dk.solesurvivor-第12节

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k　at　the　Post　again。
　　He　went　directly　to　his　former　workstation　in　the　Metro　section；　grateful　that　no　old　friends　saw　him。　His　place　had　been　assigned　to　Randy　Colway；　a　good　man；　who　wouldn't　feel　invaded　if　he　found　Joe　in　his　chair。
　　Tacked　to　the　noteboard　were　photographs　of　Randy's　wife；　their　nine…year…old　son；　Ben；　and　six…year…old　Lisbeth。　Joe　looked　at　them　for　a　long　moment…and　then　not　again。
　　After　switching　on　the　puter；　he　reached　into　his　pocket　and　withdrew　the　Department　of　Motor　Vehicles　envelope　that　he'd　filched　from　the　glove　box　of　the　white　van　at　the　cemetery。　It　contained　the　validated　registration　card。　To　his　surprise；　the　registered　owner　wasn't　a　government　body　or　a　law…enforcement　agency；　it　was　something　called　Medsped；　Inc。
　　He　had　not　been　expecting　a　corporate　operation；　for　God's　sake。　Wallace　Blick　and　his　trigger…happy　associates　in　the　Hawaiian　shirts　didn't　seem　entirely　like　cops　or　federal　agents；　but　they　smelled　a　lot　more　like　the　law　than　they　did　like　any　corporate　executives　Joe　had　ever　encountered。
　　Next　he　accessed　the　Post's　vast　file　of　digitized　back　issues。　Included　was　every　word　of　every　edition　the　newspaper　had　published　since　its　inception…minus　only　the　cartoons；　horoscopes；　crossword　puzzles；　and　the　like。　Photographs　were　included。
　　He　initiated　a　search　for　Medsped　and　found　six　mentions。　They　were　small　items　from　the　business　pages。　He　read　them　plete。
　　Medsped；　a　New　Jersey　corporation；　had　begun　as　an　air　ambulance　service　in　several　major　cities。　Later　it　had　expanded　to　specialize　in　the　nationwide　express　delivery　of　emergency　medical　supplies；　refrigerated　or　otherwise　delicately　preserved　blood　and　tissue　samples；　as　well　as　expensive　and　frangible　scientific　instruments。　The　pany　even　undertook　to　carry　samples　of　highly　contagious　bacteria　and　viruses　between　cooperating　research　laboratories　in　both　the　public　and　military　sectors。　For　these　tasks；　it　maintained　a　modest　fleet　of　aircraft　and　helicopters。
　　Helicopters。
　　And　unmarked　white　vans？
　　Eight　years　ago；　Medsped　had　been　bought　by　Teknologik；　Inc。；　a　Delaware　Corporation　with　a　score　of　wholly　owned　subsidiaries　in　the　medical　and　puter　industry。　Its　puter…related　holdings　were　all　panies　developing　products；　mostly　software；　for　the　medical　and　medical…research　munities。
　　When　Joe　ran　a　search　on　Teknologik；　he　was　rewarded　with　forty…one　stories；　mostly　from　the　business　pages。　The　first　two　articles　were　so　dry；　however；　so　full　of　investment　and　accounting　jargon；　that　the　reward　quickly　began　to　seem　like　punishment。
　　He　ordered　copies　of　the　four　longest　articles　for　review　later。
　　While　those　were　sliding　into　the　printer　tray；　he　asked　for　a　list　of　stories　the　Post　had　published　about　the　crash　of　Nationwide　Flight　353。　A　series　of　headlines；　with　acpanying　dates；　appeared　on　the　screen。
　　Joe　had　to　steel　himself　to　scan　this　story　file。　He　sat　for　a　minute　or　two　with　his　eyes　closed；　breathing　deeply；　trying　to　conjure；　in　his　mind's　eye；　an　image　of　surf　breaking　on　the　beach　at　Santa　Monica。
　　Finally；　with　teeth　clenched　so　tightly　that　his　jaw　muscles　twitched　continuously；　he　called　up　story　after　story；　scanning　the　contents。　He　wanted　the　one　that；　as　a　sidebar；　would　provide　him　with　a　plete　passenger　manifest。
　　He　skipped　quickly　past　photographs　of　the　crash　scene；　which　revealed　debris　chopped　into　such　small　chunks　and　tangled　in　such　surreal　shapes　that　the　baffled　eye　could　not　begin　to　reconstruct　the　aircraft　from　its　ruins。　In　the　bleak　dawn　caught　by　these　pictures；　through　the　gray　drizzle　that　had　begun　to　fall　about　two　hours　after　the　disaster；　National　Transportation　Safety　Board　investigators　in　biologically　secure　bodysuits　with　visored　hoods　prowled　the　blasted　meadow。　Looming　in　the　background　were　scorched　trees；　gnarled　black　limbs　clawing　at　the　low　sky。
　　He　searched　for　and　found　the　name　of　the　NTSB　Go…Team　leader　in　charge　of　the　investigation…Barbara　Christman…and　the　fourteen　specialists　working　under　her。
　　A　couple　of　the　articles　included　photos　of　some　of　the　crew　and　passengers。　Not　all　of　the　three　hundred　and　thirty　souls　aboard　was　pictured。　The　tendency　was　to　focus　on　those　victims　who　were　Southern　Californians　returning　home　rather　than　on　Easterners　who　had　been　ing　to　visit。　Being　part　of　the　Post　family；　Michelle　and　the　girls　were　prominently　featured。
