cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第34章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


away　every　second；　Berenice's　voice　screamed　shrilly。　I　picked　up　the　tire　iron。
　　I　turned　off　the　headlights　and　started　after　her；　judging　direction　by　the　sound　of　her　screams；　which　were　growing　fainter；　in　the　dark　forest。　Berenice　ran　awkwardly；　like　most　women；　and　she　was　hampered　by　the　knee…length　coat。　I　didn't　think　she　could　run　far；　but　I　was　unable　to　catch　up　with　her。　I　tried　to　run　myself；　but　after　tripping　over　a　stump　and　sprawling　full　length　on　the　damp　ground；　I　settled　for　a　fast　walk。
　　The　screaming　stopped；　and　so　did　I。　The　abrupt　silence　startled　me　and；　for　the　first　time；　I　was　frightened。　I　had　to　find　her。　If　she　got　away；　everything　was　over　for　me…　everything。
　　I　moved　ahead；　walking　slower　now；　searching　every　foot　of　ground；　now　that　my　eyes　had　bee　adjusted　to　the　dim　light。　A　light　mist　hovered　a　hundred　feet　above　the　trees；　but　there　was　a　moon；　and　I　could　see　a　little　better　with　every　passing　moment。　The　trees　thinned　out　and　the　wet　ground　began　to　get　mushy。　I　was　on　the　edge　of　a　swamp；　and　after　another　fifty　yards　or　so；　I　came　to　the　edge　of　a　lake　of　black；　stagnant　water。　I　knew　Berenice　well　enough　to　know　that　she　wouldn't　have　plunged　into　that　inky　water。　The　way　was　easier　going　toward　the　left；　and　I　took　it；　figuring　that　she　would　do　the　same。
　　I　found　her　a　few　minutes　later；　catching　sight　of　her　light…colored　coat。　She　was　in　a　prone　position；　with　her　legs　spread　awkwardly；　partially　hidden　under　a　spreading　dogwood　tree。　Afraid　to　touch　her；　I　rolled　her　over　on　her　back。　A　pale　shaft　of　moonlight　filtered　through　the　tree　branches；　lighting　her　bloody　face　and　wide　staring　eyes。
　　I　didn't　know　whether　she　was　dead　or　not；　but　I　had　to　make　certain。　There　was　one　thing　I　did　know。　I　wouldn't　have　been　able　to　hit　her　again。　As　I　knelt　down　beside　her　and　opened　her　coat；　an　aroma　of　Patou's　Joy　filled　my　nostrils　with　loss。　I　put　my　head　down　on　her　chest　and　listened　for　a　heartbeat。　Nothing。　Berenice　was　dead；　but　my　blows　on　her　head　hadn't　killed　her。　She　had　died　from　shock。　No　one；　mortally　wounded；　would　have　been　able　to　run　so　far。　On　the　other　hand；　both　of　us　for　a　few　moments　had　been　gifted　with　superhuman　strength。　She　was　a　big　woman；　stronger　than　hell；　and　she　had　been　fighting　for　her　life。
　　But　so　had　I。
　　I　dragged　her　to　the　edge　of　the　water　and　wedged　her　body　under　a　fallen　tree　that　was　half　in　and　half　out　of　the　swamp。　By　leaning　dead　branches　and　by　piling　brush　over　the　unsubmerged　part　of　the　tree；　she　was　pletely　hidden　from　view。　Debierue　knew　that　she　was　with　me；　and　if　she　were　to　be　found；　and　if　he　learned　that　she　had　been　killed；　he　would　tell　Cassidy　immediately。　That　is；　he　would　tell　Cassidy　if　her　body　was　found　before　he　received　the　tear　sheets　of　my　article　on　his　American　Harvest　period。　He　would　be　so　delighted　by　my　article　he　wouldn't　risk　mentioning　Berenice's　name　to　anyone。　His　reputation；　as　well　as　mine；　depended　upon　that　article。　But　there　would　be　time；　plenty　of　time。　Months；　perhaps　years；　would　pass　before　her　body　was　found。
　　Suddenly　I　was　weak　and　dispirited。　All　of　my　strength　disappeared。　I　leaned　against　the　nearest　tree　and　vomited　my　dinner…the　corn；　the　tomatoes　and　okra；　the　stringy　chunks　of　sirloin；　the　biscuits；　everything。　Panting　and　sobbing　until　I　caught　my　breath；　I　returned　to　the　dogwood　tree　and　picked　up　my　tire　iron。　It　had　my　fingerprints　on　it；　and　in　case　I　had　a　flat　tire　on　my　way　to　New　York；　I　would　need　it　again。
　　I　started　back　toward　the　car；　and　after　walking　for　five　minutes　or　so　I　discovered　that　I　was　lost。　I　panicked　and　began　to　run。　I　tripped　and　fell；　banging　my　head　against　a　tree；　scratching　a　painful　gash　in　my　forehead。　As　Freud　said；　there　are　no　accidents。　Fighting　down　my　panic　by　taking　long　deep　breaths；　I　calmed　down　further　by　forcing　myself　to　sit　quietly　on　the　damp　ground；　with　my　back　against　a　tree；　and　by　smoking　a　cigarette　down　to　the　cork　tip。　I　was　all　right。　Everything　was　going　to　be　all　right。
