dk.solesurvivor-第45节

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　　He　owned　the　Post　outright　and　was　not　an　absentee　publisher　concerned　only　about　profit；　through　his　son；　he　exerted　control　over　the　editorial　philosophy　and　the　reportorial　policies　of　the　newspaper。　He　might　not　be　so　intimately　involved；　however；　with　Teknologik；　Inc。　His　stake　in　that　corporation　was　large　but　not　in　itself　a　controlling　interest；　so　perhaps　he　was　not　engaged　in　the　day…to…day　operations；　treating　it　only　as　a　stock　investment。
　　In　that　case；　he　was　not　necessarily　personally　aware　of　the　top…secret　research　Rose　Tucker　and　her　associates　had　undertaken。　And　he　was　not　necessarily　carrying　any　degree　of　responsibility　for　the　destruction　of　Flight　353。
　　Joe　recalled　his　encounter　the　previous　afternoon　with　Dan　Shavers；　the　business…page　columnist　at　the　Post。　Shavers　pungently　characterized　the　Teknologik　executives：　infamous　self…aggrandizers；　think　of　themselves　as　some　kind　of　business　royalty；　but　they　are　no　better　than　us。　They；　too；　answer　to　He　Who　Must　Be　Obeyed。
　　He　Who　Must　Be　Obeyed。　Horton　Nellor。
　　Reviewing　the　rest　of　the　brief　conversation；　Joe　realized　that　Shavers　had　assumed　that　Joe　knew　of　Nellor's　interest　in　Teknologik。　And　the　columnist　seemed　to　have　been　implying　that　Nellor　asserted　his　will　at　Teknologik　no　less　than　he　did　at　the　Post。
　　Joe　also　flashed　back　to　something　Lisa　Peccatone　had　said　in　the　kitchen　at　the　Delmann　house　when　the　relationship　between　Rose　Tucker　and　Teknologik　was　mentioned：　You　and　me　and　Rosie　all　connected。　Small　world；　huh？
　　At　the　time；　he　had　thought　she　was　referring　to　the　fact　that　Flight　353　had　bee　a　spring　point　in　the　arcs　of　all　their　lives。　Maybe　what　she　really　meant　was　that　all　of　them　worked　for　the　same　man。
　　Joe　had　never　met　Horton　Nellor；　who　had　bee　something　of　a　recluse　over　the　years。　He'd　seen　photographs；　of　course。　The　billionaire；　now　in　his　late　sixties；　was　silver…haired　and　round…faced　with　pleasing　if　somewhat　blurred　features。　He　looked　like　a　muffin　on　which；　with　icing；　a　baker　had　painted　a　grandfather　face。
　　He　did　not　appear　to　be　a　killer。　He　was　known　as　a　generous　philanthropist。　His　reputation　was　not　that　of　a　man　who　would　hire　assassins　or　condone　murder　in　the　maintenance　or　expansion　of　his　empire。
　　Human　beings；　however；　were　different　from　apples　and　oranges：
　　The　flavour　of　the　peel　did　not　reliably　predict　the　taste　of　the　pulp。　The　fact　remained　that　Joe　and　Michelle　had　worked　for　the　same　man　as　those　who　now　wanted　to　kill　Rose　Tucker　and　who…in　some　as　yet　inprehensible　manner…had　evidently　destroyed　Nationwide　353。　The　money　that　had　long　supported　his　family　was　the　same　money　that　had　financed　their　murders。
　　His　response　to　this　revelation　was　so　plexly　tangled　that　he　could　not　quickly　unknot　it；　so　dark　that　he　could　not　easily　see　the　entire　shape　of　it。　Greasy　fingers　of　nausea　seined　his　guts。　Although　he　stared　out　the　window　for　perhaps　half　an　hour；　he　was　not　aware　of　the　desert　surrendering　to　the　suburbs　or　the　suburbs　to　the　city。　He　was　surprised　when　he　realized　that　they　were　descending　toward　LAX。
