dk.solesurvivor-第9节

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or　identification。　Joe　kept　only　the　driver's　license　and　returned　the　wallet　to　the　pocket　from　which　he　had　extracted　it。
　　The　two　gunmen　had　not　reappeared　from　the　rugged　scrub　land　beyond　the　cemetery　hill。　They　had　scrambled　over　the　crest；　after　the　woman；　little　more　than　a　minute　ago；　even　if　she　quickly　slipped　away　from　them；　they　weren't　likely　to　give　up　on　her　and　return　after　only　a　brief　search。
　　Wondering　at　his　boldness；　Joe　quickly　dragged　Wallace　Blick　away　from　the　rear　corner　of　the　white　van。　He　tucked　him　close　to　the　flank　of　the　vehicle；　where　he　was　less　likely　to　be　seen　by　anyone　who　came　along　the　roadway。　He　rolled　him　onto　his　side　so　he　would　not　choke　on　the　blood　that　might　be　draining　from　his　nasal　passages　down　the　back　of　his　throat。
　　Joe　went　to　the　open　rear　door。　He　climbed　into　the　back　of　the　van。　The　low　rumble　of　the　idling　engine　vibrated　in　the　floorboard。
　　The　cramped　cargo　hold　was　lined　on　both　sides　with　electronic　munications；　eavesdropping；　and　tracking　equipment。　A　pair　of　pact　mand　chairs；　bolted　to　the　floor；　could　be　swivelled　to　face　the　arrayed　devices　on　each　side。
　　Squeezing　past　the　first　chair；　Joe　settled　into　the　second；　in　front　of　an　active　puter。　The　interior　of　the　van　was　air…conditioned；　but　the　seat　was　still　warm　because　Blick　had　vacated　it　less　than　a　minute　ago。
　　On　the　puter　screen　was　a　map。　The　streets　had　names　meant　to　evoke　feelings　of　peace　and　tranquillity；　and　Joe　recognized　them　as　the　service　roads　through　the　cemetery。
　　A　small　blinking　light　on　the　map　drew　his　attention。　It　was　green；　stationary；　and　located　approximately　where　the　van　itself　was　parked。
　　A　second　blinking　light；　this　one　red　and　also　stationary；　was　on　the　same　road　but　some　distance　behind　the　van。　He　was　sure　that　it　represented　his　Honda。
　　The　tracking　system　no　doubt　utilized　a　CD…ROM　with　exhaustive　maps　of　Los　Angeles　County　and　environs；　maybe　of　the　entire　state　of　California　or　of　the　country　coast　to　coast。　A　single　pact　disc　had　sufficient　capacity　to　contain　detailed　street　maps　for　all　of　the　contiguous　states　and　Canada。
　　Someone　had　fixed　a　powerful　transponder　to　his　car。　It　emitted　a　microwave　signal　that　could　be　followed　from　quite　a　distance。　The　puter　utilized　surveillance…satellite　uplinks　to　triangulate　the　signal；　then　placed　the　Honda　on　the　map　relative　to　the　position　of　the　van；　so　they　could　track　him　without　maintaining　visual　contact。
　　Leaving　Santa　Monica；　all　the　way　into　the　San　Fernando　Valley；　Joe　had　seen　no　suspicious　vehicle　in　his　rear…view　mirror。　This　van　had　been　able　to　stalk　him　while　streets　away　or　miles　behind；　out　of　sight。
　　As　a　reporter；　he　had　once　gone　on　a　mobile　surveillance　with　federal　agents；　a　group　of　high…spirited　cowboys　from　the　Bureau　of　Alcohol；　Tobacco　and　Firearms；　who　had　used　a　similar　but　less　sophisticated　system　than　this。
