cb.damnationgame-第67章

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Carys。　Marty　watched　impatiently。　Perhaps　she　and　the　European　would　separate　in　the　throng；　and　he'd　get　a　chance　to　show　himself；　if　only　momentarily；　and　reassure　her　of　his　presence。　But　no　such　opportunity　presented　itself。　Mamoulian　was　the　perfect　guardian；　keeping　Carys　close　to　him　every　moment。　Pleasantries　and　farewells　exchanged；　they　got　into　the　back　of　a　dark　green　Rover　and　drove　away。　Marty　raced　to　the　Citro？n。　He　mustn't　lose　her　now；　whatever　happened：　this　was　perhaps　his　last　chance　to　locate　her。　The　pursuit　proved　difficult。　Once　off　the　small　country　roads　and　onto　the　highway　the　Rover　accelerated　with　insolent　ease。　Marty　gave　chase　as　discreetly　as　the　twin　imperatives　of　tactics　and　excitement　would　allow。
　　In　the　back　seat　of　the　car　Carys　had　a　strange；　flickering　thought。　Whenever　she　closed　her　lids　to　blink　or　shut　out　the　day's　glare；　a　figure　appeared：　a　runner。　She　recognized　him　in　seconds：　the　gray　track　suit；　a　cloud　of　steam　emerging　from　the　hood；　named　him　before　she　glimpsed　his　face。　She　wanted　to　glance　over　her　shoulder；　to　see　if　he　was；　as　she　guessed；　behind　them　somewhere。　But　she　knew　better。　Mamoulian　would　guess　something　was　going　on；　if　he　hadn't　already。
　　The　European　looked　across　at　her。　She　was　a　secret　one；　he　thought。　He　never　really　knew　what　she　was　thinking。　She　was；　in　that　regard；　her　mother's　child。　Whereas　he　had　learned；　with　time；　to　read　Joseph's　face；　Evangeline　had　seldom　let　a　glimmer　of　her　true　feelings　show。　For　the　space　of　several　months　he'd　assumed　her　to　be　indifferent　to　his　presence　in　the　house；　only　time　had　told　the　true　story　of　her　machinations　against　him。　He　sometimes　suspected　Carys　of　similar　pretenses。　Wasn't　she　simply　too　pliant？　Even　now　she　wore　the　faintest　trace　of　a　smile。
　　〃It　amused　you？〃　he　inquired。
　　〃What？〃　〃The　funeral。〃　〃No；〃　she　said　lightly。　〃No；　of　course　not。〃　〃You　were　smiling。〃　The　trace　evaporated；　her　face　slackened。　〃It　had　some　grotesquerie　value；　I　suppose；〃　she　said；　her　voice　dull；　〃watching　them　all　play　up　to　the　cameras。〃　〃You　didn't　trust　their　grief？〃　〃They　never　loved　him。〃　〃And　you　did？〃　She　seemed　to　weigh　the　question　up。　〃Love　。　。　。〃　she　said；　floating　the　word　on　the　hot　air　to　see；　it　seemed；　what　it　would　bee。　〃Yes。　I　suppose　I　did。〃　She　made　Mamoulian　uneasy。　He　wanted　a　better　grip　on　the　girl's　mind；　but　it　refused　his　best　endeavors。　Fear　of　the　illusions　he　might　evoke　for　her　had　certainly　given　her　a　veneer　of　obsequiousness；　but　he　doubted　they'd　truly　made　a　slave　of　her。　Terrors　were　a　useful　goad；　but　the　law　of　diminishing　returns　pertained；　each　time　she　fought　him　he　was　obliged　to　find　some　new；　more　awesome　fright：　it　exhausted　him。
