dk.solesurvivor-第7节

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　　He　walked　away　and　did　not　look　back。
　　As　he　took　some　of　the　beach　with　him　in　his　shoes；　so　he　strove　to　take　the　indifference　of　the　ocean　with　him　in　his　heart。
　　Nevertheless；　he　could　not　help　but　wonder　what　police　agency　could　boast　such　astonishingly　beautiful　women　on　its　force。　He　had　known　some　female　cops　who　were　as　lovely　and　sexy　as　any　movie　star；　but　the　redhead　and　her　friend　exceeded　even　celluloid　standards。
　　In　the　parking　lot；　he　half　expected　the　men　in　the　Hawaiian　shirts　to　be　watching　his　Honda。　If　they　had　it　staked　out；　their　surveillance　post　was　well　concealed。
　　Joe　drove　out　of　the　lot　and　turned　right　on　Pacific　Coast　Highway；　checking　his　rear…view　mirror。　He　was　not　being　followed。
　　Perhaps　they　had　realized　theft　error　and　were　frantically　looking　for　the　right　man。
　　
　　From　Wilshire　Boulevard　to　the　San　Diego　Freeway；　north　to　the　Ventura　Freeway　and　then　east；　he　drove　out　of　the　cooling　influence　of　the　sea　breezes　into　the　furnace　heat　of　the　San　Fernando　Valley。　In　the　August　glare；　these　suburbs　looked　as　hot　and　hard…baked　as　kiln…fired　pottery。
　　Three　hundred　acres　of　low　rolling　hills　and　shallow　vales　and　broad　lawns　prised　the　memorial　park；　a　city　of　the　deceased；　Los　Angeles　of　the　dead；　divided　into　neighbourhoods　by　gracefully　winding　service　roads。　Famous　actors　and　ordinary　salesmen　were　buried　here；　rock…'n'…roll　stars　and　reporters'　families；　side　by　side　in　the　intimate　democracy　of　death。
　　Joe　drove　past　two　small　burial　services　in　progress：　cars　parked　along　the　curb；　ranks　of　folding　chairs　set　up　on　the　grass；　mounds　of　grave　earth　covered　with　soft　green　tarps。　At　each　site；　the　mourners　sat　hunched；　stifled　in　their　black　dresses　and　black　suits；　oppressed　by　heat　as　well　as　by　grief　and　by　a　sense　of　their　own　mortality。
　　The　cemetery　included　a　few　elaborate　crypts　and　low…walled　family　garden　plots；　but　there　were　no　granite　forests　of　vertical　monuments　and　headstones。　Some　had　chosen　to　entomb　the　remains　of　their　loved　ones　in　niches　in　the　walls　of　munal　mausoleums。　Others　preferred　the　bosom　of　the　earth；　where　graves　were　marked　only　with　bronze　plaques　in　flat　stone　tablets　flush　with　the　ground；　so　as　not　to　disturb　the　park　like　setting。
　　Joe　had　put　Michelle　and　the　girls　to　rest　on　a　gently　rising　hillside　shaded　by　a　scattering　of　stone　pines　and　Indian　laurels。　Squirrels　scampered　across　the　grass　on　milder　days　than　this；　and　rabbits　came　out　at　twilight。　He　believed　that　his　three　treasured　women　would　have　preferred　this　to　the　hard　scape　of　a　mausoleum；　where　there　would　not　be　the　sound　of　wind…stirred　trees　on　breezy　evenings。
　　Far　beyond　the　second　of　the　two　burial　services；　he　parked　at　the　curb；　switched　off　the　engine；　and　got　out　of　the　Honda。　He　stood　beside　the　car　in　the　hundred…degree　heat；　gathering　his　courage。
