sk.dreamcatcher-第104部分

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　　　　He　and　Carla　had　had　three　children　by　the　time　they　turned　thirty　（number　four　had　e　less　than　a　year　ago）；　and　neither　of　them　had　expected　to　own　a　summer　cottage；　not　even　a　modest　one　like　the　place　on　Osborne　Road　in　North　Ware；　any　time　soon。　Then　there　had　been　a　seismic　shift　in　Jonesy's　department。　A　good　friend　had　assumed　the　chairmanship；　and　Jonesy　had　found　himself　an　associate　professor　at　least　three　years　earlier　than　his　most　optimistic　expectations。　The　salary　bump　had　been　considerable。
　　　　Thirty…five；　thirty…six；　thirty…seven；　thirty…eight；　and　behind　his　chair　again。　This　was　good。　It　was　pacing　the　cell；　no　more　than　that；　but　it　was　calming　him。
　　　　That　same　year；　Carla's　grandmother　had　passed　away；　and　there　had　been　a　considerable　estate；　settled　between　Carla　and　her　sister；　as　the　close　blood　kin　in　the　intervening　generation　had　died。　So　they　got　the　cottage；　and　that　first　summer　they'd　taken　the　kids　up　to　the　Winsor　Dam。　From　there　they'd　gone　on　one　of　the　regularly　scheduled　summer　tours。　Their　guide；　an　MWA　employee　in　a　forest…green　uniform；　had　told　them　the　area　around　the　Quabbin　Reservoir　was　called　'the　accidental　wilderness'；　and　had　bee　the　major　nesting　area　for　eagles　in　Massachusetts。　（John　and　Misha；　the　older　kids；　had　hoped　to　see　an　eagle　or　two；　but　they　had　been　disappointed。）　The　Reservoir　had　been　formed　in　the　thirties　by　flooding　three　fanning　munities；　each　with　its　own　little　market…town。　At　that　time　the　land　surrounding　the　new　lake　had　been　tame。　In　the　sixty　or　so　years　since；　it　had　returned　to　what　all　of　New　England　must　have　been　like　before　the　tillage　and　industry　began　midway　through　the　seventeenth　century。　A　tangle　of　rutted；　unpaved　roads　ran　up　the　east　side　of　the　lake　…　one　of　the　purest　reservoirs　in　North　America；　their　guide　had　told　them　…　but　that　was　it。　If　you　wanted　to　go　much　beyond　Shaft　12　on　the　East　Branch；　you'd　need　your　hiking　shoes。　That　was　what　the　guide　said。　Lorrington；　his　name　had　been。
　　　　There　had　been　maybe　a　dozen　other　people　on　the　tour；　and　by　then　they　had　been　about　back　to　their　starting　place　again。　Standing　on　the　edge　of　the　road　which　ran　across　Winsor　Dam；　looking　north　at　the　Reservoir　（the　Quabbin　bright　blue　in　the　sunlight；　sparkling　with　a　million　points　of　light；　Joey　fast　asleep　in　the　Papoose　carrier　on　Jonesy's　back）。　Lorrington　had　been　wrapping　up　his　spiel；　just　about　to　wish　them　a　nice　day；　when　some　guy　in　a　Rutgers　sweatshirt　had　raised　his　hand　like　a　school　kid　and　said：　Shaft　12；　Isn't　that　where　the　Russian　woman　。　。　。　？
　　　　Thirty…eight；　thirty…nine；　forty；　forty…one；　and　back　to　the　desk　chair。　Counting　without　really　thinking　about　the　numbers；　something　he　did　all　the　time。　Carla　said　it　was　a　sign　of　obsessive…pulsive　disorder。　Jonesy　didn't　know　about　that；　but　he　knew　that　the　counting　was　soothing　him；　and　so　he　set　off　on　another　round。
　　　　Lorrington's　mouth　had　tightened　at　the　words　'Russian　woman'。　Not　part　of　the　lecture；　apparently；　not　part　of　the　good　vibes　the　Water　Authority　wanted　visitors　to　take　with　them。　Depending　upon　which　municipal　pipes　it　flowed　through　during　the　last　eight　or　ten　miles　of　its　journey；　Boston　tap　water　could　be　the　purest；　best　tap　water　in　the　world：　that　was　the　gospel　they　wanted　to　spread。
　　　　I　really　don't　know　much　about　that；　sir；　Lorrington　had　said；　and　Jonesy　had　thought：　My　goodness；　I　think　our　guide　just　told　a　little　fibby…wibby；
　　　　Forty…one；　forty…two；　forty…three；　back　behind　the　chair　and　ready　to　start　around　again。　Walking　a　little　faster　now。　Hands　clasped　behind　his　back　like　a　ship's　captain　pacing　the　foredeck　。　。　。　or　pacing　the　brig　after　a　successful　mutiny。　He　supposed　that　was　really　more　like　it。
　　　　Jonesy　had　been　a　history　teacher　most　of　his　life；　and　curiosity　came　as　second　nature。　He　had　gone　to　the　library　one　day　later　that　week；　had　looked　for　the　story　in　the　local　paper；　and　had　eventually　found　it。　It　had　been　brief　and　dry　…　there　were　stories　about　lawn…parties　inside　that　had　more　detail　and　color　…　but　their　postman　had　known　more　and　had　been　happy　to　share。　Old　Mr　Beckwith。　Jonesy　still　remembered　his　final　words　before　he'd　put　his　blue…and…white　mail…truck　back　in　gear　and　rolled　on　down　Osborne　Road　to　the　next　rural　box；　there　was　a　lot　of　mail　to　be　delivered　on　the　south　end　of　the　lake　in　summertime。　Jonesy　had　walked　back　to　the　cottage；　their　unexpected　gift；　thinking　it　was　no　wonder　Lorrington　hadn't　wanted　to　talk　about　the　Russian　woman。
　　　　Not　good　public　relations　at　all。