　　Eight　months　ago；　upon　moving　into　the　apartment；　in　reaction　to　a　morbid　and　obsessive　preoccupation　with　family　albums　and　loose　snapshots；　Joe　had　packed　all　the　photos　in　a　large　cardboard　box；　reasoning　that　rubbing　a　wound　retarded　healing。
　　
　　He　had　taped　the　box　shut　and　put　it　at　the　back　of　his　only　closet。
　　Now；　in　the　course　of　his　scanning；　when　their　faces　appeared　on　the　screen；　he　was　unable　to　breathe；　though　he　had　thought　he　would　be　prepared。　Michelle's　publicity　shot；　taken　by　one　of　the　Post's　staff　photographers；　captured　her　beauty　but　not　her　tenderness；　not　her　intelligence；　not　her　charm；　not　her　laughter。　A　mere　picture　was　so　inadequate；　but　still　it　was　Michelle。　Still。　Chrissie's　photo　had　been　snapped　at　a　Post　Christmas　party　for　children　of　the　paper's　employees。　She　was　caught　in　a　grin；　eyes　shining。　How　they　shone。　And　little　Nina；　who　sometimes　wanted　it　pronounced　Neen…ah　and　other　times　nine…ah；　was　smiling　that　slightly　lopsided　smile　that　seemed　to　say　she　knew　magical　secrets。
　　Her　smile　reminded　Joe　of　a　silly　song　he　sometimes　sang　to　her　when　he　put　her　to　bed。　Before　he　realized　what　he　was　doing；　he　found　his　breath　again　and　heard　himself　whispering　the　words：　'Nine…ah；　Neen…ah…have　you　seen　her？　Neen…ah；　nine…ah；　no　one　finah。'
　　A　breaking　inside　him　threatened　his　self…control。
　　He　clicked　the　mouse　to　get　their　images　off　the　screen。　But　that　didn't　take　their　faces　out　of　his　mind；　clearer　than　he　had　seen　them　since　packing　their　photos　away。
　　Bending　forward　in　the　chair；　covering　his　face；　shuddering；　he　muffled　his　voice　in　his　cold　hands。　'Oh；　shit。　Oh；　shit。'
　　Surf　breaking　on　a　beach；　now　as　before；　tomorrow　as　today。　Clocks　and　looms。　Sunrises；　sunsets；　phases　of　the　moon。　Machines　clicking；　ticking。　Eternal　rhythms；　meaningless　motions。
　　The　only　sane　response　is　indifference。
　　He　lowered　his　hands　from　his　face。　Sat　up　straight　again。　Tried　to　focus　on　the　puter　screen。
　　He　was　concerned　that　he　would　draw　attention　to　himself。　If　an　old　acquaintance　looked　in　this　three…walled　cubicle　to　see　what　was　wrong；　Joe　might　have　to　explain　what　he　was　doing　here；　might　even　have　to　summon　the　strength　to　be　sociable。
　　　He　found　the　passenger　manifest　for　which　he　had　been　searching。　The　Post　had　saved　him　time　and　effort　by　listing　separately　those　among　the　dead　who　had　lived　in　Southern　California。　He　printed　out　all　their　names；　each　of　which　was　followed　by　the　name　of　the　town　in　which　the　deceased　resided。
　　I'm　not　ready　to　talk　to　you　yet　the　photographer　of　graves　had　said　to　him；　from　which　he　had　inferred　that　she　would　have　things　to　tell　him　later。
　　Don't　despair。　You'll　see；　like　the　others。
　　See　what？　He　had　no　idea。
　　What　could　she　possibly　tell　him　that　would　alleviate　his　despair？　Nothing。　Nothing。
　　like　the　others。　You'll　see；　like　the　others。
　　What　others？
　　Only　one　answer　satisfied　him：　other　people　who　had　lost　loved　ones　on　Flight　353；　who　had　been　as　desolate　as　he　was；　people　to　whom　she　had　already　spoken。
　　He　wasn't　going　to　wait　for　her　to　return　to　him。　With　Wallace　Blick　and　associates　after　her；　she　might　not　live　long　enough　to　pay　him　a　visit　and　quench　his　curiosity。
　　
　　When　Joe　finished　sorting　and　stapling　the　printouts；　he　noticed　the　white　envelope　that　Dewey　Beemis　had　given　him　at　the　elevator　downstairs。　Joe　had　propped　it　against　a　box　of　Kleenex　to　the　right　of　the　puter　and　promptly　forgotten　about　it。
　　As　a　crime　reporter　with　a　frequently　seen　byline；　he　had　from　time　to　time　received　story　tips　from　newspaper　readers　who；　to　put　it　charitably；　were　not　well　glued　together。　They　earnestly　claimed　to　be　the　terrified　victims　of　vicious　harassment　by　a　secret　cult　of　Satanists　operating　in　the　city's　parks　department；　or　to　know　of　sinister　tobacco…industry　executives　who　were　plotting　to　lace　baby　formula　with　nicotine；　or　to　be　living　across　the　street　from　a　nest　of　spiderlike　extraterrestrials　trying　to　pass　as　a　nice　family　of　Korean　immigrants。
　　Once；　when　cornered　by　a　pinwheel…eyed　man　who　insisted　that　the　mayor　of　Los　Angeles　was　not　human　but　a　robot　controlled　by　the　audio　animatronics　department　at　Disneyland；　Joe　had　lowered　his　voice　and　said；　with　nervous　sincerity；　'Yes；　we've　known　about　that　for　years。　But　if　we　print　a　word　of　it；　the　people　at　Disney　will　kill　us　all。'　He　had　spoken　with　such　conviction　that　the　nutball　had　exploded　backward　and　fled。
　　Consequently；　he　was　expecting　a　crayon…scrawled　message　about　evil　psychic　Martians　living　among　us　as　Mormons…or　the　equivalent。
　　He　tore　open　the　envelope。　It　contained　a　single　sheet　of　white　paper　folded　in　thirds。
　　
　　The　three　neatly　type