dk.solesurvivor-第8节

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of　stone　pines　clustered　along　the　perimeter　of　the　burial　grounds；　across　shaded　grass　only　lightly　dappled　with　sunshine。　Her　dusky　skin　blended　with　the　shadows；　but　her　yellow　blouse　betrayed　her。
　　She　was　heading　toward　a　particular　point　on　the　crest；　as　if　familiar　with　the　terrain。　Considering　that　no　cars　were　parked　along　this　section　of　the　cemetery　road；　except　for　Joe's　Honda　and　the　white　van；　she　might　have　entered　the　memorial　park　by　that　route；　on　foot。
　　The　men　from　the　van　had　a　lot　of　ground　to　make　up　if　they　were　going　to　catch　her。　The　tall　one　in　the　green　shirt　seemed　in　better　shape　than　his　partner；　and　his　legs　were　considerably　longer　than　the　woman's；　so　he　was　gaining　on　her。　Nevertheless；　the　smaller　guy　didn't　relent　even　as　he　fell　steadily　behind。　Sprinting　frantically　up　the　long　sun…seared　slope；　stumbling　over　a　grave　marker；　then　over　another；　regaining　his　balance；　he　charged　on；　as　though　in　an　animal　frenzy；　in　a　blood　fever；　gripped　by　the　need　to　be　there　when　the　woman　was　brought　clown。
　　Beyond　the　manicured　hills　of　the　cemetery　were　other　hills　in　a　natural　condition：　pale　sandy　soil；　banks　of　shale；　brown　grass；　stink　weed；　mesquite；　stunted　manzanita；　tumbleweed；　scattered　low　and　gnarled　dwarf　oaks。　Arid　ravines　led　down　into　the　undeveloped　land　above　Griffith　Observatory　and　east　of　the　Los　Angeles　Zoo；　a　rattlesnake…infested　plot　of　desert　scrub　in　the　heart　of　the　urban　sprawl。
　　If　the　woman　got　into　the　scrub　before　being　caught；　and　if　she　knew　her　way；　she　could　lose　her　pursuers　by　zigging　and　zagging　from　one　narrow　declivity　to　another。
　　Joe　headed　toward　the　abandoned　white　van。　He　might　be　able　to　learn　something　from　it。
　　He　wanted　the　woman　to　escape；　though　he　wasn't　entirely　sure　why　his　sympathies　were　with　her。
　　As　far　as　he　knew；　she　might　be　a　felon　with　a　list　of　heinous　crimes　on　her　rap　sheet。　She　hadn't　looked　like　a　criminal；　hadn't　sounded　like　one。　This　was　Los　Angeles；　however；　where　clean…cut　young　men　brutally　shot　gunned　their　parents　and　then；　as　orphans；　tearfully　begged　the　jury　to　pity　them　and　show　mercy。　No　one　was　what　he　seemed。
　　Yet　。　。　。　the　gentleness　of　her　fingertips　against　his　cheek；　the　sorrow　in　her　eyes；　the　tenderness　in　her　voice　all　marked　her　as　a　woman　of　passion；　whether　she　was　a　fugitive　from　the　law　or　not。　He　could　not　wish　her　ill。
　　A　vicious　sound；　hard　and　flat；　cracked　across　the　cemetery；　leaving　a　brief　throbbing　wound　in　the　hot　stillness。　Another　crack　followed。
　　The　woman　had　nearly　reached　the　brow　of　the　hill。　Visible　between　the　last　two　bristling　pines。　Blue　jeans。　Yellow　blouse。　Stretching　her　legs　with　each　stride。　Brown　arms　pumping　close　to　her　sides。
　　The　smaller　man；　in　the　red　and　orange　Hawaiian　shirt；　had　run　wide　of　his　panion；　whom　he　was　still　trailing；　to　get　a　clear　line　of　sight　on　the　woman。　He　had　stopped　and　raised　his　arms；　holding　something　in　both　hands。　A　handgun。　The　son　of　a　bitch　was　shooting　at　her。
