dk.watchers-第1部分

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　Lennart　Sane
　who　is　not　only　the　best　at　what　he　does　but　who　is　also　a　nice　guy。
　And　to
　Elisabeth　Sane
　who　is　as　charming　as　her　husband。
　　
　　
　　
　PART　ONE
　Shattering　the　Past
　The　past　is　but　the　beginning　of　a　beginning；
　and　all　that　is　and　has　been
　is　but　the　twilight　of　the　dawn。
　…H。　G。　Wells
　The　meeting　of　two　personalities　is　like　the　contact　of　two　chemical　substances：　if　there　is　any　reaction；　both　are　transformed。
　…C。　G。　Jung
　　
　ONE
　1
　On　his　thirty…sixth　birthday；　May　18；　Travis　Cornell　rose　at　five　o'clock　in　the　morning。　He　dressed　in　sturdy　hiking　boots；　jeans；　and　a　long…sleeved；　blue…plaid　cotton　shirt。　He　drove　his　pickup　south　from　his　home　in　Santa　Barbara　all　the　way　to　rural　Santiago　Canyon　on　the　eastern　edge　of　Orange　County；　south　of　Los　Angeles。　He　took　only　a　package　of　Oreo　cookies；　a　large　canteen　full　of　orange…flavored　Kool…Aid；　and　a　fully　loaded　Smith　&　Wesson　。38　Chiefs　Special。
　During　the　two…and…a…half…hour　trip；　he　never　switched　on　the　radio。　He　never　hummed；　whistled；　or　sang　to　himself　as　men　alone　frequently　do。　For　part　of　the　drive；　the　Pacific　lay　on　his　right。　The　morning　sea　was　broodingly　dark　toward　the　horizon；　as　hard　and　cold　as　slate；　but　nearer　shore　it　was　brightly　spangled　with　early　light　the　colors　of　pennies　and　rose　petals。　Travis　did　not　once　glance　appreciatively　at　the　sun…sequined　water。
　He　was　a　lean；　sinewy　man　with　deep…set　eyes　the　same　dark　brown　as　his　hair。　His　face　was　narrow；　with　a　patrician　nose；　high　cheekbones；　and　a　slightly　pointed　chin。　It　was　an　ascetic　face　that　would　have　suited　a　monk　in　some　holy　order　that　still　believed　in　self…flagellation；　in　the　purification　of　the　soul　through　suffering。　God　knows；　he'd　had　his　share　of　suffering。　But　it　could　be　a　pleasant　face；　too；　warm　and　open。　His　smile　had　once　charmed　women；　though　not　recently。　He　had　not　smiled　in　a　long　time。
　The　Oreos；　the　canteen；　and　the　revolver　were　in　a　small　green　nylon　backpack　with　black　nylon　straps；　which　lay　on　the　seat　beside　him。　Occasionally；　he　glanced　at　the　pack；　and　it　seemed　as　if　he　could　see　straight　through　the　fabric　to　the　loaded　Chiefs　Special。
　From　Santiago　Canyon　Road　in　Orange　County；　he　turned　onto　a　much　narrower　route；　then　onto　a　tire…eating　dirt　lane。　At　a　few　minutes　past　eight…thirty；　he　parked　the　red　pickup　in　a　lay…by；　under　the　immense　bristly　boughs　of　a　big…cone　spruce。
　He　slipped　the　harness　of　the　small　backpack　over　his　shoulders　and　set　Out　into　the　foothills　of　the　Santa　Ana　Mountains。　From　his　boyhood；　he　knew　every　slope；　vale；　narrow　defile；　and　ridge。　His　father　had　owned　a　Stone　cabin　in　upper　Holy　Jim　Canyon；　perhaps　the　most　remote　of　all　the　inhabited　canyons；　and　Travis　had　spent　weeks　exploring　the　wild　land　for　miles　around。
　He　loved　these　untamed　canyons；　When　he　was　a　boy；　black　bears　had
　roamed　the　woods；　they　were　gone　now。　Mule　deer　could　still　be　found；　though　not　in　the　great　numbers　he　had　seen　two　decades　ago。　At　least　the　beautiful　folds　and　thrusts　of　land；　the　profuse　and　varied　brush；　and　the　trees　were　still　as　they　had　been：　for　long　stretches　he　walked　beneath　a　canopy　of　California　live　oaks　and　sycamores。