　　Acutely　aware　that　the　battered　Blick　or　one　of　the　other　two　men　might　trap　him　here　if　he　delayed　too　long；　Joe　swivelled　in　his　chair；　surveying　the　back　of　the　van　for　some　indication　of　the　agency　involved　in　this　operation。　They　were　tidy。　He　couldn't　spot　a　single　clue。
　　Two　publications　lay　beside　the　puter　station　at　which　Blick　had　been　working：　one　issue　each　of　Wired；　featuring　yet　another　major　article　about　the　visionary　splendiferousness　of　Bill　Gates；　and　a　magazine　aimed　at　former　Special　Forces　officers　who　wished　to　make　horizontal　career　moves　from　military　service　into　jobs　as　paid　mercenaries。　The　latter　was　folded　open　to　an　article　about　belt…Buckle　knives　sharp　enough　to　eviscerate　an　adversary　or　cut　through　bone。　Evidently　this　was　Blick's　reading　matter　during　lulls　in　the　surveillance　operation；　as　when　he　had　been　waiting　for　Joe　to　grow　weary　of　contemplating　the　sea　from　Santa　Monica　Beach。
　　Mr。　Wallace　Blick；　of　the　ANABOLIC　tattoo；　was　a　techno　geek　with　an　edge。
　　
　　When　Joe　climbed　out　of　the　van；　Slick　was　groaning　but　not　yet　conscious。　His　legs　pumped；　a　flurry　of　kicks；　as　if　he　were　a　dog　dreaming　of　chasing　rabbits；　and　his　cool　red　sneakers　tore　divots　from　the　grass。
　　Neither　of　the　men　in　Hawaiian　shirts　had　returned　from　the　desert　scrub　beyond　the　hill。
　　Joe　hadn't　heard　any　more　gunshots；　although　the　terrain　might　have　muffled　them。
　　He　hurried　to　his　car。　The　door　handle　was　bright　with　the　kiss　of　the　sun；　and　he　hissed　with　pain　when　he　touched　it。
　　The　interior　of　the　car　was　so　hot　that　it　seemed　on　the　verge　of　spontaneous　bustion。　He　cranked　down　the　window。
　　As　he　started　the　Honda；　he　glanced　at　the　rear…view　mirror　and　saw　a　flatbed　truck　with　board　sides　approaching　from　farther　east　in　the　cemetery。　It　was　probably　a　groundskeeper's　vehicle；　either　ing　to　investigate　the　gunfire　or　engaged　in　routine　maintenance。
　　Joe　could　have　followed　the　road　to　the　west　end　of　the　memorial　park　and　then　looped　all　the　way　around　to　the　entrance　at　the　east　perimeter；　but　he　was　in　a　hurry　and　wanted　to　go　directly　back　the　way　he　had　e。　Overwhelmed　by　a　feeling　that　he　had　stretched　his　luck　too　far；　he　could　almost　hear　a　ticking　like　a　time…bomb　clock。　Pulling　away　from　the　curb；　he　tried　to　hang　a　U…turn　but　couldn't　quite　manage　it　in　one　clean　sweep。
　　He　shifted　into　reverse　and　tramped　on　the　accelerator　hard　enough　to　make　the　tyres　squeal　against　the　hot　pavement。　The　　Honda　shot　backward。　He　braked　and　shifted　into　drive　again。
　　Tick；　tick；　tick。
　　Instinct　proved　reliable。　Just　as　he　accelerated　toward　the　approaching　groundskeeper's　truck；　the　rear　window　on　the　driver's　side　of　the　car；　immediately　behind　his　head；　exploded；　spraying　glass　across　the　backseat。
　　He　didn't　have　to　hear　the　shot　to　know　what　had　happened。
　　Glancing　to　the　left；　he　saw　the　man　in　the　red　Hawaiian　shirt；　stopped　halfway　down　the　hillside；　in　a　shooter's　stance。　The　guy　was　as　pale　as　a　risen　corpse　but　dressed　for　a　Margarita　party。
　　Someone　shouted　hoarse；　slurred　curses。　Blick。　Crawling　away　from　the　van　on　his　hands　and　knees；　dazedly　shaking　his　blocky　head；　like　a　pit　bull　wounded　in　a　dog　fight；　spraying　bloody　foam　from　his　mouth：　Blick。