　　Cops　didn't　try　to　shoot　unarmed　fugitives　in　the　back。　Not　righteous　cops。
　　Joe　wanted　to　help　her。　He　couldn't　think　of　anything　to　do。　If　they　were　cops；　he　had　no　right　to　second…guess　them。　If　they　weren't　cops；　and　even　if　he　could　catch　up　with　them；　they　would　probably　shoot　him　down　rather　than　let　him　interfere。
　　Crack。
　　The　woman　reached　the　crest。
　　'Go；'　Joe　urged　her　in　a　hoarse　whisper。　'Go。'
　　He　didn't　have　a　cellular　phone　in　his　own　car；　so　he　couldn't　call　911。　He　had　carried　a　mobile　unit　as　a　reporter；　but　these　days　he　seldom　called　anyone　even　from　his　home　phone。
　　The　keening　crack　of　another　shot　pierced　the　leaden　heat。　If　these　men　weren't　police　officers；　they　were　desperate　or　crazy；　or　both；　resorting　to　gunplay　in　such　a　public　place；　even　though　this　part　of　the　cemetery　was　currently　deserted。　The　sound　of　the　shots　would　travel；　drawing　the　attention　of　the　maintenance　personnel　who；　merely　by　closing　the　formidable　iron　gate　at　the　entrance　to　the　park；　could　prevent　the　gunmen　from　driving　out。
　　Apparently　unhit；　the　woman　disappeared　over　the　top　of　the　hill；　into　the　scrub　beyond。
　　Both　of　the　men　in　Hawaiian　shirts　went　after　her。
　　
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　　Heart　knocking　so　fiercely　that　his　vision　blurred　with　each　hard…driven　surge　of　blood；　Joe　Carpenter　sprinted　to　the　white　van。
　　The　Ford　was　not　a　recreational　vehicle　but　a　panelled　van　of　the　type　monly　used　by　businesses　to　make　small　deliveries。　Neither　the　back　nor　the　side　of　the　vehicle　featured　the　name　or　logo　of　any　enterprise。
　　The　engine　was　running。　Both　front　doors　stood　open。
　　He　ran　to　the　passenger　side；　skidded　in　a　soggy　patch　of　grass　around　a　leaking　sprinkler　head；　and　leaned　into　the　cab；　hoping　to　find　a　cellular　phone。　If　there　was　one；　it　wasn't　in　plain　sight。
　　Maybe　in　the　glove　box。　He　popped　it　open。
　　Someone　in　the　cargo　hold　behind　the　front　seats；　mistaking　Joe　for　one　of　the　men　in　the　Hawaiian　shirts；　said；　'Did　you　get　Rose？'
　　Damn。
　　The　glove　box　contained　a　few　rolls　of　Lifesavers　that　spilled　onto　the　floor…and　a　window　envelope　from　the　Department　of　Motor　Vehicles。
　　By　law；　every　vehicle　in　California　was　required　to　carry　a　valid　registration　and　proof　of　insurance。
　　'Hey；　who　the　hell　are　you？'　the　guy　in　the　cargo　hold　demanded。
　　Clutching　the　envelope；　Joe　turned　away　from　the　van。
　　He　saw　no　point　in　trying　to　run。　This　man　might　be　as　quick　to　shout　people　in　the　back　as　were　the　other　two。
　　With　a　clatter　and　a　skreeeek　of　hinges；　the　single　door　at　the　rear　of　the　vehicle　was　flung　open。
　　Joe　walked　directly　toward　the　sound。　A　sledge…faced　specimen　with　Popeye　forearms；　neck　sufficiently　thick　to　support　a　small　car；　came　around　the　side　of　the　van；　and　Joe　opted　for　the　surprise　of　instant　and　unreasonable　aggression；　driving　one　knee　hard　into　his　crotch。
　　Retching；　wheezing　for　air；　the　guy　started　to　bend　forward；　and
　　
　　Joe　head…butted　him　in　the　face。　He　hit　the　ground　unconscious；　breathing　noisily　through　his　open　mouth　because　his　broken　nose　was　streaming　blood。
