cb.damnationgame-第60节

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hat　followed　the　thief　to　the　grave　disgusted　the　European。　But　he　disgusted　himself　more。　He　had　let　Whitehead　go。　Not　once；　but　twice；　undone　by　his　own　desire　to　have　the　game　concluded　with　due　attention　to　detail。　That；　and　his　concern　to　persuade　the　thief　to　e　willingly　into　the　void。　Prevarication　had　proved　his　undoing。　While　he　had　threatened；　and　juggled　visions；　the　old　goat　had　slipped　away。
　　That　might　not　have　been　the　end　of　the　story。　After　all；　he　possessed　the　facility　to　follow　Whitehead　into　death；　and　bring　him　out　of　it；　had　he　been　able　to　get　to　the　corpse。　But　the　old　man　had　been　wise　to　such　an　eventuality。　His　body　had　been　kept　from　viewing；　even　by　his　closest　panions。　It　had　been　locked　in　a　bank　safe　（how　appropriate！）　and　guarded　night　and　day；　much　to　the　delight　of　the　tabloids；　who　reveled　in　such　eccentricities。　By　this　evening　it　would　be　ash；　and　Mamoulian's　last　opportunity　for　permanent　reunion　would　have　been　lost。
　　And　yet　。　。　。
　　Why　did　he　feel　as　if　the　games　they'd　played　all　these　years…the　Temptation　games；　the　Revelation　games；　the　Rejection；　Vilification　and　Damnation　games…were　not　quite　over？　His　intuition；　like　his　strength；　was　dwindling：　but　he　was　certain　that　something　was　amiss。　He　thought　of　the　way　the　woman　at　his　side　smiled；　the　secret　on　her　face。
　　〃Is　he　dead？〃　he　suddenly　asked　her。
　　The　question　appeared　to　flummox　her。　〃Of　course　he's　dead；〃　she　replied。
　　〃Is　he；　Carys？〃　〃We　just　saw　his　funeral；　for　God's　sake。〃　She　felt　his　mind；　a　solid　presence；　at　the　back　of　her　neck。　They　had　played　this　scene　many　times　in　the　preceding　weeks…the　trial　of　strength　between　wills…and　she　knew　that　he　was　weaker　by　the　day。　Not　so　weak　as　to　be　negligible；　however：　he　could　still　deliver　terrors；　if　it　suited　him。
　　〃Tell　me　your　thoughts　。　。〃　he　said；　so　I　don't　have　to　dig　for　them。〃　If　she　didn't　answer　his　questions；　and　he　entered　her　forcibly；　he'd　see　the　runner　for　certain。
　　〃Please；〃　she　said；　making　a　sham　of　cowardice；　〃don't　hurt　me。〃　The　mind　withdrew　a　little。
　　〃Is　he　dead？〃　Mamoulian　inquired　again。
　　〃The　night　he　died　。　。　。〃　she　began。　What　could　she　tell　but　the　truth〃　No　lie　would　suffice：　he　would　know。　〃。　。　。　The　night　they　said　he　died　felt　nothing。　There　was　no　change。　Not　like　when　Mama　died。〃　She　threw　a　cowed　look　at　Mamoulian；　to　reinforce　the　illusion　of　servility。
　　〃What　do　you　construe　from　that？〃　he　asked。
　　〃I　don't　know；〃　she　replied　quite　honestly。
　　〃What　do　you　guess？〃　Again；　honestly：　〃That　he　isn't　dead。〃　The　first　smile　Carys　had　ever　seen　on　the　European's　face　appeared。　It　was　merest　hint；　but　it　was　there。　She　felt　him　withdraw　the　horns　of　his　thought　and　content　himself　with　musing。　He　would　not　press　her　further。　Too　many　plans　to　plan。
　　〃Oh；　Pilgrim；〃　he　said　under　his　breath；　chiding　his　invisible　enemy　like　a　much…loved　but　errant　child；　〃you　almost　had　me　fooled。〃
　　
