dk.solesurvivor-第50节

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　　From　behind　the　bottle…thick　lenses；　the　magnified　eyes　studied　him　as　though　he　were　a　bacterium　at　the　lower　end　of　a　microscope。　'What's　it　matter　whose？'
　　'Doesn't；　I　guess。'
　　Joe　went　outside　and　got　into　the　Mustang。　The　keys　were　in　the　ignition。
　　At　Wilshire　Boulevard；　he　turned　west。　The　car　was　almost　as　old　as　the　Suburu　that　he　had　gotten　from　Gem　Fittich。　The　engine　sounded　better；　however；　the　interior　was　cleaner；　and　instead　of　pine…scented　disinfectant　masking　the　stink　of　stale　cigarette　smoke；　the　air　held　a　faint　tang　of　menthol　after…shave。
　　Shortly　after　he　drove　through　the　underpass　at　the　San　Diego　Freeway；　the　cellular　phone　rang。　'Yeah？'
　　The　man　who　had　sent　him　to　the　bookstore　now　said；　'You're　going　all　the　way　to　the　ocean　in　Santa　Monica。　When　you　get　there；　I'll　ring　you　with　more　directions。'
　　All　right。'
　　'Don't　stop　anywhere　along　the　way。　You　understand？'
　　'Yes。'
　　'We'll　know　if　you　do。'
　　They　were　somewhere　in　the　traffic　around　him；　in　front　or　behind…or　both。　He　didn't　bother　to　look　for　them。
　　The　caller　said；　'Don't　try　to　use　your　phone　to　call　anyone。　We'll　know　that　too。'
　　'I　understand。'
　　'Just　one　question。　The　car　you're　driving…why　did　you　want　to　know　whose　it　was？'
　　Joe　said；　'Some　seriously　unpleasant　bastards　are　looking　for　me。　If　they　find　me；　I　don't　want　to　get　any　innocent　people　in　trouble　just　because　I　was　using　their　car。'
　　'Whole　world's　already　in　trouble；　man。　Haven't　you　noticed？'　the　caller　asked；　and　then　he　disconnected。
　　With　the　exception　of　the　cop…or　former　cop…in　the　bookstore；　these　people　who　were　hiding　Rose　Tucker　and　providing　security　for　her　were　amateurs　with　limited　resources　pared　to　the　thugs　who　worked　for　Teknologik。　But　they　were　thoughtful　and　clever　amateurs　with　undeniable　talent　for　the　game。
　　
　　Joe　was　not　halfway　through　Santa　Monica；　with　the　ocean　still　far　ahead；　when　an　image　of　the　book　spine　rose　in　his　mind…the　name　Henry　James。
　　Henry　James。　So　what？
　　Then　the　title　of　one　of　James'　best…known　works　came　to　him。　The　Turn　of　the　Screw。　It　would　be　on　any　short　list　of　the　most　famous　ghost　stories　ever　written。
　　Ghost。
　　The　inexplicable　welling　of　the　oil…lamp　flames；　the　flashing　of　the　numbers　on　the　clock；　the　jangling　pots　and　pans　now　seemed　as　if　they　might　have　been　linked；　after　all。　And　as　he　recalled　those　images；　it　was　easy　in　retrospect　to　discern　a　supernatural　quality　to　them…although　he　was　aware　that　his　imagination　might　be　enhancing　the　memories　in　that　regard。
　　He　remembered；　as　well；　how　the　foyer　chandelier　had　dimmed　and　brightened　and　dimmed　repeatedly　as　he　had　hurried　upstairs　in　response　to　the　shotgun　blast　that　had　killed　Charlie　Delmann。　In　the　fearsome　turmoil　that　had　followed；　he'd　forgotten　that　odd　detail。
　　Now　he　was　reminded　of　countless　séance　scenes　in　old　movies　and　television　programs；　in　which　the　opening　of　the　door　between　this　world　and　the　realm　of　spirits　was　marked　by　the　pulsing　of　electric　lights　or　the　guttering　of　candles　without　the　presence　of　a　draft。
