dk.solesurvivor-第7部分

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onze。　She　had　such　a　pelling　presence　that　she　seemed　to　be　ing　at　him　though　she　was　standing　still；　loomed　over　him　though　she　was　ten　inches　shorter　than　he。　She　was　more　brightly　lighted　in　the　pine　shadows　than　he　was　in　the　direct　glare　of　the　sun。
　　'How　are　you　coping？'　she　asked。
　　Disoriented；　he　answered　only　by　shaking　his　head。
　　'Not　well；'　she　whispered。
　　Joe　looked　past　her；　down　at　the　granite　and　bronze　markers。　As　if　from　very　far　away；　he　heard　himself　say；　'Lost　forever；'　speaking　as　much　about　himself　as　about　his　wife　and　daughters。
　　When　he　returned　his　attention　to　the　woman；　she　was　gazing　past　him；　into　the　distance。　As　the　sound　of　a　racing　engine　rose；　concern　crinkled　the　corners　of　her　eyes　and　creased　her　forehead。
　　Joe　turned　to　see　what　was　troubling　her。　Along　the　road　that　he　had　travelled；　a　white　Ford　van　was　approaching　at　a　far　higher　speed　than　the　posted　limit。
　　'Bastards；'　she　said。
　　When　Joe　turned　to　the　woman　again；　she　was　already　running　from　him；　angling　across　the　slope　toward　the　brow　of　the　low　hill。
　　'Hey；　wait；'　he　said。
　　She　didn't　pause　or　look　back。
　　He　started　after　her；　but　his　physical　condition　wasn't　as　good　as　hers。　She　seemed　to　be　an　experienced　runner。　After　a　few　steps；　Joe　halted。　Defeated　by　the　suffocating　heat；　he　wouldn't　be　able　to　catch　up　with　her。
　　Sunlight　mirroring　the　windshield　and　flaring　off　the　headlight　lenses；　the　white　van　shot　past　Joe。　It　paralleled　the　woman　as　she　sprinted　across　the　grave　rows。
　　Joe　started　back　down　the　hill　toward　his　car；　not　sure　what　he　was　going　to　do。　Maybe　he　should　give　chase。　What　the　hell　was　going　on　here？
　　
　　Fifty　or　sixty　yards　beyond　the　parked　Honda；　brakes　shrieking；　leaving　twin　smears　of　rubber　on　the　pavement　behind　it；　the　van　slid　to　a　stop　at　the　curb。　Both　front　doors　flew　open；　and　the　men　in　Hawaiian　shirts　leaped　out。　They　bolted　after　the　woman。
　　Surprise　halted　Joe。　He　hadn't　been　followed　from　Santa　Monica；　not　by　the　white　van；　not　by　any　vehicle。　He　was　sure　of　that。
　　Somehow　they　had　known　that　he　would　e　to　the　cemetery。　And　since　neither　of　the　men　showed　any　interest　in　Joe；　but　went　after　the　woman　as　if　they　were　attack　dogs；　they　must　have　been　watching　him　at　the　beach　not　because　they　were　interested　in　him；　per　se；　but　because　they　hoped　that　she　would　make　contact　with　him　at　some　point　during　the　day。
　　The　woman　was　their　only　quarry。
　　Hell；　they　must　have　been　watching　his　apartment　too；　must　have　followed　him　from　there　to　the　beach。
　　As　far　as　he　knew；　they　had　been　keeping　him　under　surveillance　for　days。　Maybe　weeks。　He　had　been　in　such　a　daze　of　desolation　for　so　long；　walking　through　life　like　a　sleeper　drifting　through　a　dream；　that　he　would　not　have　noticed　these　people　slinking　at　the　periphery　of　his　vision。
　　Who　is　she；　who　are　they；　why　was　she　photographing　the　graves？
　　Uphill　and　at　least　a　hundred　yards　to　the　east；　the　woman　fled　under　the　generously　spreading　boughs　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　brea