10

Her　name　is　either　Ilena　or　Elaina　Timarova　…　no　one　seems　sure　which。　She　turns　up　in　Ware　in　the　early　fall　of　1995　in　a　Ford　Escort　with　a　discreet　yellow　Hertz　sticker　on　the　windshield。　The　car　turns　out　to　be　stolen；　and　a　story　makes　the　rounds　…　unsubstantiated　but　juicy　…　that　she　obtained　it　at　Logan　Airport；　swapping　sex　for　a　set　of　car　keys。　Who　knows；　it　could　have　happened　that　way。
　　　　However　it　happens；　she　is　clearly　disoriented；　not　quite　right　in　the　head。　Someone　remembers　the　bruise　on　the　side　of　her　face；　someone　else　the　fact　that　her　blouse　is　buttoned　wrong。　Her　English　is　poor；　but　good　enough　for　her　to　get　across　what　she　wants：　directions　to　the　Quabbin　Reservoir。　These　she　writes　down　（in　Russian）　on　a　slip　of　paper。　That　evening；　when　the　road　across　the　Winsor　Dam　is　closed；　the　Escort　is　found；　abandoned；　in　the　picnic　area　at　Goodnough　Dike。　When　the　car　is　still　there　the　next　morning；　two　Water　Authority　guys　（who　knows；　perhaps　Lorrington　was　one　of　them）　and　two　Forest　Service　rangers　start　looking　for　her。
　　　　Two　miles　up　East　Street；　they　find　her　shoes。　Two　miles　farther　up；　where　East　Street　goes　to　dirt　（it　winds　through　the　wilderness　on　the　east　shore　of　the　Reservoir　and　is　really　not　a　street　at　all　but　a　Massachusetts　version　of　the　Deep　Cut　Road）　they　find　her　shirt　。　。　。　oh…oh。　Two　miles　beyond　the　abandoned　shirt；　East　Street　ends；　and　a　rutty　logging　stripe　…　Fitzpatrick　Road　…　leads　away　from　the　lake。　The　searchers　are　about　to　go　this　way　when　one　of　them　sees　something　pink　hangin　from　a　tree…limb　down　by　the　water。　
　　　　It　proves　to　be　the　lady's　bra。
　　　　The　ground　here　is　damp　…　not　quite　marshy　…　and　they　can　follow　both　her　tracks　and　the　broken　branches　through　which　she　has　pushed；　doing　damage　they　don't　like　to　think　of　to　her　bare　skin。　Yet　the　evidence　of　the　damage　is　there；　and　they　must　see　it；　like　it　or　not　…　the　blood　on　the　branches　and　then　on　the　rocks　is　part　of　her　trail。
　　　　A　mile　from　where　East　Street　ends；　they　e　to　a　stone　building　which　stands　on　an　outcropping。　It　looks　across　the　East　Branch　at　Mount　Pomery。　This　building　houses　Shaft　12；　and　is　accessible　by　car　only　from　the　north。　Why　Ilena　or　Elaina　did　not　just　start　from　the　north　is　a　question　that　will　never　be　answered。
　　　　The　water…bearing　aqueduct　which　begins　at　the　Quabbin　runs　sixty…five　miles　dead　east　to　Boston；　picking　up　more　water　from　the　Wachusett　and　Sudbury　Reservoirs　as　it　goes　（the　latter　two　sources　are　smaller　and　not　quite　so　pure）。　There　are　no　pumps；　the　aqueduct…pipe；　thirteen　feet　high　and　eleven　feet　wide；　needs　none　to　do　its　job。　Boston's　water　supply　is　provided　by　simple　gravity　feed；　a　technique　used　by　the　Egyptians　thirty…five　centuries　before。　Twelve　vertical　shafts　run　between　the　ground　and　the　aqueduct。　These　serve　as　vents　and　pressure…regulation　points。　They　also　serve　as　points　of　access；　should　the　aqueduct　bee　clogged。　Shaft　12；　the　one　closest　to　the　Reservoir；　is　also　known　as　the　Intake　Shaft。　Water　purity　is　tested　there；　and　female　virtue　has　often　been　tested　there；　as　well　（the　stone　building　isn't　locked；　and　is　a　frequent　stopping　place　for　lovers　in　canoes）。