　　Ghost。
　　This　was　absurd　speculation。　Worse　than　absurd。　Insane。　There　were　no　such　things　as　ghosts。
　　Yet　now　he　recalled　another　disquieting　incident　that　occurred　as　he'd　fled　the　Delmann　house。
　　Racing　from　the　kitchen　with　the　smoke　alarm　blaring　behind　him；　along　the　hallway　and　across　the　foyer　to　the　door。　His　hand　on　the　knob。　From　behind　es　a　hissing　cold；　prickling　his　neck；　drilling　through　the　base　of　his　skull。　Then　he　is　crossing　the　porch　without　any　memory　of　having　opened　the　door。
　　This　seemed　to　be　a　meaningful　incident　as　long　as　he　considered　it　to　be　meaningful…but　as　soon　as　scepticism　reasserted　itself；　the　moment　appeared　to　be　utterly　without　import。　Yes；　if　he　had　felt　anything　at　the　back　of　his　neck；　it　should　have　been　the　heat　of　the　fire；　not　a　piercing　chill。　And；　yes；　this　cold　had　been　different　from　anything　that　he　had　ever　felt　before：　not　a　spreading　chill　but　like　the　tip　of　an　icicle…indeed；　more　finely　pointed　yet；　like　a　stiletto　of　steel　taken　from　a　freezer；　a　wire；　a　needle。　A　needle　inserted　into　the　summit　of　his　spine。　But　this　was　a　subjective　perception　of　something　that　he　had　felt；　not　a　journalist's　measured　observation　of　a　concrete　phenomenon。　He'd　been　in　a　state　of　sheer　panic；　and　he'd　felt　a　lot　of　peculiar　things；　they　were　nothing　but　normal　physiological　responses　to　extreme　stress。　As　for　the　few　seconds　of　blank　memory　between　the　time　when　he'd　put　his　hand　on　the　doorknob　and　when　he'd　found　himself　most　of　the　way　across　the　porch。。。　Well；　that　was　also　easily　explained　by　panic；　by　stress；　and　by　the　blinding　power　of　the　overwhelming　animal　instinct　to　survive。
　　Not　a　ghost。
　　Rest　in　peace；　Henry　James。
　　As　he　progressed　through　Santa　Monica　toward　the　ocean；　Joe's　brief　embrace　of　superstition　loosened；　lost　all　passion。　Reason　returned。
　　Nevertheless；　something　about　the　concept　of　a　ghost　continued　to　seem　significant　to　him。　He　had　a　hunch　that　eventually　he　would　arrive　at　a　rational　explanation　derived　from　this　consideration　of　the　supernatural；　a　provable　theory　that　would　be　as　logical　as　the　meticulously　structured　prose　of　Henry　James。
　　A　needle　of　ice。　Piercing　to　the　grey　matter　in　the　centre　of　the　spine。　An　injection；　a　quick　cold　squirt　of。。。　something。
　　Did　Nora　Vadance　feel　that　ghost　needle　an　instant　before　she　got　up　from　the　breakfast　table　to　fetch　the　camcorder？
　　Did　the　Delmanns　feel　it？
　　And　Lisa？
　　Did　Captain　Delroy　Blane　feel　it；　too；　before　he　disengaged　the　auto　pilot；　clubbed　his　First　Officer　in　the　face；　and　calmly　piloted　Flight　353　straight　into　the　earth？
　　Not　a　ghost；　perhaps；　but　something　fully　as　terrifying　and　as　malevolent　as　any　evil　spirit　returned　from　the　abyss　of　the　damned；　something　akin　to　a　ghost。
　　
　　When　Joe　was　two　blocks　from　the　Pacific；　the　cell　phone　rang　for　the　third　time。
　　The　caller　said；　'Okay；　turn　right　on　the　Coast　Highway　and　keep　driving　until　you　hear　from　us　again。'
