dk.solesurvivor-第43节

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　　The　flight　wasn't　heavily　booked；　a　third　of　the　seats　empty。　He　had　a　window　seat　with　no　immediate　neighbour；　so　he　was　afforded　the　privacy　he　needed。
　　In　response　to　his　request；　a　flight　attendant　brought　a　pen　and　note　pad。
　　As　he　read　through　the　transcript；　he　extracted　Blane's　dialogue　and　printed　it　on　the　note　pad。　Standing　apart　from　First　Officer　Victor　Santorelli's　increasingly　frantic　statements；　and　shorn　of　Barbara's　descriptions　of　sounds　and　pauses；　the　captain's　words　might　allow　for　the　discovery　of　nuances　otherwise　not　easy　to　spot。
　　When　he　was　done；　Joe　folded　the　transcript　and　returned　it　to　his　coat　pocket。　Then　he　read　from　the　note　pad：
　　One　of　their　names　is　Dr。　Louis　Blom。
　　One　of　their　names　is　Dr。　Keith　Ramlock。
　　They're　doing　bad　things　to　me。
　　They're　mean　to　me。
　　Make　them　stop。
　　Are　we　recording？
　　Make　them　stop　hurting　me。
　　Are　we　recording？
　　Are　we　recording？
　　Make　them　stop　or　when　I　get　the　chance　。　。　。　when　I　get　the　chance；　I'll　kill　everybody。　Everybody。　I　will。　I'll　do　it。　I'll　kill　everybody；　and　I'll　like　it。
　　This　is　fun。
　　Whoooaaa。　Here　we　go；　Dr。　Rumlock。　Dr。　Blom；　here　we　go。
　　Whoooaaa。　Are　we　recording？
　　Are　we　recording？
　　Oh；　wow。
　　Oh；　yeah。
　　Oh；　yeah。
　　Now。　Look。
　　Cool。
　　
　　Joe　didn't　see　anything　new　in　the　material；　but　something　he　bad　noticed　before　was　more　obvious　when　Blane's　dialogue　was　read　in　this　extracted　format。　Although　the　captain　was　speaking　in　the　voice　of　an　adult；　some　of　the　things　he　was　saying　had　a　distinct　childlike　quality。
　　They're　doing　bad　things　to　me。　They're　mean　to　me。　Make　them　stop。　Make　them　stop　hurting　me。
　　This　was　neither　the　phrasing　nor　the　word　choice　most　adults　would　use　to　accuse　tormentors　or　to　ask　for　help。
　　His　longest　speech；　a　threat　to　kill　everybody　and　like　it；　was　petulant　and　childish　as　well…especially　when　immediately　followed　by　the　observation　This　is　fun。
　　Whoooaaa。　Here　we　go　。　。　Whoooaaa。　Oh；　wow。　Oh；　yeah。
　　Blane's　reaction　to　the　roll　and　plunge　of　the　747　was　like　that　of　a　boy　thrilling　to　the　arrival　of　a　roller　coaster　at　the　crown　of　the　first　hill　on　the　track　and；　then；　to　the　first　stomach…rolling　drop。　According　to　Barbara；　the　captain　had　sounded　unafraid；　and　there　was　no　more　terror　in　his　words　than　in　his　tone　of　voice。
　　Now。　Look。
　　Those　words　were　spoken　three　and　a　half　seconds　before　impact；　as　Blane　watched　the　nightscape　bloom　like　a　black　rose　beyond　the　windscreen。　He　seemed　gripped　not　by　fear　but　by　a　sense　of　wonder。
　　Cool。
　　Joe　stared　at　that　final　word　for　a　long　time；　until　the　shiver　it　caused　had　passed；　until　he　could　consider　all　the　implications　of　it　with　a　measure　of　detachment。
　　Cool。
　　To　the　end；　Blane　reacted　like　a　boy　on　an　amusement…park　ride。　He　had　exhibited　no　more　concern　for　his　passengers　and　crew　than　a　thoughtless　and　arrogant　child　might　exhibit　for　the　insects　that　he　tortured　with　matches。
　　Cool。