　　On　the　ground；　as　they　taxied　to　the　assigned　gate　and　as　the　telescoping　mobile　corridor　was　linked　like　an　umbilical　between　the　737　and　the　terminal；　Joe　checked　his　wristwatch；　considered　the　distance　to　Westwood；　and　calculated　that　he　would　be　at　least　half　an　hour　early　for　his　meeting　with　Demi。　Perfect。　He　wanted　enough　time　to　scope　the　meeting　place　from　across　the　street　and　a　block　away　before　mitting　himself　to　it。
　　Demi　should　be　reliable。　She　was　Rose's　friend。　He　had　gotten　her　number　from　the　message　that　Rose　had　left　for　him　at　the　Post。　But　he　wasn't　in　the　mood　to　trust　anyone。
　　After　all；　even　if　Rose　Tucker's　motives　had　been　pure；　even　if　she　had　kept　Nina　with　her　to　prevent　Teknologik　from　killing　or　kidnapping　the　girl；　she　had　nevertheless　withheld　Joe's　daughter　from　him　for　a　year。　Worse；　she　had　allowed　him　to　go　on　thinking　that　Nina…like　Michelle　and　Chrissie…was　dead。　For　reasons　that　he　could　not　yet　know；　perhaps　Rose　would　never　want　to　return　his　little　girl　to　him。
　　Trust　no　one。
　　As　he　got　up　from　his　seat　and　started　forward　toward　the　exit；　he　noticed　a　man　in　white　slacks；　white　shirt；　and　white　Panama　hat　rise　from　a　seat　farther　forward　in　the　cabin　and　glance　back　at　him。　The　guy　was　about　fifty；　stockily　built；　with　a　thick　mane　of　white　hair　that　made　him　look　like　an　aging　rock　star；　especially　under　that　hat。
　　This　was　no　stranger。
　　For　an　instant；　Joe　thought　that　perhaps　the　man　was；　in　fact；　a　lower…case　celebrity…a　musician　in　a　famous　band　or　a　character　actor　from　television。　Then　he　was　certain　that　he　had　seen　him　not　on　screen　or　stage　but　elsewhere；　recently；　and　in　significant　circumstances。
　　Mr。　Panama　looked　away　from　him　after　a　fraction　of　a　second　of　eye　contact；　stepped　into　the　aisle；　and　moved　forward。　Like　Joe；　he　was　not　burdened　by　any　carry…on　luggage；　as　though　he　had　been　on　a　day…trip。
　　Eight　or　ten　passengers　were　between　the　day…tripper　and　Joe。　He　was　afraid　he　would　lose　track　of　his　quarry　before　he　figured　out　where　he　had　previously　seen　him。　He　couldn't　push　along　the　narrow　aisle　past　the　intervening　passengers　without　causing　a　motion；　however；　and　he　preferred　not　to　let　Mr。　Panama　know　that　he　had　been　spotted。
　　When　Joe　tried　to　use　the　distinctive　hat　as　a　prod　to　memory；　he　came　up　blank；　but　when　he　pictured　the　man　without　the　hat　and　focused　on　the　flowing　white　hair；　he　thought　of　the　blue…robed　cult　members　with　the　shaven　heads。　The　connection　eluded　him；　seemed　absurd。
　　Then　he　thought　of　the　bonfire　around　which　the　cultists　had　been　standing　last　night　on　the　beach；　where　he　had　disposed　of　the　McDonald's　bag　that　contained　the　Kleenex　damp　with　Charlie　Delmann's　blood。　And　the　lithe　dancers　in　bathing　suits　around　another　bonfire。　A　third　fire　and　the　gathering　of　surfers　inside　the　totemic　ring　of　their　upended　boards。　And　still　another　fire　around　which　sat　a　dozen　enthralled　listeners　as　a　stocky　man　with　a　broad　charismatic　face　and　a　mane　of　white　hair　narrated　ghost　story　in　a　reverberant　voice。