　　To　Joe's　left；　less　than　two　hours　of　sunlight　lay　over　the　ocean；　like　lemon　sauce　cooking　in　a　pan；　gradually　thickening　to　a　deeper　yellow。
　　In　Malibu；　the　phone　rang　again。　He　was　directed　to　a　turnoff　that　would　take　him　to　Santa…Fe…by…the…Sea；　a　Southwest　restaurant　on　a　bluff　overlooking　the　ocean。
　　'Leave　the　phone　on　the　passenger's　seat　and　give　the　car　to　the　valet。　He　knows　who　you　are。　The　reservation　is　in　your　name；'　said　the　caller；　and　he　hung　up　for　the　last　time。
　　The　big　restaurant　looked　like　an　adobe　lodge　transported　from　New　Mexico；　with　turquoise　window　trim；　turquoise　doors；　and　walkways　of　red…clay　tiles。　The　landscaping　consisted　of　cactus　gardens　in　beds　of　white　pebbles…and　two　large　sorrel　trees　with　dark　green　foliage　and　sprays　of　white　flowers。
　　The　Hispanic　valet　was　more　handsome　by　far　than　any　current　or　past　Latin　movie　star；　affecting　a　moody　and　smouldering　stare　that　he　had　surely　practiced　in　front　of　a　mirror　for　eventual　use　in　front　of　a　camera。　As　the　man　on　the　phone　had　promised；　the　valet　was　expecting　Joe　and　didn't　give　him　a　claim　check　for　the　Mustang。
　　Inside；　Santa…Fe…by…the…Sea　featured　massive　lodgepole…pine　ceiling　beams；　vanilla…coloured　plaster；　and　more　red…clay　payers。　The　chairs　and　tables　and　other　furnishings；　which　fortunately　didn't　push　the　Southwest　theme　to　extremes；　were　J。　Robert　Scott　knockoffs　though　not　inexpensive；　and　the　decorator's　palette　was　restricted　to　pastels　used　to　interpret　classic　Navajo　motifs。
　　A　fortune　had　been　spent　here；　and　Joe　was　acutely　aware　that　by　parison　to　the　decor；　he　was　a　scruffy　specimen。　He　hadn't　shaved　since　leaving　for　Colorado　more　than　twelve　hours　ago。　Because　most　contemporary　male　movie　stars　and　directors　indulged　in　a　perpetually　adolescent　lifestyle；　blue　jeans　were　acceptable　attire　even　at　many　tony　establishments　in　Los　Angeles。　But　his　new　corduroy　jacket　was　wrinkled　and　baggy　from　having　been　rain…soaked　earlier；　and　he　had　the　rumpled　look　of　a　traveller　…or　a　lush　ing　off　a　bender。
　　The　young　hostess；　as　beautiful　as　any　famous　actress　and　no　doubt　passing　time　in　food　service　while　waiting　for　the　rote　that　would　win　her　an　Oscar；　seemed　to　find　nothing　about　his　appearance　to　disdain。　She　led　him　to　a　window　table　set　for　two。
　　Glass　formed　the　entire　west　wall　of　the　building。　Tinted　plastic　blinds　softened　the　power　of　the　declining　sun。　The　view　of　the　coastline　was　spectacular　as　it　curved　outward　both　to　the　north　and　south…and　the　sea　was　the　sea。
　　'Your　associate　has　been　delayed；'　the　hostess　said；　evidently　referring　to　Demi。　'She's　asked　that　you　have　dinner　without　her；　and　she'll　join　you　afterwards。'
　　Joe　didn't　like　this　development。　Didn't　like　it　at　all。　He　was　eager　to　make　the　connection　with　Rose；　eager　to　learn　what　she　had　to　tell　him…eager　to　find　Nina。
　　He　was　playing　by　their　rules；　however。　All　right。　Thanks。'
　　If　Tom　Cruise　had　undergone　cosmetic　surgery　to　improve　his　appearance；　he　might　have　been　as　handsome　as　Joe's　waiter。　His　name　was　Gene；　and　he　seemed　t