　hard　rap　of　insight　was　about　to　crack　the　egg　of　his　ignorance；　letting　spill　a　golden　liquid　understanding。
　　Holding　his　breath；　mentally　reaching　for　the　elusive　connection　that　would　make　sense　of　these　things；　Joe　realized　that　the　shell…cracking　insight　was　receding。　He　strained　to　bring　it　back。　Then；　maddeningly；　it　was　gone。
　　Perhaps　none　of　these　things　was　important：　not　the　oil　lamps；　not　the　digital　clock；　not　the　jangling　cookware。　In　a　world　viewed　through　lenses　of　paranoia…a　pair　of　distorting　spectacles　that　he　had　been　wearing　with　good　reason　for　the　past　day　and　a　half　…every　falling　leaf；　every　whisper　of　wind；　and　every　fretwork　of　shadows　was　invested　with　a　portentous　meaning　that；　in　reality；　it　did　not　possess。　He　was　not　merely　a　neutral　observer；　not　merely　a　reporter　this　time；　but　a　victim；　central　to　his　own　story；　so　maybe　he　could　not　trust　his　journalistic　instincts　when　he　saw　significance　in　these　small；　if　admittedly　strange；　details。
　　Along　the　sidewalk　came　a　tall　black　kid；　college　age；　wearing　shorts　and　a　UCLA　T…shirt；　gliding　on　Rollerblades。　Joe；　puzzling　over　clues　that　might　not　be　clues　at　all；　paid　little　attention　to　the　skater；　until　the　kid　spun　to　a　stop　in　front　of　him　and　handed　him　a　cellular　phone。
　　'You'll　need　this；'　said　the　skater；　in　a　bass　voice　that　would　have　been　pure　gold　to　any　fifties'　doo…wop　group。
　　Before　Joe　could　respond；　the　skater　rolled　away　with　powerful　pushes　of　his　muscular　legs。
　　The　phone　rang　in　Joe's　hand。
　　He　surveyed　the　street；　searching　for　the　surveillance　post　from　which　he　was　being　watched；　but　it　was　not　obvious。
　　The　phone　rang　again；　and　he　answered　it。　'Yeah？'
　　'What's　your　name？'　a　man　asked。
　　'Joe　Carpenter。'
　　'Who're　you　waiting　for？'
　　'I　don't　know　her　name。'
　　'What　do　you　call　her？'
　　'Demi。'
　　'Walk　a　block　and　a　half　south。　Turn　right　at　the　corner　and　keep　going　until　you　e　to　a　bookstore。　It's　still　open。　Go　in；　find　the　biography　section。'
　　The　caller　hung　up。
　　After　all；　there　wasn't　going　to　be　a　pleasant　get…acquainted　chat　over　coffee。
　　
　　According　to　the　business　hours　posted　on　the　glass　door；　the　bookstore　closed　on　Sundays　at　six　o'clock。　It　was　a　quarter　past　six。　Through　the　big　display　windows；　Joe　saw　that　the　fluorescent　panels　toward　the　front　of　the　store　were　dark；　only　a　few　at　the　back　were　lighted；　but　when　he　tried　the　door；　it　was　unlocked。
　　Inside；　a　single　clerk　waited　at　the　cashiers'　counter。　He　was　black；　in　his　late　thirties；　as　small　and　wiry　as　a　jockey；　with　a　moustache　and　goatee。　Behind　the　thick　lenses　of　his　horn…rimmed　glasses；　his　eyes　were　as　large　as　those　of　a　persistent　interrogator　in　a　dream　of　inquisition。
　　'Biographies？'　Joe　asked。
　　ing　out　from　behind　the　counter；　the　clerk　pointed　to　the　right　rear　corner　of　the　store；　where　light　glowed　beyond　ranks　of　shadowed　shelves。
　　As　he　headed　deeper　into　the　maze　of　books；　Joe　heard　the　front　door　being　locked　behind　him。
　　In　the　biography　aisle；　another　black　man　was　waiting。　He　was　a　huge　slab　of　ebony…and　appeared　capable　of　being　an　irresistible　force　or　an　immovable　object；　whichever　was　required。　His　face　was　as　placid　as　that　of　Buddha；　but　his　eyes　were　like　Kansas　windows　with　views　of　tornadoes。
　　He　said；　'Assume　the　position。'
　　At　once　Joe　knew　he　was　dealing　with　a　cop　or　former　cop。
　　Obediently；　he　faced　a　wall　of　books；　spread　his　legs　wide；　leaned　forward　with　both　hands　against　the　shelves；　and　stared　at　the　spines　of　the　volumes　in　front　of　him。　One　in　particular　caught　his　attention：　a　massive　biography　of　Henry　James；　the　writer。
　　Henry　James。
　　For　some　reason　even　that　name　seemed　significant。　Everything　seemed　significant；　but　nothing　was。　Least　of　all；　the　name　of　a　long…dead　writer。
　　The　cop　frisked　him　quickly　and　professionally；　searching　for　a　weapon　or　a　transmitter。　When　he　found　neither；　he　said；　'Show　me　some　ID。'
　　Joe　turned　away　from　the　shelves　and　fished　his　driver's　license　from　his　wallet。
　　The　cop　pared　the　photo　on　the　license　with　Joe's　face；　read　his　vital　statistics　and　pared　them　to　the　reality；　then　returned　the　card。　'See　the　cashier。'
　　'What？'
　　'The　guy　when　you　came　in。'
　　The　wiry　man　with　the　goatee　was　waiting　by　the　front　door。　He　unlocked　it　as　Joe　approached。　'You　still　have　the　phone？'
　　Joe　offered　it　to　him。
　　'No；　hold　on　to　it；'　the　cashier　said。　'There's　a　black　Mustang　parked　at　the　curb。　Drive　it　down　to　Wilshire　and　turn　west。　You'll　be　contacted。'
　　As　the　cashier　opened　the　door　and　held　it；　Joe　stared　at　the　car　and　said；　'Whose　is　it？'
　　From　behind　the　bottle…thick　lenses；　the　magnified　eyes　studied　him　as　though　he　were　a　bacterium　at　the　lower　end　of　a　microscop