　　When　he　started　up　the　gentle　slope；　he　didn't　look　toward　their　graves。　If　he　were　to　see　the　site　from　a　distance；　the　approach　to　it　would　be　daunting；　and　he　would　turn　back。　Even　after　an　entire　year；　each　visit　was　as　disturbing　to　him　as　if　he　had　e　here　to　view　not　their　burial　plots　but　their　battered　bodies　in　a　morgue。　Wondering　how　many　years　would　pass　before　his　pain　diminished；　he　ascended　the　rise　with　his　head　down；　eyes　on　the　ground；　slump…shouldered　in　the　heat；　like　an　old　dray　horse　following　a　long…familiar　route；　going　home。
　　Consequently；　he　didn't　see　the　woman　at　the　graves　until　he　was　only　ten　or　fifteen　feet　from　her。　Surprised；　he　halted。
　　She　stood　just　out　of　the　sun；　in　pine　shadows。　Her　back　was　half　to　him。　With　a　Polaroid　camera；　she　was　snapping　photographs　of　the　flush…set　markers。
　　'Who're　you？'　he　asked。
　　She　didn't　hear　him；　perhaps　because　he　had　spoken　softly；　perhaps　because　she　was　so　intent　upon　her　photography。
　　Stepping　closer；　he　said；　'What're　you　doing？'
　　Startled；　she　turned　to　face　him。
　　Petite　but　athletic…looking；　about　five　feet　two；　she　had　an　immediate　impact　far　greater　than　her　size　or　her　appearance　could　explain；　as　though　she　were　clothed　not　merely　in　blue　jeans　and　a　yellow　cotton　blouse　but　in　some　powerful　magnetic　field　that　bent　the　world　to　her。　Skin　the　shade　of　milk　chocolate。　Huge　eyes　as　dark　as　the　silt　at　the　bottom　of　a　cup　of　Armenian　espresso；　harder　to　read　than　the　portents　in　tea　leaves；　with　a　distinct　almond　shape　suggesting　a　touch　of　Asian　blood　in　the　family　line。　Hair　not　Afro…kinky　or　in　cornrows　but　feather…cut；　thick　and　naturally　straight　and　so　glossy　black　that　it　almost　looked　blue；　which　seemed　Asian　too。　Her　bone　structure　was　all　out　of　Africa：　smooth　broad　brow；　high　cheekbones；　finely　carved　but　powerful；　proud　but　beautiful。　She　was　maybe　five　years　older　than　Joe；　in　her　early　forties；　but　a　quality　of　innocence　in　her　knowing　eyes　and　a　faint　aspect　of　childlike　vulnerability　in　her　otherwise　strong　face　made　her　seem　younger　than　he　was。
　　'Who　are　you；　what're　you　doing？'　he　repeated。
　　Lips　parted　as　if　to　speak；　speechless　with　surprise；　she　gazed　at　him　as　though　he　were　an　apparition。　She　raised　one　hand　to　his　face　and　touched　his　cheek；　and　Joe　did　not　flinch　from　her。
　　At　first　he　thought　he　saw　amazement　in　her　eyes。　The　extreme　tenderness　of　her　touch　caused　him　to　look　again；　and　he　realized　that　what　he　saw　was　not　wonderment　but　sadness　and　pity。
　　'I'm　not　ready　to　talk　to　you　yet。'　Her　soft　voice　was　musical
　　'Why're　you　taking　pictures　。　。　。　why　pictures　of　their　graves？'
　　
　　Clutching　the　camera　with　two　hands；　she　said；　'Soon。　I'll　be　back　when　it's　time。　Don't　despair。　You'll　see；　like　the　others。'
　　An　almost　supernatural　quality　to　the　moment　half　convinced　Joe　that　she　was　an　apparition；　that　her　touch　had　been　so　achingly　gentle　precisely　because　it　was　barely　real；　an　ectoplasmic　caress。