　　Even　a　thoughtless　child；　as　selfish　as　only　the　very　young　and　the　incurably　immature　can　be；　would　nonetheless　have　shown　some　fear　for　himself　Even　a　determinedly　suicidal　man；　having　leaped　off　a　high　ledge；　would　cry　out　in　mortal　fear　if　not　regret　as　he　hurtled　toward　the　pavement。　Yet　this　captain；　in　whatever　altered　state　he　occupied；　watched　oblivion　approach　with　no　apparent　concern；　even　with　delight；　as　though　he　recognized　no　physical　threat　to　himself。
　　Cool。
　　Delroy　Blane。　Family　man。　Faithful　husband。　Devout　Mormon。
　　Stable；　loving；　kind；　passionate。　Successful；　happy；　healthy。　Everything　to　live　for。　Cleared　by　the　toxicological　tests。
　　What's　wrong　with　this　picture？
　　Cool。
　　A　useless　anger　rose　in　Joe。　It　was　not　aimed　at　Blane；　who　surely　was　a　victim　too…though　he　didn't　initially　appear　to　be　one。　This　was　the　simmering　anger　of　his　childhood　and　adolescence；　undirected　and　therefore　likely　to　swell　like　the　ever…hotter　steam　in　a　boiler　with　no　pressure…release　valve。
　　He　tucked　the　note　pad　into　his　jacket　pocket。
　　His　hands　curled　into　fists。　Unclenching　them　was　difficult。　He　wanted　to　strike　something。　Anything。　Until　he　broke　it。　Until　his　knuckles　split　and　bled。
　　Such　blind　anger　always　reminded　him　of　his　father。
　　
　　Frank　Carpenter　had　not　been　an　angry　person。　The　opposite。　He　never　raised　his　voice　in　other　than　amusement　and　surprise　and　happy　exclamation。　He　was　a　good　man…inexplicably　good　and　oddly　optimistic；　considering　the　suffering　with　which　fate　saddled　him。
　　Joe；　however；　had　been　perpetually　angry　for　him。
　　He　could　not　remember　his　dad　with　two　legs。　Frank　had　lost　the　left　one　when　his　car　was　broadsided　by　a　pickup　truck　driven　by　a　nineteen…year…old　drunk　with　lapsed　insurance。　Joe　was　not　yet　three　years　old　at　the　time。
　　Frank　and　Donna；　Joe's　mother；　had　been　married　with　little　more　than　two　paycheques　and　their　work　clothes。　To　save　money；　they　carried　only　liability　coverage　with　their　car。　The　drunk　driver　had　no　assets；　and　they　received　no　pensation　from　any　insurance　pany　for　the　loss　of　the　limb。
　　The　leg　was　amputated　halfway　between　knee　and　hip。　In　those　days　there　were　no　highly　effective　prostheses。　Besides；　a　false　leg　with　any　sort　of　functioning　knee　was　expensive。　Frank　became　so　agile　and　quick　with　one　leg　and　a　crutch　that　he　joked　about　entering　a　marathon。
　　Joe　had　never　been　ashamed　of　his　father's　difference。　He　knew　his　dad　not　as　a　one…legged　man　with　a　peculiar　lurching　gait；　but　as　a　bedtime　storyteller；　an　indefatigable　player　of　Uncle　Wiggly　and　other　games；　a　patient　softball　coach。
　　The　first　serious　fight　he'd　gotten　into　was　when　he　was　six；　in　first　grade。　A　kid　named　Les　Olner　had　referred　to　Frank　as　a　'stupid　cripple。'　Although　Olner　was　a　bully　and　bigger　than　Joe；　his　superior　size　was　an　insufficient　advantage　against　the　savage　animal　fury　with　which　he　was　confronted。　Joe　beat　the　shit　out　of　him。　His　intention　was　to　put　out　Olner's　right　eye；　so　he　would　know　what　it　was　like　to　live　with　one　of　two；　but　a　teacher　pulled　him　off　the　battered　kid　before　he　could　half　blind　him。
