dk.solesurvivor-第36部分

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ast；　however；　she　said；　'I　don't　really　know。　I　can't　say　for　sure。'
　　A　sinking　sensation　overcame　Joe；　but　his　heart　continued　to　knock　hard　enough　to　shake　him。
　　Keeping　his　voice　calm；　he　said；　'Picture　the　girl's　face。'　He　put　his　hands　on　Mercy's　shoulders。　'Close　your　eyes　and　try　to　see　her　again。'
　　She　closed　her　eyes。
　　'On　her　left　cheek；'　Joe　said。　'Beside　her　earlobe。　Only　an　inch　in　from　her　earlobe。　A　small　mole。'
　　Mercy's　eyes　twitched　behind　her　smooth　lids　as　she　struggled　to　burnish　her　memory。
　　'It's　more　of　a　beauty　mark　than　a　mole；'　Joe　said。　'Not　raised　but　flat。　Roughly　the　shape　of　a　crescent　moon。'
　　After　a　long　hesitation；　she　said；　'She　might　have　had　a　mark　like　that；　but　I　can't　remember。'
　　'Her　smile。　A　little　lopsided；　a　little　crooked；　turned　up　at　the　left　corner　of　her　mouth。'
　　'She　didn't　smile　that　I　remember。　She　was　so　sleepy。　。　。　and　a　little　dazed。　Sweet　but　withdrawn。'
　　Joe　could　not　think　of　another　distinguishing　feature　that　might　jar　Mercy　Ealing's　memory。　He　could　have　regaled　her　for　hours　with　stories　about　his　daughter's　grace；　about　her　charm；　about　her　humour　and　the　musical　quality　of　her　laughter。　He　could　have　spoken　at　length　of　her　beauty：　the　smooth　sweep　of　her　forehead；　the　coppery　gold　of　her　eyebrows　and　lashes；　the　pertness　of　her　nose；　her　shell…like　ears；　the　bination　of　fragility　and　stubborn　strength　in　her　face　that　sometimes　made　his　heart　ache　when　he　watched　her　sleeping；　the　inquisitiveness　and　unmistakable　intelligence　that　informed　her　every　expression。　Those　were　subjective　impressions；　however；　and　no　matter　how　detailed　such　descriptions　were；　they　could　not　lead　Mercy　to　the　answers　that　he　had　hoped　to　get　from　her。
　　He　took　his　hands　from　her　shoulders。
　　She　opened　her　eyes。
　　Joe　picked　up　the　spatula　he　had　taken　from　her。　He　put　it　down　again。　He　didn't　know　what　he　was　doing。
　　She　said；　'I'm　sorry。'
　　'It's　okay。　I　was　hoping。。。　I　thought。。。　I　don't　know。　I'm　not　sure　what　I　was　thinking。'
　　Self…deceit　was　a　suit　that　didn't　fit　him　well；　and　even　as　he　lied　to　Mercy　Ealing；　he　stood　naked　to　himself；　excruciatingly　aware　of　what　he　had　been　hoping；　thinking。　He'd　been　in　a　fit　of　searching　behaviour　again；　not　chasing　anyone　into　a　convenience　store　this　time；　not　stalking　an　imagined　Michelle　through　a　mall　or　department　store；　not　rushing　to　a　schoolyard　fence　for　a　closer　glimpse　of　a　Chrissie　who　was　not　Chrissie　after　all；　but　heart…deep　in　searching　behaviour　nonetheless。　The　coincidence　of　this　mystery　child　sharing　his　lost　daughter's　age　and　hair　colour　had　been　all　that　he　needed　to　send　him　racing　pell…mell　once　more　in　pursuit　of　false　hope。
　　'I'm　sorry；'　Mercy　said；　clearly　sensing　the　precipitous　downward　spiral　of　his　mood。　'Her　eyes；　the　mole；　the　smile。　。　。　just　don't　ring　a　bell。　But　I　remember　her　name。　Rachel　called　her　Nina。'
　　Behind　Joe；　at　the　table；　Barbara　got　up　so　fast　that　she　knocked　over　her　chair。
　　
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　　At　the　corner　of　the　back　porch；　the　water　falling　through　the　downspout　produced　a　gargle　of　phantom　voices；　eager　and　quarrelsome；　guttural　and　whispery；　spitting　out　questions　in　unknown　tongues。
　　Joe's　legs　felt　rubbery。　He　leaned　with　both　hands　on　the　wet　railing。　Rain　blew　under　the　porch　eaves；　spattering　his　face。