　　The　woman　herself；　however；　was　too　powerfully　present　to　be　a　ghost　or　a　heatstroke　illusion。　Diminutive　but　dynamic。　More　real　than　anything　in　the　day。　More　real　than　sky　and　trees　and　August　sun；　than　granite　and　bronze。　She　had　such　a　pelling　presence　that　she　seemed　to　be　ing　at　him　though　she　was　standing　still；　loomed　over　him　though　she　was　ten　inches　shorter　than　he。　She　was　more　brightly　lighted　in　the　pine　shadows　than　he　was　in　the　direct　glare　of　the　sun。
　　'How　are　you　coping？'　she　asked。
　　Disoriented；　he　answered　only　by　shaking　his　head。
　　'Not　well；'　she　whispered。
　　Joe　looked　past　her；　down　at　the　granite　and　bronze　markers。　As　if　from　very　far　away；　he　heard　himself　say；　'Lost　forever；'　speaking　as　much　about　himself　as　about　his　wife　and　daughters。
　　When　he　returned　his　attention　to　the　woman；　she　was　gazing　past　him；　into　the　distance。　As　the　sound　of　a　racing　engine　rose；　concern　crinkled　the　corners　of　her　eyes　and　creased　her　forehead。
　　Joe　turned　to　see　what　was　troubling　her。　Along　the　road　that　he　had　travelled；　a　white　Ford　van　was　approaching　at　a　far　higher　speed　than　the　posted　limit。
　　'Bastards；'　she　said。
　　When　Joe　turned　to　the　woman　again；　she　was　already　running　from　him；　angling　across　the　slope　toward　the　brow　of　the　low　hill。
　　'Hey；　wait；'　he　said。
　　She　didn't　pause　or　look　back。
　　He　started　after　her；　but　his　physical　condition　wasn't　as　good　as　hers。　She　seemed　to　be　an　experienced　runner。　After　a　few　steps；　Joe　halted。　Defeated　by　the　suffocating　heat；　he　wouldn't　be　able　to　catch　up　with　her。
　　Sunlight　mirroring　the　windshield　and　flaring　off　the　headlight　lenses；　the　white　van　shot　past　Joe。　It　paralleled　the　woman　as　she　sprinted　across　the　grave　rows。
　　Joe　started　back　down　the　hill　toward　his　car；　not　sure　what　he　was　going　to　do。　Maybe　he　should　give　chase。　What　the　hell　was　going　on　here？
　　
　　Fifty　or　sixty　yards　beyond　the　parked　Honda；　brakes　shrieking；　leaving　twin　smears　of　rubber　on　the　pavement　behind　it；　the　van　slid　to　a　stop　at　the　curb。　Both　front　doors　flew　open；　and　the　men　in　Hawaiian　shirts　leaped　out。　They　bolted　after　the　woman。
　　Surprise　halted　Joe。　He　hadn't　been　followed　from　Santa　Monica；　not　by　the　white　van；　not　by　any　vehicle。　He　was　sure　of　that。
　　Somehow　they　had　known　that　he　would　e　to　the　cemetery。　And　since　neither　of　the　men　showed　any　interest　in　Joe；　but　went　after　the　woman　as　if　they　were　attack　dogs；　they　must　have　been　watching　him　at　the　beach　not　because　they　were　interested　in　him；　per　se；　but　because　they　hoped　that　she　would　make　contact　with　him　at　some　point　during　the　day。
　　The　woman　was　their　only　quarry。
　　Hell；　they　must　have　been　watching　his　apartment　too；　must　have　followed　him　from　there　to　the　beach。
　　As　far　as　he　knew；　they　had　been　keeping　him　under　surveillance　for　days。　Maybe　weeks。　He　had　been　in　such　a　daze　of　desolation　for　so　long；　walking　through　life　like　a　sleeper　drifting　through　a　dream；　that　he　would　not　have　noticed　these　people　slinking　at　the　periphery　of　his　vision。
　　Who　is　she；　who　are　they；　why　was　she　photographing　the　graves？
　　Uphill　and　at　least　a　hundred　yards　to　the　east；　the　woman　fled　under　the　generously　spreading　boughs　of　stone　pines　clustered　along　the　perimeter　of　the　burial　grounds；　across　shaded　gr