　　Marty　followed　the　car　off　the　highway　and　across　the　city　to　the　house　on　Caliban　Street。　It　was　early　evening　by　the　time　the　pursuit　ended。　Parked　at　a　prudent　distance　he　watched　them　get　out　of　the　car。　The　European　paid　the　driver　and　then；　after　some　delay　unlocking　the　front　door；　he　and　Carys　stepped　into　a　house　whose　dirtied　lace　curtains　and　peeling　paintwork　suggested　nothing　abnormal　in　a　street　whose　houses　were　all　in　need　of　renovation。　Alight　went　on　at　the　middle　floor：　a　blind　was　drawn。
　　He　sat　in　the　car　for　an　hour；　keeping　the　house　in　view；　though　nothing　happened。　She　did　not　appear　at　the　window；　no　letters　were　thrown；　wrapped　in　stones　and　kisses；　out　to　her　waiting　hero。　But　he　hadn't　really　expected　such　signs；　they　were　fictional　devices；　and　this　was　real。　Dirty　stone；　dirty　windows；　dirty　terrors　skulking　at　his　groin。
　　He　hadn't　eaten　properly　since　the　announcement　of　Whitehead's　death；　now　for　the　first　time　since　that　morning；　he　felt　healthily　hungry。　Leaving　the　house　to　creeping　twilight；　he　went　to　find　himself　sustenance。
　　
　　53
　　Luther　was　packing。　The　days　since　Whitehead's　death　had　been　a　whirlwind；　and　he　was　dizzied　by　it。　With　so　much　money　in　his　pocket；　every　minute　a　new　option　occurred　to　him；　a　fantasy　now　realizable。　For　the　short　term　at　least　he'd　decided　to　go　home　to　Jamaica　for　a　long　holiday。　He　had　left　when　he　was　eight；　nineteen　years　ago；　his　memories　of　the　island　were　gilded。　He　was　prepared　to　be　disappointed；　but　if　he　didn't　like　the　place；　no　matter。　A　man　of　his　newfound　wealth　needed　no　specific　plans：　he　could　move　on。　Another　island；　another　continent。
　　He　had　almost　finished　his　preparations　for　departure　when　a　voice　called　him　from　downstairs。　It　wasn't　a　voice　he　knew。
　　〃Luther？　Are　you　there？〃　He　went　to　the　top　of　the　stairs。　The　woman　he'd　once　shared　this　small　house　with　had　gone；　left　him　six　months　ago　taking　their　children。　The　house　should　have　been　empty。　But　there　was　somebody　in　the　hall；　not　one　but　two　people。　His　interlocutor；　a　tall；　even　stately　man；　stared　up　the　stairs　at　him；　light　from　the　landing　shining　on　his　wide；　smooth　brow。　Luther　recognized　the　face；　from　the　funeral　perhaps？　Behind　him；　in　shadow；　was　a　heavier　figure。
　　〃I'd　like　a　word；〃　said　the　first。
　　〃How　did　you　get　in　here？　Who　the　hell　are　you？〃　〃Just　a　word。　About　your　employer。〃　〃Are　you　from　the　press；　is　that　it？　Look；　I've　told　you　everything　I　know。　Now　get　the　hell　out　of　here　before　I　call　the　police。　You've　got　no　right　breaking　in　here。〃　The　second　man　stepped　out　of　the　shadows　and　looked　up　the　stairs。　His　face　was　made…up；　that　much　was　apparent　even　from　a　distance。　The　flesh　was　powdered；　the　cheeks　rouged：　he　looked　like　a　pantomime　dame。　Luther　stepped　back　from　the　top　of　the　stairs；　mind　racing。　〃Don't　be　afraid；〃　the　first　man　said；　and　the　way　he　said　it　made　Luther　more　afraid　than　ever。　What　capacities　might　such　politeness　harbor？
　　〃If　you're　not　out　of　here　in　ten　seconds…〃　he　warned。
　　〃Where　is　Joseph？〃　the　polite　man　asked。