　　In　answer　to　his　question；　Barbara　pointed　toward　the　low　hills　and　the　woods　to　the　southwest。　'The　crash　site　was　that　way。'
　　'How　far？'
　　Mercy　stood　in　the　open　kitchen　door。　'Maybe　half　a　mile　as　the　crow　flies。　Maybe　a　little　farther。'
　　Out　of　the　torn　meadow；　into　the　forest　where　the　fire　died　quickly　because　it　had　been　a　wet　summer　that　year；　farther　into　the　darkness　of　the　trees；　thrashing　through　the　thin　underbrush；　eyes　adjusting　grudgingly　to　the　gloom；　perhaps　onto　a　deer　trail　that　allowed　easy　passage；　perhaps　across　another　meadow；　to　the　hilltop　from　which　the　ranch　lights　could　be　seen；　Rose　might　have　led…or　mostly　carried…the　child。　Half　a　mile　as　the　crow　flies；　but　twice　or　three　times　as　far　when　one　followed　the　contours　of　the　land　and　the　way　of　the　deer。
　　'One　and　a　half　miles　on　foot；'　Joe　said。
　　'Impossible；'　Barbara　said。
　　'Very　possible。　She　could　have　done　it。'
　　'I'm　not　talking　about　the　hike。'　She　turned　to　Mercy　and　said；　'Mrs。　Ealing；　you　have　been　an　enormous　help　to　us　already；　a　really　enormous　help；　but　we've　got　a　confidential　matter　to　discuss　here　for　a　minute　or　two。'
　　'Oh；　of　course；　I　understand。　You　just　take　all　the　time　you　want；'　said　Mercy；　hugely　curious　but　still　too　polite　to　intrude。　She　backed　off　the　threshold　and　closed　the　kitchen　door。
　　'Only　a　mile　and　a　half；'　Joe　repeated。
　　'On　the　horizontal；'　Barbara　said；　moving　close　to　him；　putting　a　hand　on　his　shoulder。　'Only　a　mile　and　a　half　on　the　horizontal；　but　more　than　four　miles　on　the　vertical；　straight　down；　sky　to　ground。　That's　the　part　I　can't　accept；　Joe。'
　　He　was　struggling　with　it　himself。　To　believe　in　survivors　required　faith　or　something　very　like　it；　and　he　was　without　faith　by　choice　and　by　necessity。　To　put　faith　in　a　god　would　require　him　to　see　meaning　in　the　suffering　that　was　the　weft　of　human　experience；　and　he　could　see　no　meaning　to　it。　On　the　other　hand；　to　believe　that　this　miracle　of　survival　resulted　somehow　from　the　scientific　research　in　which　Rose　was　engaged；　to　contemplate　that　humankind　could　reach　successfully　for　godlike　power…Shadrach　saving　Shadrach　from　the　furnace；　Lazarus　raising　Lazarus　from　the　grave…required　him　to　have　faith　in　the　transcendent　spirit　of　humankind。　Its　goodness。　Its　beneficent　genius。　After　fourteen　years　as　a　crime　reporter；　he　knew　men　too　well　to　bend　his　knee　before　the　altar　in　the　First　Church　of　Humanity　the　Divine。　Men　had　a　genius　for　arranging　their　damnation；　but　few　if　any　were　capable　of　their　own　salvation。
　　With　her　hand　still　on　Joe's　shoulder；　being　tough　with　him　but　in　the　spirit　of　sisterly　counselling；　she　said；　'First　you　want　me　to　believe　there　was　one　survivor　of　that　holocaust。　Now　it's　two。　I　stood　in　the　smoking　ruins；　in　the　slaughterhouse；　and　I　know　that　the　odds　against　anyone　walking　out　of　there　on　her　own　two　feet　are　billions　to　one。'
　　'Granted。'
　　'No…greater　than　billions　to　one。　Astronomical；　immeasurable。'
　　'All　right。'
　　'So　there　simply　are　no　odds　whatsoever　that　two　could　have　e　through　it；　none；　not　even　an　infinitesimal　chance。'
　　He　said；　'There's　a　lot　I　haven't　told　you；　and　most　of　it　I'm　not　going　to　tell　you　now；　because　you're　probably　safer　not　knowing。　But　one　thing。　。　。　this　Rose　Tucker　is　a　scientist　who's　been　working　on　something　big　for　years；　government　or　military　financing　behind　it；　something　secret　and　very　damn　big。'
