dk.solesurvivor-第23节

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however；　in　his　growing　disorientation；　her　expression　seemed　to　be　as　strange　and　unsettling　as　might　be　the　smile　on　a　clown　encountered　in　a　fog…threaded　alley　after　midnight；　alarming　because　it　was　so　profoundly　out　of　place。　Through　her　disturbing　smile；　she　said；　'You　want　to　know　why；　Joe？　Because　this　is　the　end　of　the　world　as　we　know　it。'
　　To　Lisa；　Joe　said　exasperatedly；　'Who　is　Rose　Tucker？　What　does　she　do　for　Teknologik？'
　　'She's　a　geneticist；　and　a　brilliant　one。'
　　'Specializing　in　rebinant　DNA　research。'　Georgine　held　up　the　Polaroid　again；　as　if　Joe　should　be　able　to　grasp　at　once　how　the　photo　of　a　gravestone　and　genetic　engineering　were　related。
　　'Exactly　what　she　was　doing　for　Teknologik；'　Lisa　said；　'I　never　knew。　That's　what　she　was　going　to　tell　me　when　she　landed　at　LAX　a　year　ago　tonight。　Now；　because　of　what　she　told　Georgine　and　Charlie　yesterday。。。　I　can　pretty　much　figure　it　out。　I　just　don't　know　how　to　believe　it。'
　　Joe　wondered　about　her　odd　locution：　not　whether　to　believe　it；　but　how　to　believe　it。
　　'What　is　Teknologik…besides　what　it　appears　to　be？'　he　asked。
　　Lisa　smiled　thinly。　'You　have　a　good　nose；　Joe。　A　year　off　hasn't　dulled　your　sense　of　smell。　From　things　Rose　said　over　the　years；　vague　references；　I　think　you're　looking　at　a　singularity　in　a　capitalist　world…a　pany　that　can't　fail。'
　　'Can't　fail？'　Georgine　asked。
　　'Because　behind　it　there's　a　generous　partner　that　covers　all　the　losses。'
　　'The　military？'　Joe　wondered。
　　'Or　some　branch　of　government。　Some　organization　with　deeper　pockets　than　any　individual　in　the　world。　I　got　the　sense；　from　Rose；　that　this　project　wasn't　funded　with　just　a　hundred　million　of　research　and　development　funds。　We're　talking　major　capital　on　the　line　here。　There　were　billions　behind　this。'
　　From　upstairs　came　the　boom　of　a　gunshot。
　　Even　muffled　by　intervening　rooms；　the　nature　of　the　sound　was　unmistakable。
　　The　three　of　them　came　to　their　feet　as　one；　and　Georgine　said；　'Charlie？'
　　Perhaps　because　he　had　so　recently　sat　with　Bob　and　Clarise　in　that　cheery　yellow　living　room　in　Culver　City；　Joe　immediately　thought　of　Nora　Vadance　naked　in　the　patio　chair；　the　butcher　knife　grasped　in　both　hands　with　the　point　toward　her　abdomen。
　　In　the　wake　of　the　gunshot's　echo；　the　silence　settling　down　through　the　house　seemed　as　deadly　as　the　invisible　and　weightless　rain　of　atomic　radiation　in　the　sepulchral　stillness　following　nuclear　thunder。
　　Alarm　growing；　Georgine　shouted；　'Charlie！'
　　As　Georgine　started　away　from　the　table；　Joe　restrained　her。　'No；　wait；　wait。　I'll　go。　Call　nine…one…one；　and　I'll　go。'
　　Lisa　said；　'Joey…'
　　'I　know　what　this　is；'　he　said　sharply　enough　to　forestall　further　discussion。
　　He　hoped　that　he　was　wrong；　that　he　didn't　know　what　was　happening　here；　that　it　had　nothing　to　do　with　what　Nora　Vadance　had　done　to　herself。　But　if　he　was　right；　then　he　couldn't　allow　Georgine　to　be　the　first　on　the　scene。　In　fact；　she　shouldn't　have　to　see　the　aftermath　at　all；　not　now　or　later。