　　Another　round　slammed　into　the　body　of　the　car　with　a　hard　thud　followed　by　a　brief　trailing　twang。
　　With　a　rush　of　hot　gibbering　wind　at　the　open　and　the　shattered　windows；　the　Honda　spirited　Joe　out　of　range。　He　rocketed　past　the　groundskeeper's　truck　at　such　high　speed　that　it　swerved　to　avoid　him；　though　he　was　not　in　the　least　danger　of　colliding　with　it。
　　Past　one　burial　service　where　black…garbed　mourners　drifted　like　forlorn　spirits　away　from　the　open　grave；　past　another　burial　service　where　the　grieving　huddled　on　chairs　as　if　prepared　to　stay　forever　with　whomever　they　had　lost；　past　an　Asian　family　putting　a　plate　of　fruit　and　cake　on　a　fresh　grave；　Joe　fled。　He　passed　an　unusual　white　church…a　steeple　atop　a　Palladian…arch　cupola　on　columns　atop　a　clock　tower…which　cast　a　stunted　shadow　in　the　early　afternoon　sun。　Past　a　white　Southern　Colonial　mortuary　that　blazed　like　alabaster　in　the　California　aridity　but　begged　for　bayous。　He　drove　recklessly；　with　the　expectation　of　relentless　pursuit；　which　didn't　occur。　He　was　also　certain　that　his　way　would　be　blocked　by　the　sudden　arrival　of　swarms　of　police　cars；　but　they　still　were　not　in　sight　when　he　raced　between　the　open　gates　and　out　of　the　memorial　park。
　　
　　　
　　He　drove　under　the　Ventura　Freeway；　escaping　into　the　suburban　hive　of　San　Fernando　Valley。
　　At　a　stoplight；　quaking　with　tension；　he　watched　a　procession　of　a　dozen　street　rods　pass　through　the　intersection；　driven　by　the　members　of　a　car　club　on　a　Saturday　outing：　an　era…perfect　'41　Buick　Roadmaster；　a　'47　Ford　Sportsman　Woodie　with　honey…maple　panelling　and　black…cherry　maroon　paint；　a　'32　Ford　Roadster　in　Art　Deco　style　with　full　road　pants　and　chrome　speedlines。　Each　of　the　twelve　was　a　testament　to　the　car　as　art：　chopped；　channelled；　sectioned；　grafted；　some　on　dropped　spindles；　with　custom　grilles；　reconfigured　hoods；　frenched　headlights；　raised　and　flared　wheel　wells；　handformed　fender　skirts。　Painted；　pinstriped；　polished　passion　rolling　on　rubber。
　　Watching　the　street　rods；　he　felt　a　curious　sensation　in　his　chest；　a　loosening；　a　stretching；　both　painful　and　exhilarating。
　　A　block　later　he　passed　a　park　where；　in　spite　of　the　heat；　a　young　family…with　three　laughing　children…was　playing　Frisbee　with　an　exuberant　golden　retriever。
　　Heart　pounding；　Joe　slowed　the　Honda。　He　almost　pulled　to　the　curb　to　watch。
　　At　a　corner；　two　lovely　blond　college　girls；　apparently　twins；　in　white　shorts　and　crisp　white　blouses；　waited　to　cross　the　street；　holding　hands；　as　cool　as　spring　water　in　the　furnace　heat。　Mirage　girls。　Ethereal　in　the　smog…stained　concrete　landscape。　As　clean　and　smooth　and　radiant　as　angels。
　　Past　the　girls　was　a　massive　display　of　zauschneria　alongside　a　Spanish…style　apartment　building；　laden　with　gorgeous　clusters　of　tubular　scarlet　flowers。　Michelle　had　loved　zauschneria。　She　had　planted　it　in　the　backyard　of　their　Studio　City　house。
　　The　day　had　changed。　Indefinably　but　unquestionably　changed。
　　No。　No；