　　　　On　the　lowest　of　the　eight　steps　leading　up　to　the　door；　they　find　the　woman's　jeans；　neatly　folded。　On　the　top　step　is　a　pair　of　plain　white　cotton　underpants。　The　door　is　open。　The　men　look　at　each　other；　but　no　one　speaks。　They　have　a　good　idea　of　what　they're　going　to　find　inside：　one　dead　Russian　lady；　hold　the　clothes。
　　　　But　they　don't。　The　circular　iron　cover　over　the　top　of　Shaft　12　has　been　moved　just　enough　to　create　a　crescent　moon　of　darkness　on　the　Reservoir　side。　Beyond　it　is　the　crowbar　the　woman　used　to　shift　the　lid　…　it　would　have　been　leaning　behind　the　door；　where　there　are　a　few　other　tools。　And　beyond　the　crowbar　is　the　Russian　woman's　purse。　On　top　of　it　is　her　billfold；　open　to　show　her　identification　card。　On　top　of　the　billfold　…　the　apex　of　the　pyramid；　so　to　speak　…　is　her　passport。　Poking　out　of　it　is　a　slip　of　paper；　covered　with　chicken…scratches　that　have　to　be　Russian；　or　Cyrillic；　or　whatever　they　call　it。　The　men　believe　it　is　a　suicide　note；　but　upon　translation　it　proves　to　be　nothing　but　the　Russian　woman's　directions。　At　the　very　bottom　she　has　written　When　road　ends；　walk　along　shore。　And　so　she　did；　disrobing　as　she　went；　unmindful　of　the　branches　which　poked　and　the　bushes　which　scratched。
　　　　The　men　stand　around　the　partially　covered　shaft…head；　scratching　their　heads　and　listening　to　the　babble　of　the　water　as　it　starts　on　its　way　to　the　taps　and　faucets　and　fountains　and　back…yard　hoses　of　Boston。　The　sound　is　hollow；　somehow　dank；　and　there's　good　reason　for　that：　Shaft　12　is　a　hundred　and　twenty…five　feet　deep。　The　men　cannot　understand　why　she　chose　to　do　it　the　way　she　did；　but　they　can　see　what　she　did　all　too　clearly；　can　see　her　sitting　on　the　stone　floor　with　her　feet　dangling；　she　looks　like　a　nakedy　version　of　the　girl　on　the　White　Rock　labels。　She　takes　a　final　look　over　her　shoulder；　perhaps；　to　make　sure　her　billfold　and　her　passport　are　still　where　she　put　them。　She　wants　someone　to　know　who　passed　this　way；　and　there　is　something　hideously；　unassuageably　sad　about　that。　One　look　back；　and　then　she　slips　into　the　eclipse　between　the　partially　dislodged　cover　and　the　side　of　the　shaft。　Perhaps　she　held　her　nose；　like　a　kid　cannonballing　into　the　munity　swimming　pool。　Perhaps　not。　Either　way；　she　is　gone　in　less　than　a　second。　Hello　darkness　my　old　friend。


11

Old　Mr　Beckwith's　final　words　on　the　subject　before　driving　on　down　the　road　in　his　mail…truck　had　been　these：　Way