dk.solesurvivor-第25节

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rubbed　at　his　hand。
　　He　stuffed　the　wadded　tissues　into　the　bag　that　had　contained　the　burgers　from　McDonald's。
　　Evidence；　he　thought；　although　he　was　guilty　of　no　crime。
　　The　world　had　turned　upside　down。　Lies　were　truth；　truth　was　a　lie；　facts　were　fiction；　the　impossible　was　possible；　and　innocence　was　guilt。
　　He　dug　in　his　pockets　for　keys。　Started　the　engine。
　　Through　the　broken…out　window　in　the　backseat；　he　heard　not　only　the　smoke　alarms；　several　of　them　now；　but　neighbours　shouting　at　one　another；　cries　of　fright　in　the　summer　night。
　　Trusting　that　their　attention　would　be　on　the　Delmann　place　and　that　they　would　not　even　notice　him　departing；　Joe　switched　on　the　headlights。　He　swung　the　Honda　into　the　street。
　　The　lovely　old　Georgian　house　was　now　the　domicile　of　dragons；　where　bright　presences　with　incendiary　breath　prowled　from　room　to　room。　While　the　dead　lay　in　shrouds　of　fire；　multiple　sirens　rose　like　lamentations　in　the　distance。
　　Joe　drove　away　into　a　night　grown　too　strange　to　prehend；　into　a　world　that　no　longer　seemed　to　be　the　one　into　which　he　had　been　born。
　　
　　
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　　This　Halloween　light　in　August；　as　orange　as　pumpkin　lanterns　but　leaping　high　from　pits　in　the　sand；　made　even　the　innocent　seem　like　debauched　pagans　in　its　glow。
　　On　a　stretch　of　beach　where　bonfires　were　permitted；　ten　blazed。　Large　families　gathered　at　some；　parties　of　teenagers　and　college　students　at　others。
　　Joe　walked　among　them。　The　beach　was　one　he　favoured　on　nights　when　he　came　to　the　ocean　for　therapy；　although　usually　he　kept　his　distance　from　the　bonfires。
　　Here　the　decibels　of　chatter　were　off　the　top　of　the…　scale；　and　barefoot　couples　danced　in　place　to　old　tunes　by　the　Beach　Boys。　But　here　a　dozen　listeners　sat　enthralled　as　a　stocky　man　with　a　mane　of　white　hair　and　a　reverberant　voice　spun　a　ghost　story。
　　The　day's　events　had　altered　Joe's　perception　of　everything；　so　it　seemed　he　was　looking　at　the　world　through　a　pair　of　peculiar　glasses　won　in　a　game　of　chance　on　the　midway　of　a　mysterious　carnival　that　travelled　from　venue　to　venue　in　whisper…quiet　black　trains；　spectacles　with　the　power　not　to　distort　the　world　but　to　reveal　a　secret　dimension　that　was　enigmatic；　cold；　and　fearsome。
　　The　dancers　in　bathing　suits；　bare　limbs　molten…bronze　from　the　firelight；　shook　their　shoulders　and　rolled　their　hips；　dipped　and　swayed；　beat　their　supple　arms　like　wings　or　clawed　at　the　radiant　air；　and　to　Joe　each　celebrant　seemed　to　be　two　entities　at　the　same　time。　Each　was　a　real　person；　yes；　but　each　was　also　a　marionette；　controlled　by　an　unseen　puppet　master；　string…tugged　into　postures　of　jubilation；　winking　glass　eyes　and　cracking　wooden　smiles　and　laughing　with　the　thrown　voices　of　hidden　ventriloquists；　for　the　sole　purpose　of　deceiving　Joe　into　believing　that　this　was　a　benign　world　that　merited　delight。
　　He　passed　a　group　of　ten　or　twelve　young　men　in　swimming　trunks。　Their　discarded　wetsuits　glistened　like　piles　of　sealskins　or　flayed　eels　or　some　other　harvest　of　the　sea。　Their　upended　surfboards　cast　Stonehenge　shadows　across　the　sand。　Testosterone　levels　were　so　high　among　them　that　the　air　virtually　smelled　of　it；　so　high　that　it　made　them　not　rowdy　but　slow　and　murmurous；　almost　somnambulant　with　primal　male　fantasies。
　　The　dancers；　the　storyteller　and　his　audience；　the　surfers；　and　everyone　else　whom　Joe　passed　watched　him　warily。　This　was　not　his　imagination。　Though　their　glances　were　mostly　surreptitious；　he　was　aware　of　their　attention。
　　He　wouldn't　have　been　surprised　if　all　of　them　worked　for　Teknologik　or　for　whoever　funded　Teknologik。
　　On　the　other　hand；　although　wading　deep　in　paranoia；　he　was　still　sane　enough　to　realize　that　he　carried　with　him　the　unspeakable　things　he　had　seen　at　the　Delmann　house…and　that　these　horrors　were　visible　in　him。　The　experience　carved　his　face；　painted　a　dull　sheen　of　desolation　in　his　eyes；　and　sculpted　his　body　into　angles　of　rage　and　dread。　When　he　passed；　the　people　on　the　beach　saw　a　tormented　man；　and　they　were　all　city　dwellers　who　understood　the　danger　of　tormented　men。
　　He　found　a　bonfire　surrounded　by　twenty　or　more　utterly　silent　young　men　and　women　with　shaved　heads。　Each　of　them　wore　a　sapphire…blue　robe　and　white　tennis　shoes；　and　each　had　a　gold　ring　in　his　or　her　left　ear。　The　men　were　beardless。　The　women　were　without　makeup。　Many　of　both　sexes　were　so　strikingly　attractive　and　so　stylish　in　their　raiments　that　he　instantly　thought　of　them　as　the　Cult　of　the　Beverly　Hills　Children。