　　Calmer　now；　although　my　hands　were　still　trembling；　I　managed　to　retrace　my　path　back　to　the　swamp　and　Berenice。　I　now　had　a　sense　of　direction。　I　started　back　in　what　I　thought　was　the　general　direction　of　the　car；　and　hit　the　sandy　road；　missing　the　clearing　and　the　car　by　about　fifty　yards。　My　face　was　flushed　with　heat；　and　I　was　shivering　at　the　same　time　with　cold。　Before　setting　out；　I　put　up　the　canvas　top；　and　then　kicked　over　the　engine。
　　Two　weeks　later；　back　in　New　York；　when　I　was　cleaning　out　the　car　in　order　to　sell　it；　I　found　one　of　Berenice's　fingers；　or　a　part　of　one…the　first　two　joints　and　the　Chen　Yued　fingernail。　She　must　have　got　it　lopped　off　when　she　had　put　her　hands　over　her　head　in　the　car。　I　wrapped　the　finger　in　a　handkerchief　and　put　it　safely　away。　Perhaps　a　day　would　e；　I　thought；　when　I　would　be　able　to　look　at　this　finger　without　fear；　pain；　or　remorse。
　　
　　
　　4
　　
　　The　photograph　of　Debierue　〃reading〃　the　flaming　copy　of　the　Miami　Herald；　which　illustrated　my　article　in　Fine　Arts：　The　Americas　was　republished　in　Look　and　Newsweek；　and　in　the　fine　arts　section　of　the　Sunday　New　York　Times。　UPI；　after　dickering　with　my　agent；　finally　bought　the　photo　and　sent　it　out　on　the　wire　to　their　subscribers。　The　money　I　made　from　this　photo　provided　me　with　my　first　tailor…made　suit。　Coat　and　trousers；　four　hundred　dollars。
　　I　had　made　one　side　trip　off　the　superhighway　to　Baltimore；　on　my　way　back　to　New　York；　where　I　checked　Berenice's　luggage　in　two　lockers　inside　the　Greyhound　bus　station　（including　her　handbag　and　traveler's　checks；　knowing　that　her　mother　could　use　this　money　someday；　if　and　when　the　bags　were　ever　claimed）。　Except　for　this　brief　stopover；　I　drove　straight　through　to　the　city。
　　There　were　five　message　slips　in　my　office　telling　me　to　telephone　Joseph　Cassidy；　collect；　immediately；　so　I　called　him　before　I　did　anything　else。
　　〃Did　you　get　the　picture？〃　he　asked。
　　〃Yes；　of　course。〃
　　〃Good！　Good！　Hold　it　for　a　few　days　before　sending　it　down。　I　want　to　get　Mr。　Debierue　settled　in　a　good　nursing　home；　you　see…he　doesn't　know　that　you　have　the　painting；　does　he？〃
　　〃No；　and　it'll　be　better　if　he　doesn't。　I've　mentioned　it　in　my　article；　although　I　won't　run　a　photograph　of　it。　Before　sending　it　to　Palm　Beach　I　intend　to　take　some　good　color　plates　of　The　Burnt　Orange　Heresy　for　eventual　publication；　if　you　get　what　I　mean　。　。　。〃
　　〃Naturally…is　that　the　title；　The　Burnt　Orange　Heresy？　That's　great！〃
　　〃Yeah。　It'll　probably　have　an　additional　title；　too。　Self…portrait。〃
　　〃Jesus…James；　I　can　hardly　wait　to　see　it！〃
　　〃Just　let　me　know　when；　Mr。　Cassidy；　and　I'll　send　it　down　to　you　air　express。〃
　　〃Don't　worry；　I'll　call　you。　And　listen；　James；　I'm　not　going　to　forget　this。　When　the　time　es　to　exhibit　it；　you've　got　an　exclusive　to　cover　the　opening。〃
　　〃Thanks。〃
　　〃My　problem　right　now　is　to　persuade　Debierue　to　enter　a　rest　home。　He's　much　too　old　to　take　care　of　himself。　If　he　had　been　asleep　when　the　fire　started；　he　would've　been　killed　you　know。　And　when　I　think　of　those　paintings　that　went　up　in　smoke…Jesus！〃
　　〃Did　he　tell　you　anything　about　them？〃
　　〃Not　a　word。　You　know　how　he　is。　And　nothing　seems　to　faze　him。　He　spends　most　of　his　time　just　sitting　around　watching　old　movies　on　TV　and　drinking　orange　juice。　He　can　do　that　in　a　rest　home。　Well；　you'll　hear　from　me。　This　is　a　long　distance　call；　you　know。〃
　　〃Sure。　Later。〃
　　He　didn't　call　me　again；　however。　He　sent　me　a　special　delivery　letter　after　he　had　settled　Debierue　in　the　Regal　Pines　Nursing　Home；　near　Melbourne；　Florida。　I　sent　Cassidy　the　painting；　air　express　collect；　although　I　had　to　pay　the　insurance　fee；　in　advance；　before　they　would　agree　to　send　it　collect。
　　The　critical　reaction　to　my　article；　when　it　appeared　in　Fine　Arts：　The　Americas；　followed　the　pattern　I　had　anticipated。　Canaday；　in　the　Times；　had　reservations。　Perreault；　in　The　Village　Voice；　was　enthusiastic；　and　there　was　a　short　two…paragraph　item　in　The　L。A。　Free　Press　remending　the　article　to　would…be　revolutionary　painters　in　Southern　California。　This　was