　Now　and　then　he　passed　a　lone　cabin　or　a　cluster　of　them。　A　few　canyon　dwellers　were　half…hearted　survivalists　who　believed　the　end　of　civilization　was　approaching；　but　who　did　not　have　the　heart　to　move　to　a　place　even　more　forbidding。　Most　were　ordinary　people　who　were　fed　up　with　the　hurlyburly　of　modern　life　and　thrived　in　spite　of　having　no　plumbing　or　electricity。
　Though　the　canyons　seemed　remote；　they　would　soon　be　overwhelmed　by　encroaching　suburbs。　Within　a　hundred…mile　radius；　nearly　ten　million　people　lived　in　the　interconnecting　munities　of　Orange　and　Los　Angeles　counties；　and　growth　was　not　abating。
　But　now　crystalline；　revelatory　light　fell　on　the　untamed　land　with　almost　as　much　substance　as　rain；　and　all　was　clean　and　wild。
　On　the　treeless　spine　of　a　ridge；　where　the　low　grass　that　had　grown　during　the　short　rainy　season　had　already　turned　dry　and　brown；　Travis　sat　upon　a　broad　table　of　rock　and　took　off　his　backpack。
　A　five…foot　rattlesnake　was　sunning　on　another　flat　rock　fifty　feet　away。　It　raised　its　mean　wedge…shaped　head　and　studied　him。
　As　a　boy；　he　had　killed　scores　of　rattlers　in　these　hills。　He　withdrew　the　gun　from　the　backpack　and　rose　from　the　rock。　He　took　a　couple　of　steps　toward　the　snake。
　The　rattler　rose　farther　off　the　ground　and　stared　intensely。
　Travis　took　another　step；　another；　and　assumed　a　shooter's　stance；　with　both　hands　on　the　gun。
　The　rattler　began　to　coil。　Soon　it　would　realize　that　it　could　not　strike　at　such　a　distance；　and　would　attempt　to　retreat。
　Although　Travis　was　certain　his　shot　was　clear　and　easy；　he　was　surprised　to　discover　that　he　could　not　squeeze　the　trigger。　He　had　e　to　these　foothills　not　merely　to　attempt　to　recall　a　time　when　he　had　been　glad　to　be　alive；　but　also　to　kill　snakes　if　he　saw　any。　Lately；　alternately　depressed　and　angered　by　the　loneliness　and　sheer　pointlessness　of　his　life；　he　had　been　wound　as　tight　as　a　crossbow　spring。　He　needed　to　release　that　tension　through　violent　action；　and　the　killing　of　a　few　snakes…no　loss　to　anyone…seemed　the　perfect　prescription　for　his　distress。　However；　as　he　stared　at　this　rattler；　he　realized　that　its　existence　was　less　pointless　than　his　own：　it　filled　an　ecological　niche；　and　it　probably　took　more　pleasure　in　life　than　he　had　in　a　long　time。　He　began　to　shake；　and　the　gun　kept　straying　from　the　target；　and　he　could　not　find　the　will　to　fire。　He　was　not　a　worthy　executioner；　so　he　lowered　the　gun　and　returned　to　the　rock　where　he　had　left　his　backpack。
　The　snake　was　evidently　in　a　peaceable　mood；　for　its　head　lowered　sinuously　to　the　stone　once　more；　and　it　lay　still。
　After　a　while；　Travis　tore　open　the　package　of　Oreos；　which　had　been　his　favorite　treat　when　he　was　young。　He　had　not　eaten　one　in　fifteen　years。
　They　were　almost　as　good　as　he　remembered　them。　He　drank　Kool…Aid　from　the　canteen；　but　it　wasn't　as　satisfying　as　the　cookies。　To　his　adult　palate；　the　stuff　was　far　too　sweet。
　The　innocence；　enthusiasms；　joys；　and　voracities　of　youth　can　be　recalled　but　perhaps　never　fully　regained；　he　thought。
　Leaving　the　rattlesnake　in　munion　with　the　sun；　shouldering　his　backpack　once　more；　he　went　down　the　southern　slope　of　the　ridge　into　the　shadows　of　the　trees　at　the　head　of　the　canyon；　where　the　air　was　freshened　by　the　fragrant　spring　growth　of　the　evergreens。　On　the　west…sloping　floor　of　the　canyon；　in　deep　gloom；　he　turned　west　and　followed　a　deer　trail。