　　This　man。　The　storyteller。
　　Joe　had　no　doubt　that　they　were　one　and　the　same。
　　He　also　knew　there　was　no　likelihood　whatsoever　that　he　had　crossed　this　man's　path　on　the　beach　last　night　and　again　here　sheerly　by　chance。　All　is　intimately　interwoven　in　this　most　conspiratorial　of　all　worlds。
　　They　must　have　been　conducting　surveillance　on　him　for　weeks　or　months；　waiting　for　Rose　to　contact　him；　when　he　had　finally　bee　aware　of　them　on　Santa　Monica　Beach；　Saturday　morning。
　　During　that　time　they　had　learned　all　his　haunts；　which　were　not　numerous：　the　apartment；　a　couple　of　coffee　shops；　the　cemetery；　and　a　few　favourite　beaches　where　he　went　to　learn　indifference　from　the　sea。
　　After　he　had　disabled　Wallace　Blick；　invaded　their　van；　and　then　fled　the　cemetery；　they　had　lost　him。　He　had　found　the　transponder　on　his　car　and　thrown　it　into　the　passing　gardener's　truck；　and　they　had　lost　him。　They'd　almost　caught　up　with　him　again　at　the　Post；　but　he'd　slipped　away　minutes　ahead　of　them。
　　So　they　had　staked　out　his　apartment；　the　coffee　shops；　the　beaches…waiting　for　him　to　show　up　somewhere。　The　group　being　entertained　by　the　ghost　story　had　been　ordinary　civilians；　but　the　storyteller　who　had　insinuated　himself　into　their　gathering　was　not　in　the　least　ordinary。
　　They　had　picked　Joe　up　once　more　the　past　night　on　the　beach。　He　knew　the　correct　surveillance　jargon：　They　had　reacquired　him　on　the　beach。　Followed　him　to　the　convenience　store　from　which　he　had　telephoned　Mario　Oliveri　in　Denver　and　Barbara　in　Colorado　Springs。　Followed　him　to　his　motel。
　　They　could　have　killed　him　there。　Quietly。　While　he　slept　or　after　waking　him　with　a　gun　to　his　head。　They　could　have　made　it　look　like　a　drug　overdose…or　like　suicide。
　　In　the　heat　of　the　moment；　they　had　been　eager　to　shoot　him　down　at　the　cemetery；　but　they　were　no　longer　in　a　hurry　to　see　him　dead。　Because　maybe；　just　maybe；　he　would　lead　them　again　to　Rose　Marie　Tucker。
　　Evidently　they　weren't　aware　that　he　had　been　at　the　Delmann　house；　among　other　places；　during　the　hours　they　had　lost　contact　with　him。　If　they　knew　he'd　seen　what　had　happened　to　the　Delmanns　and　to　Lisa…even　though　he　could　not　understand　it…they　probably　would　terminate　him。　Take　no　chances。　Terminate　him　'with　extreme　prejudice；'　as　their　kind　phrased　it。
　　During　the　night；　they　had　placed　another　tracking　device　on　his　car。　In　the　hour　before　dawn；　they　followed　him　to　LAX；　always　at　a　distance　where　they　were　in　no　danger　of　being　spotted。　Then　to　Denver　and　perhaps　beyond。
　　Jesus。
　　What　had　frightened　the　deer　in　the　woods？
　　Joe　felt　stupid　and　careless；　although　he　knew　that　he　was　not　either。　He　couldn't　expect　to　be　as　good　at　this　game　as　they　were；　he'd　never　played　it　before；　but　they　played　it　every　day。
　　He　was　getting　better；　though。　He　was　getting　better。
　　Farther　up　the　aisle；　the　storyteller　reached　the　exit　door　and　disappeared　into　the　debarkation　umbilical。
　　Joe　was　afraid　of　losing　his　sta