　　'I　know　what　this　is。　Call　nine…one…one；'　Joe　repeated　as　he　crossed　the　kitchen　and　pushed　through　the　swinging　door　into　the　downstairs　hall。
　　In　the　foyer；　the　chandelier　dimmed　and　brightened；　dimmed　and　brightened；　like　the　flickering　lights　in　one　of　those　old　prison　movies　when　the　governor's　call　came　too　late　and　the　condemned　man　was　fried　in　the　electric　chair。
　　Joe　ran　to　the　foot　of　the　stairs　but　then　was　slowed　by　dread　as　he　ascended　toward　the　second　floor；　terrified　that　he　would　find　what　he　expected。
　　A　plague　of　suicide　was　as　irrational　a　concept　as　any　brewed　in　the　stew…pot　minds　of　those　people　who　thought　that　the　mayor　was　a　robot　and　that　evil　aliens　were　watching　them　every　moment　of　the　day。　Joe　couldn't　prehend　how　Charlie　Delmann　could　have　gone　from　near　euphoria　to　despair　in　the　space　of　two　minutes…as　Nora　Vadance　had　gone　from　a　pleasant　breakfast　and　the　newspaper　ics　pages　to　self…evisceration　without　even　pausing　to　leave　a　note　of　explanation。
　　If　Joe　was　right　about　the　meaning　of　the　shot；　however；　there　was　a　slim　chance　that　the　doctor　was　still　alive。　Maybe　he　hadn't　done　himself　in　with　only　one　round。　Maybe　he　could　still　be　saved。
　　The　prospect　of　saving　a　life；　after　so　many　had　slipped　like　water　through　his　hands；　pushed　Joe　forward　in　spite　of　his　dread。　He　climbed　the　rest　of　the　stairs　two　at　a　time。
　　On　the　second　floor；　with　barely　a　glance；　he　passed　unlighted　rooms　and　closed　doors。　At　the　end　of　the　hallway；　from　behind　a　half…open　door；　came　ruddy　light。
　　The　master　suite　was　entered　through　a　small　foyer　of　its　own。　Beyond　lay　the　bedroom；　furnished　with　bone…coloured　contemporary　upholstery。　The　graceful　pale…green　curves　of　Sung　Dynasty　pottery；　displayed　on　glass　shelves；　imposed　serenity　on　the　chamber。
　　Dr。　Charles　Delmann　was　sprawled　on　a　Chinese　sleigh　bed。
　　Across　him　lay　a　Mossberg　12…gauge；　pump…action；　pistol…grip　shotgun。　Because　of　the　short　barrel；　he　had　been　able　to　put　the　muzzle　between　his　teeth　and　easily　reach　the　trigger。　Even　in　the　poor　light；　Joe　could　see　there　was　no　reason　to　check　for　a　pulse。
　　The　celadon　lamp　on　the　farther　of　the　two　nightstands　provided　the　only　illumination。　The　glow　was　ruddy　because　the　shade　was　splashed　with　blood。
　　On　a　Saturday　night　ten　months　ago；　in　the　course　of　covering　a　story；　Joe　had　visited　the　city　morgue；　where　the　bagged　bodies　on　the　gurneys　and　the　naked　bodies　on　the　autopsy　tables　waited　for　the　attention　of　overworked　pathologists。　Abruptly　he　was　gripped　by　the　irrational　conviction　that　the　cadavers　surrounding　him　were　those　of　his　wife　and　children；　all　of　them　were　Michelle　and　the　girls；　as　though　Joe　had　wandered　into　a　scene　in　a　science　fiction　movie　about　clones。　And　from　within　the　body…size　drawers　of　the　stainless…steel　coolers；　where　more　of　the　dead　rested　between　destinations；　arose　the　muffled　voices　of　Michelle；　Chrissie；　little　Nina；　pleading　with　him　to　release　them　to　the　world　of　the　living。　Beside　him；　a　coroner's　assistant　zipped　open　a　body　bag；　and　Joe　looked　down　into　the　winter…white　face　of　a　dead　woman；　her　painted　mouth　like　a　poinsettia　leaf　crumpled　on　snow；　and　he　saw　Michelle；　Chrissie；　Nina。　The　dead　woman's　blind　blue　eyes　were　mirrors　of　his　own　soaring　madness。　He　had　walked　out　of　the　morgue　and　submitted　his　resignation　to　Caesar　Santos；　his　editor。