　　He　stood　among　them　for　a　few　minutes；　watching　them　as　they　watched　their　fire　in　meditative　silence。　When　they　returned　his　attention；　they　had　no　fear　of　what　they　perceived　in　him。　Their　eyes　were；　without　exception；　calm　pools　in　which　he　saw　humbling　depths　of　acceptance　and　a　kindness　like　moonlight　on　water…but　perhaps　only　because　that　was　what　he　needed　to　see。
　　He　was　carrying　the　McDonald's　bag　that　contained　the　wrappers　of　two　cheeseburgers；　an　empty　soft　drink　container；　and　the　Kleenex　with　which　he　had　scrubbed　the　blood　off　his　hand。　Evidence。　He　tossed　the　bag　into　the　bonfire；　and　he　watched　the　cultists　as　they　watched　the　bag　burst　into　flame；　blacken；　and　vanish。
　　When　he　walked　away；　he　wondered　briefly　what　they　believed　the　purpose　of　life　to　be。　His　fantasy　was　that　in　the　mad　spiral　and　plummet　of　modern　life；　these　blue…robed　faithful　had　learned　a　truth　and　achieved　an　enlightened　state　that　gave　meaning　to　existence。　He　didn't　ask　them；　for　fear　their　answer　would　be　nothing　other　than　one　more　version　of　the　same　sad　longing　and　wishful　thinking　on　which　so　many　others　based　their　hope。
　　A　hundred　yards　up　the　beach　from　the　bonfires；　where　the　night　ruled；　he　hunkered　down　at　the　purling　edge　of　the　surf　and　washed　his　hands　in　the　inch…deep　salty　water。　He　picked　up　wet　sand　and　scrubbed　with　it；　scouring　any　lingering　traces　of　blood　from　the　creases　in　his　knuckles　and　from　under　his　fingernails。
　　After　a　final　rinse　of　his　hands；　without　bothering　to　take　off　his　socks　and　Nikes　or　to　roll　up　his　jeans；　he　walked　into　the　sea。　He　moved　into　the　black　tide　and　stopped　after　he　passed　the　break　line　of　the　quiet　surf；　where　the　water　was　above　his　knees。
　　The　gentle　waves　wore　only　thin　frayed　collars　of　phosphorescent　foam。　Curiously；　though　the　night　was　clear　and　pierced　by　a　moon；　within　a　hundred　yards　the　sea　rolled　naked；　black；　invisible。
　　Denied　the　pacifying　vista　that　had　drawn　him　to　the　shore；　Joe　found　some　solace　in　the　surging　tide　that　pressed　against　his　legs　and　in　the　low；　dumb　grumble　of　the　great　watery　machine。　Eternal　rhythms；　meaningless　motions；　the　peace　of　indifference。
　　He　tried　not　to　think　about　what　had　happened　at　the　Delmann　house。　Those　events　were　inprehensible。　Thinking　about　them　would　not　lead　to　understanding。
　　He　was　dismayed　to　feel　no　grief　and　so　little　anguish　about　the　Delmanns'　and　Lisa's　deaths。　At　meetings　of　The　passionate　Friends；　he　had　learned　that　following　the　loss　of　a　child；　parents　often　reported　a　disturbing　inability　to　care　about　the　suffering　of　others。　Watching　television　news　of　freeway　wrecks；　apartment…building　fires；　and　heinous　murders；　one　sat　numb　and　unaffected。　Music　that　had　once　stirred　the　heart；　art　that　had　once　touched　the　soul；　now　had　no　effect。　Some　people　overcame　this　loss　of　sensitivity　in　a　year　or　two；　others　in　five　years　or　ten；　but　others…never。
　　The　Delmanns　had　seemed　like　fine　people；　but　he　had　never　really　known　them。
　　Lisa　was　a　friend。　Now　she　was　dead。　So　what？　Everyone　died　sooner　or　later。　Your　children。　The　woman　who　was　the　love　of　your　life。　Everyone。
　　The　hardness　of　his　heart　frightened　him。　He　felt　loathsome。　But　he　could　not　force　himself　to　feel　the　pain　of　others。　Only　his　own。
　　From　the　sea　he　sought　the　indifference　to　his　losses　that　he　already　felt　to　the　losses　of　others。
　　Yet　he　wondered　what　manner　of　beast　he　would　bee　if　even　the　deaths　of　Michelle　and　Chrissie　and　Nina　no　longer　mattered　to　him。　For　the　first　time；　he　considered　that　utter　indifference　might　inspire　not　inner　peace　but　a　limitless　capacity　for　evil。
　　
　　The　busy　service　station　and　the　adjacent　twenty…four…hour　convenience　store　were　three　blocks　from　his　motel。　Two　public　telephones　were　outside；　near　the　restrooms。
　　A　few　fat　moths；　white　as　snowflakes；　circled　under　the　cone…shaped　downlights　that　were　mounted　along　the　building　eaves。　Vastly　enlarged　and　distorted　shadows　of　their　wings　swooped　across　the　white　stucco　wall。
　　Joe　had　never　bothered　to　cancel　his　phone…pany　credit　card。　With　it；　he　placed　several　long…distance　calls　that　he　dared　not　make　from　his　motel　room　if　he　hoped　to　remain　safe　there。
　　He　wanted　to　speak　to　Barbara　Christman；　the　IIC　…　Investigator　in　Charge　…　of　the　probe　of　Flight　353。　It　was　eleven　o'clock　here　on　the　West　Coast　and　two　o'clock　Sunday　morning　in　Washington；　D。C。　She　would　not　be　in　her　office；　of　course；　and　although　Joe　might　be　able　to　reach　a　duty　officer　at　the　National　Transportation　Safety　Board　even　at　this　hour；　he　would　neve