　　'What？'
　　'I　don't　know。　But　before　she　boarded　the　flight　in　New　York；　she　called　a　reporter　out　in　Los　Angeles；　an　old　friend　of　hers；　and　set　up　an　interview；　with　trusted　witnesses；　at　the　arrival　gate　at　LAX。　She　said　she　was　bringing　something　with　her　that　would　change　the　world　forever。'
　　Barbara　searched　his　eyes；　obviously　seeking　some　sign　that　he　was　not　serious　about　this　change…the…world…overnight　fantasy。　She　was　a　woman　of　logic　and　reason；　impressed　by　facts　and　details；　and　experience　had　shown　her　that　solutions　were　found　at　an　inchworm's　pace；　in　a　journey　of　countless　small　steps。　As　an　investigator；　for　years　she'd　dealt　with　puzzles　that　presented　her　with　literally　millions　of　pieces　and　that　were　hugely　more　plex　than　virtually　any　homicide　case　to　which　any　police　detective　was　ever　assigned；　mysteries　of　human　action　and　machine　failure　that　were　solved　not　with　miracles　but　with　drudgery。
　　Joe　understood　the　look　in　her　eyes；　because　investigative　journalism　was　not　unlike　her　own　work。
　　'Just　what　are　you　saying？'　she　pressed。　'That　when　the　plane　rolls　and　plummets；　Rose　Tucker　takes　a　squeeze　bottle　out　of　her　purse；　some　fabulous　new　topical　lotion　that　confers　temporary　invulnerability　on　the　user；　sort　of　like　a　sunscreen；　and　quickly　coats　herself？'
　　Joe　almost　laughed。　This　was　the　first　time　he'd　felt　like　laughing　in　ages。　'No；　of　course　not。'
　　'Then　what？'
　　'I　don't　know。　Something。'
　　'Sounds　like　a　big　nothing。'
　　'Something；'　he　insisted。
　　With　the　forge　fire　of　lightning　now　gone　and　with　the　crack　of　thunder　silenced；　the　churning　clouds　had　an　iron…dark　beauty。
　　In　the　distance　the　low　wooded　hills　were　veiled　in　mists　of　enigma…the　hills　across　which　she　had　e　that　night；　untouched　out　of　fire　and　destruction。
　　Skirling　wind　made　cottonwoods　and　aspens　dance；　and　across　the　fields；　billows　of　rain　whirled　like　skirts　in　a　tarantella。
　　He　had　hope　again。　It　felt　good。　Exhilarating。　Of　course　that　was　why　hope　was　dangerous。　The　glorious　lifting　up；　the　sweet　sense　of　soaring；　always　too　brief；　and　then　the　terrible　fall　that　was　more　devastating　because　of　the　sublime　heights　from　which　it　began。
　　But　maybe　it　was　worse　never　to　hope　at　all。
　　He　was　filled　with　wonder　and　quickening　expectation。
　　He　was　scared　too。
　　'Something；'　he　insisted。
　　
　　He　took　his　hands　off　the　railing。　His　legs　were　sturdy　again。　He　blotted　his　wet　hands　on　his　jeans。　He　wiped　his　rain…spattered　face　on　the　sleeve　of　his　sportscoat。
　　Turning　to　Barbara；　he　said；　'Somehow　safe　to　the　meadow；　then　a　mile　and　a　half　to　the　ranch。　A　mile　and　a　half　in　an　hour　and　fifteen　minutes；　which　might　be　just　about　right　in　the　darkness；　with　a　small　child　to　carry　or　help　along。'
　　'I　hate　to　be　always　the　pin　in　the　balloon…'
　　'Then　don't　be。'
　　'…but　there's　one　thing　you　have　to　consider。'
　　'I'm　listening。'
　　Barbara　hesitated。　Then：　'Just　for　the　sake　of　argument；　let's　accept　that　there　were　survivors。　That　this　woman　was　on　the　plane。　Her　name　is　Rose　Tucker。　。　。　but　she　told　Mercy　and　Jeff　that　she　was　Rachel　Thomas。'
　　'So？'
　　'If　she　doesn't　give　them　her　real　name；　why　does　she　give　them　Nina's　real　name？'
　　'These　people　who're　after　Rose。　。　。　they're　not　after　Nina；　they　don't　care　about　Nina。'
　　'If　they　find　out　Rose　somehow　saved　the　girl；　and　if　she　saved　the　girl　because　of　thi