　　Although；　as　a　kid；　Joe　had　been　a　fighter　and　something　of　a　troublemaker；　he　had　not　raised　a　fist　against　anyone　since　he　met　and　married　Michelle。　Until　today。　Now；　twice　in　the　past　two　hours；　he　had　resorted　to　violence；　astonishing　himself。
　　More　than　astonished；　he　was　sickened　by　this　primitive　rage。　He　had　never　known　such　wrath　before；　not　even　during　his　troubled　youth；　yet　here　he　was　struggling　to　control　it　again　as　he　had　struggled　in　the　public　lavatory　in　Santa　Monica。　For　the　past　year；　the　fall　of　Flight　353　had　filled　him　with　terrible　despondency　and　grief；　but　he　was　beginning　to　realize　that　those　feelings　were　like　layers　of　oil　atop　another…darker…emotion　that　he　had　been　denying；　what　filled　the　chambers　of　his　heart　to　the　brim　was　anger。
　　If　the　universe　was　a　cold　mechanism；　if　life　was　a　journey　from　one　empty　blackness　to　another；　he　could　not　rant　at　God；　because　to　do　so　was　no　more　effective　than　screaming　for　help　in　the　vacuum　of　deep　space　where　sound　could　not　travel；　or　like　trying　to　draw　breath　underwater。　But　now；　given　any　excuse　to　vent　his　fury　on　people；　he　had　seized　the　opportunity　with　disturbing　enthusiasm。
　　Rubbing　the　top　of　his　head；　which　hurt　from　butting　the　guy　in　the　face；　looking　down　at　the　unconscious　hulk　with　the　bleeding　nose；　Joe　felt　a　satisfaction　that　he　did　not　want　to　feel。　A　wild　glee　simultaneously　thrilled　and　repulsed　him。
　　Dressed　in　a　T…shirt　promoting　the　videogame　Quake；　baggy　black　pants；　and　red　sneakers；　the　fallen　man　appeared　to　be　in　his　late　twenties；　at　least　a　decade　younger　than　his　two　associates。　His　hands　were　massive　enough　to　juggle　cantaloupes；　and　a　single　letter　was　tattooed　on　the　base　phalange　of　each　finger；　thumbs　excluded；　to　spell　out　ANABOLIC；　as　in　anabolic　steroid。
　　This　was　no　stranger　to　violence。
　　Nevertheless；　although　self…defence　justified　a　pre…emptive　strike；　Joe　was　disturbed　by　the　savage　pleasure　he　took　from　such　swift　brutality。
　　The　guy　sure　didn't　look　like　an　officer　of　the　law。　Regardless　of　his　appearance；　he　might　be　a　cop；　in　which　case　assaulting　him　ensured　serious　consequences。
　　To　Joe's　surprise；　even　the　prospect　of　jail　didn't　diminish　his　twisted　satisfaction　in　the　ferocity　with　which　he　had　acted。　He　　felt　half　nauseated；　half　out　of　his　mind…but　more　alive　than　he　had　been　in　a　year。
　　Exhilarated　yet　fearful　of　the　moral　depths　into　which　this　new　empowering　anger　might　take　him；　he　glanced　in　both　directions　along　the　cemetery　road。　There　was　no　oning　traffic。　He　knelt　beside　his　victim。
　　Breath　whistled　wetly　through　the　man's　throat；　and　he　issued　a　soft　childlike　sigh。　His　eyelids　fluttered；　but　he　did　not　regain　consciousness　while　his　pockets　were　searched。
　　Joe　found　nothing　but　a　few　coins；　a　nail　clipper；　a　set　of　house　keys；　and　a　wallet　that　contained　the　standard　ID　and　credit　cards。　The　guy's　name　was　Wallace　Morton　Blick。　He　was　carrying　no　police…agency　badge　or　identification。　Joe　kept　only　the　driver's　license　and　returned　the　wallet　to　the　pocket　from　whi