　　〃Dead。〃　〃Are　you　sure？〃　〃Of　course　I'm　sure。　I　saw　you　at　the　funeral；　didn't　I？　I　don't　know　who　you　are…〃　〃My　name　is　Mamoulian。〃　〃Well；　you　were　there；　weren't　you？　You　saw　for　yourself。　He's　dead。〃　〃I　saw　a　box。〃　〃He's　dead；　man；〃　Luther　insisted。
　　〃You　were　the　one　who　found　him；　I　gather；〃　the　European　said；　moving　a　few　silent　paces　across　the　hallway　to　the　bottom　of　the　stairs。
　　〃That's　right。　In　bed；〃　Luther　replied。　Maybe　they　were　press；　after　all。　〃I　found　him　in　bed。　He　died　in　his　sleep。〃　〃e　down　here。　Furnish　the　details；　if　you　would。〃　〃I'm　fine　where　I　am。〃　The　European　looked　up　at　the　chauffeur's　frowning　face；　felt；　tentatively；　at　the　nape　of　his　neck。　There　was　too　much　heat　and　dirt　in　there；　he　wasn't　resilient　enough　for　an　investigation。　There　were　other；　cruder　methods；　however。　He　half…gestured　toward　the　Razor…Eater；　whose　sandalwood　presence　he　smelled　close。
　　〃This　is　Anthony　Breer；〃　he　said。　〃He　has　in　his　time　dispatched　children　and　dogs…you　remember　the　dogs；　Luther？…with　admirable　thoroughness。　He　is　not　afraid　of　death。　Indeed　he　enjoys　an　extraordinary　empathy　with　it。〃　The　pantomime　face　gleamed　up　from　the　stairwell；　desire　in　its　eyes。
　　〃Now；　please；〃　Mamoulian　said；　〃for　both　our　sakes；　the　truth。〃　Luther's　throat　was　so　dry　the　words　scarcely　came。　〃The　old　man's　dead；〃　he　said。　〃That's　all　I　know。　If　I　knew　any　more　I'd　tell　you。〃　Mamoulian　nodded；　the　look　on　his　face　as　he　spoke　was　passionate；　as　if　he　genuinely　feared　for　what　must　happen　next。
　　〃You　tell　me　something　I　want　to　believe；　and　you　say　it　with　such　conviction　I　almost　do。　In　principle　I　can　leave；　content；　and　you　can　go　about　your　business。　Except〃…he　sighed；　heavily…〃except　that　I　don't　quite　believe　you　enough。〃　〃Look；　this　is　my　fucking　house！〃　Luther　blustered；　sensing　that　extreme　measures　were　needed　now。　The　man　called　Breer　had　unbuttoned　his　jacket。　He　wore　no　shirt　underneath。　There　were　skewers　threaded　through　the　fat　of　his　chest；　transfixing　his　nipples；　crossways。　He　reached　up　and　drew　two　out；　no　blood　came。　Armed　with　these　steel　needles；　he　shuffled　to　the　bottom　of　the　stairs。
　　〃I've　done　nothing；〃　Luther　pleaded。
　　〃So　you　say。〃　The　Razor…Eater　began　to　mount　the　stairs。　The　unpowdered　breasts　were　hairless　and　yellowish。
　　〃Wait！〃　At　Luther's　shout；　Breer　paused。
　　〃Yes？〃　said　Mamoulian。
　　〃You　keep　him　off　me！〃　〃If　you　have　something　to　tell　me；　spit　it　out。　I'm　more　than　eager　to　listen。〃　Luther　nodded。　Breer's　face　registered　disappointment。　Luther　swallowed　hard　before　speaking。　He'd　been　paid　what　was　to　him　a　small　fortune　not　to　say　what　he　was　about　to　say；　but　Whitehead　hadn't　warned　him　that　it　would　be　like　this。　He'd　expected　a　gaggle　of　inquisitive　reporters；　perhaps　even　a　lucrative　offer　for　his　story　to　go　into　the　Sunday　papers；　but　not　this：　not　this　ogre；　with　his　doll's　face　and　his　bloodless　wounds。　There　was　a　limit　to　the　amount　of　silence　any　money　could　buy；　for　Christ's　sake。
　　〃What　have　you　got　to　say？〃　Mamoulian　asked。
　　〃He's　not　dead；〃　Luther　replied。　There：　it　wasn't　so　difficult　to　do；　was　it？　〃It　was　all　set　up。　Only　two　or　three　people　knew：　I　w