　A　few　minutes　later；　passing　between　a　pair　of　large　California　sycamores　that　bent　together　to　form　an　archway；　he　came　to　a　place　where　sunlight　poured　into　a　break　in　the　forest。　At　the　far　side　of　the　clearing；　the　deer　trail　led　into　another　section　of　woods　in　which　spruces；　laurels　and　sycamores　grew　closer　together　than　elsewhere。　Ahead；　the　land　dropped　steeply　as　the　canyon　sought　bottom。　When　he　stood　at　the　edge　of　the　sunfall　with　the　toes　of　his　boots　in　shadow；　looking　down　that　sloped　path；　he　could　see　only　fifteen　yards　before　a　surprisingly　seamless　darkness　fell　across　the　trail。
　As　Travis　was　about　to　step　out　of　the　sun　and　continue；　a　dog　burst　from　the　dry　brush　on　his　right　and　ran　straight　to　him；　panting　and　chuffing。　It　was　a　golden　retriever；　pure　of　breed　by　the　look　of　it。　A　male。　He　figured　it　was　little　more　than　a　year　old；　for　though　it　had　attained　the　better　part　of　its　full　growth；　it　retained　some　of　the　sprightliness　of　a　puppy。　Its　thick　coat　was　damp；　dirty；　tangled；　snarled；　full　of　burrs　and　broken　bits　of　weeds　and　leaves。　It　stopped　in　front　of　him；　sat；　cocked　its　head；　and　looked　up　at　him　with　an　undeniably　friendly　expression。
　Filthy　as　it　was；　the　animal　was　nonetheless　appealing。　Travis　stooped；　patted　its　head；　and　scratched　behind　its　ears。
　He　half…expected　an　owner；　gasping　and　perhaps　angry　at　this　runaway；　to　follow　the　retriever　out　of　the　brush。　Nobody　came。　When　he　thought　to　check　for　a　collar　and　license；　he　found　none。
　〃Surely　you're　not　a　wild　dog…are　you　boy？〃
　The　retriever　chuffed。
　〃No；　too　friendly　for　a　wild　one。　Not　lost；　are　you？〃
　It　nuzzled　his　hand。
　He　noticed　that；　in　addition　to　its　dirty　and　tangled　coat；　it　had　dried　blood　on　its　right　ear。　Fresher　blood　was　visible　on　its　front　paws；　as　if　it　had　been　running　so　long　and　so　hard　over　rugged　terrain　that　the　pads　of　its　feet　had　begun　to　crack。
　〃Looks　like　you've　had　a　difficult　journey；　boy。〃
　The　dog　whined　softly；　as　if　agreeing　with　what　Travis　had　said。
　He　continued　to　stroke　its　back　and　scratch　its　ears；　but　after　a　minute　or　two　he　realized　he　was　seeking　something　from　the　dog　that　it　could　not　Provide：　meaning；　purpose；　relief　from　despair。
　On　your　way　now。〃　He　gave　the　retriever　a　light　slap　on　its　side；　rose；　and　stretched
　The　dog　remained　in　front　of　him。
　He　stepped　past　it；　heading　for　the　narrow　path　that　descended　into　darkness。
　The　dog　bolted　around　him　and　blocked　the　deer　trail。
　〃Move　along；　boy。〃
　The　retriever　bared　its　teeth　and　growled　low　in　its　throat。
　Travis　frowned。　〃Move　along。　That's　a　good　dog。〃
　When　he　tried　to　step　past　it；　the　retriever　snarled。　It　snapped　at　his　legs。
　Travis　danced　back　two　steps。　〃Hey；　what's　gotten　into　you？〃
　The　dog　stopped　growling　and　just　panted。
　He　advanced　again；　but　the　dog　lunged　at　him　more　ferociously　than　before；　still　not　barking　but　growling　even　deeper　and　snapping　repeatedly　at　his　legs；　driving　him　backward　across　the　clearing。　He　took　eight　or　ten　clumsy　steps　on　a　slippery　carpet　of　dead　spruce　and　pine　needles；　stumbled　over　his　own　feet；　and　fell　on　his　butt。
　The　moment　Travis　was　down；　the　dog　turned　away　from　him。　It　padded　across　the　clearing　to　the　brink　of　the　sloping　path　and　peered　into　the　gloom　below。　Its　floppy　ears　had　pricked　up　as　much　as　a　retriever's　ears　can。
　〃Damn　dog；〃　Travis　said。
　It　ignored　him。
　〃What　the　hell's　the　matter　with　you；　mutt？〃
　Standing　in　the　forest's　shadow；　it　continued　to　stare　down　the　deer　trail；　into　the　blackness　at　the