　　Afterward；　he　felt　no　remorse。　He　still　didn't。　He　was　not　proud　of　this。　It　was　just　the　way　he　felt。
　　Dorma　knew　that　her　husband's　heart　would　break　a　little　if　he　learned　his　boy　had　gotten　into　trouble　over　him。　She　devised　and　enforced　Joe's　punishment　herself；　and　together　they　concealed　the　incident　from　Frank。
　　That　was　the　beginning　of　Joe's　secret　life　of　quiet　rage　and　periodic　violence。　He　grew　up　looking　for　a　fight　and　usually　finding　one；　but　he　chose　the　moment　and　the　venue　to　ensure　that　his　dad　was　unlikely　to　learn　of　it。
　　Frank　was　a　roofer；　but　there　was　no　scrambling　up　ladders　and　hustling　from　eaves　to　ridgeline　with　one　leg。　He　was　loath　to　take　disability　from　the　government；　but　he　accepted　it　for　a　while；　until　he　found　a　way　to　turn　a　talent　for　woodworking　into　an　occupation。
　　He　made　jewellery　boxes；　lamp　bases；　and　other　items　inlaid　with　exotic　woods　in　intricate　patterns；　and　he　found　shops　that　would　carry　his　creations。　For　a　while；　he　cleared　a　few　dollars　more　than　the　disability　payments；　which　he　relinquished。
　　A　seamstress　in　a　bination　tailor's　shop　and　dry…cleaners；　Donna　came　home　from　work　every　day　with　hair　curled　from　the　steam…press　humidity　and　smelling　of　benzene　and　other　liquid　solvents。　To　this　day；　when　Joe　entered　a　dry…cleaning　establishment；　his　first　breath　brought　vividly　to　mind　his　mother's　hair　and　her　honey…brown　eyes；　which　as　a　child　he'd　thought　were　faded　from　a　darker　brown　by　steam　and　chemicals。
　　Three　years　after　losing　the　leg；　Frank　began　suffering　pain　in　his　knuckles　and　then　his　wrists。　The　diagnosis　was　rheumatoid　arthritis。
　　A　vicious　thing；　this　disease。　And　in　Frank；　it　progressed　with　unmon　speed；　a　fire　spreading　through　him：　the　spinal　joints　in　his　neck；　his　shoulders；　hips；　his　one　remaining　knee。
　　He　shut　down　his　woodworking　business。　There　were　government　programs　providing　assistance；　though　never　enough　and　always　with　the　measure　of　humiliation　that　bureaucrats　dished　out　with　a　hateful…and　often　unconscious…generosity。
　　The　Church　helped　too；　and　charity　from　the　local　parish　was　more　passionately　provided　and　less　humbling　to　receive。　Frank　and　Donna　were　Catholics。　Joe　went　to　Mass　with　them　faithfully　but　without　faith。
　　In　two　years；　already　hampered　by　the　loss　of　one　leg；　Frank　was　in　a　wheelchair。
　　Medical　knowledge　has　advanced　dramatically　in　thirty　years；　but　in　those　days；　treatments　were　less　effective　than　they　are　now…especially　in　cases　as　severe　as　Frank's。　Nonsteroidal　anti…inflammatory　drugs；　injections　of　gold　salts；　and　then　much　later　penicillamine。　Still　the　osteoporosis　progressed。　More　cartilage　and　tendon　tissue　were　lost　from　the　chronic　inflammation。　Muscles　continued　to　atrophy。　Joints　ached　and　swelled。　The　quality　of　immunosuppressant　Corticosteroids　available　at　the　time　somewhat　slowed　but　did　not　halt　the　deformation　of　joints；　the　frightening　loss　of　function。
　　By　the　time　Joe　was　thirteen；　his　daily　routine　inc