　　Now；　he　quickly　turned　away　from　the　bed　before　any　beloved　faces　materialized　over　that　of　the　dead　physician。
　　An　eerie　wheezing　came　to　his　attention；　and　for　an　instant　he　thought　that　Delmann　was　straining　to　draw　breath　through　his　shattered　face。　Then　he　realized　that　he　was　listening　to　his　own　ragged　breathing。
　　On　the　nearer　nightstand；　the　lighted　green　numbers　on　a　digital　clock　were　flashing。　Time　changes　were　occurring　at　a　frantic　pace：　ten　minutes　with　every　flash；　the　hours　reversing　through　the　early　evening　and　backward　into　the　afternoon。
　　Joe　had　the　crazy　thought　that　the　malfunctioning　clock…which　must　have　been　hit　by　a　stray　shotgun　pellet…might　magically　undo　all　that　had　happened；　that　Delmann　might　rise　from　death　as　the　pellets　rattled　backward　into　the　barrel　and　torn　flesh　re…knit；　that　in　a　moment　Joe　himself　might　be　on　the　Santa　Monica　Beach　once　more；　in　the　sun；　and　then　back　in　his　one…room　apartment　in　the　moon…deep　night；　on　the　telephone　with　Beth　in　Virginia；　and　backward；　still　backward；　until　Flight　353　had　not　yet　gone　down　in　Colorado。
　　From　downstairs　came　a　scream；　imploding　his　desperate　fantasy。　Then　another　scream。
　　He　thought　it　was　Lisa。　As　tough　as　she　was；　she　had　probably　never　before　screamed　in　her　life；　yet　this　was　a　cry　of　sheerest　childlike　terror。
　　He　had　been　gone　from　the　kitchen　for　at　most　a　minute。　What　could　have　happened　in　a　minute；　so　fast？
　　He　reached　toward　the　shotgun；　intending　to　pluck　it　off　the　corpse。　The　magazine　might　contain　other　rounds。
　　No。　Now　it's　a　suicide　scene。　Move　the　weapon；　and　it　looks　like　a　murder　scene。　With　me　as　the　suspect。
　　He　left　the　gun　untouched。
　　Out　of　the　thin　blood…filtered　light；　into　the　hallway　where　a　funerary　stillness　of　shadows　stood　sentinel；　toward　the　enormous　chandelier　that　hung　in　a　perpetual　crystal　rain　above　the　foyer　staircase；　he　ran。
　　The　shotgun　was　useless。　He　wasn't　capable　of　firing　it　at　anyone。　Besides；　who　was　in　the　house　but　Georgine　and　Lisa？　No　one。　No　one。
　　Down　the　stairs　two　at　a　time；　three　at　a　time；　under　the　crystal　cascade　of　bevelled　teardrops；　he　grabbed　at　the　banister　to　keep　his　balance。　His　palm；　slick　with　cold　sweat；　slid　across　the　mahogany。
　　Along　the　lower　hall　in　a　thunder　of　footsteps；　he　heard　jangly　music；　and　as　he　slammed　through　the　swinging　door；　he　saw　pendulous　copper　pots　and　pans　swinging　on　the　racks　overhead；　gently　clinking　together。
　　The　kitchen　was　as　softly　lit　as　it　had　been　when　he　left。　The　overhead　halogen　downlights　were　dimmed　so　low　as　to　be　all　but　extinguished。
　　At　the　far　end　of　the　room；　backlit　by　the　quivering　glow　of　the　three　decorative　oil　lamps　on　the　table；　Lisa　stood　wit