　　And　now；　to　add　insult　to　injury；　Joseph　was　dead。　He　had　perished…according　to　the　talk　at　the　funeral…〃peacefully　in　his　sleep。〃　Not　even　died；　that　vulgarity　had　been　exorcised　from　the　vocabulary　of　all　concerned。　He　had　passed　on；　or　over；　or　away；　he　had　gone　to　sleep。　But　never　died。　The　cant　and　sentimentality　that　followed　the　thief　to　the　grave　disgusted　the　European。　But　he　disgusted　himself　more。　He　had　let　Whitehead　go。　Not　once；　but　twice；　undone　by　his　own　desire　to　have　the　game　concluded　with　due　attention　to　detail。　That；　and　his　concern　to　persuade　the　thief　to　e　willingly　into　the　void。　Prevarication　had　proved　his　undoing。　While　he　had　threatened；　and　juggled　visions；　the　old　goat　had　slipped　away。
　　That　might　not　have　been　the　end　of　the　story。　After　all；　he　possessed　the　facility　to　follow　Whitehead　into　death；　and　bring　him　out　of　it；　had　he　been　able　to　get　to　the　corpse。　But　the　old　man　had　been　wise　to　such　an　eventuality。　His　body　had　been　kept　from　viewing；　even　by　his　closest　panions。　It　had　been　locked　in　a　bank　safe　（how　appropriate！）　and　guarded　night　and　day；　much　to　the　delight　of　the　tabloids；　who　reveled　in　such　eccentricities。　By　this　evening　it　would　be　ash；　and　Mamoulian's　last　opportunity　for　permanent　reunion　would　have　been　lost。
　　And　yet　。　。　。
　　Why　did　he　feel　as　if　the　games　they'd　played　all　these　years…the　Temptation　games；　the　Revelation　games；　the　Rejection；　Vilification　and　Damnation　games…were　not　quite　over？　His　intuition；　like　his　strength；　was　dwindling：　but　he　was　certain　that　something　was　amiss。　He　thought　of　the　way　the　woman　at　his　side　smiled；　the　secret　on　her　face。
　　〃Is　he　dead？〃　he　suddenly　asked　her。
　　The　question　appeared　to　flummox　her。　〃Of　course　he's　dead；〃　she　replied。
　　〃Is　he；　Carys？〃　〃We　just　saw　his　funeral；　for　God's　sake。〃　She　felt　his　mind；　a　solid　presence；　at　the　back　of　her　neck。　They　had　played　this　scene　many　times　in　the　preceding　weeks…the　trial　of　strength　between　wills…and　she　knew　that　he　was　weaker　by　the　day。　Not　so　weak　as　to　be　negligible；　however：　he　could　still　deliver　terrors；　if　it　suited　him。
　　〃Tell　me　your　thoughts　。　。〃　he　said；　so　I　don't　have　to　dig　for　them。〃　If　she　didn't　answer　his　questions；　and　he　entered　her　forcibly；　he'd　see　the　runner　for　certain。
　　〃Please；〃　she　said；　making　a　sham　of　cowardice；　〃don't　hurt　me。〃　The　mind　withdrew　a　little。
　　〃Is　he　dead？〃　Mamoulian　inquired　again。
　　〃The　night　he　died　。　。　。〃　she　began。　What　could　she　tell　but　the　truth〃　No　lie　would　suffice：　he　would　know。　〃。　。　。　The　night　they　said　he　died　felt　nothing。　There　was　no　change。　Not　like　when　Mama　died。〃　She　threw　a　cowed　look　at　Mamoulian；　to　reinforce　the　illusion　of　servility。
　　〃What　do　you　construe　from　that？〃　he　asked。
　　〃I　don't　know；〃　she　replied　quite　honestly。
　　〃What　do　you　guess？〃　Again；　honestly：　〃That　he　isn't　dead。〃　The　first　smile　Carys　had　ever　seen　on　the　European's　face　appeared。　It　was　merest　hint；　but　it　was　there。　She　felt　him　withdraw　the　horns　of　his　thought　and　content　himself　with　musing。　He　would　not　press　her　further。　Too　many　plans　to　plan。
　　〃Oh；　Pilgrim；〃　he　said　under　his　breath；　chiding　his　invisible　enemy　like　a　much…loved　but　errant　child；　〃you　almost　had　me　fooled。〃
　　
　　Marty　followed　the　car　off　the　highway　and　across　the　city　to　the　house　on　Caliban　Street。　It　was　early　evening　by　the　time　the　pursuit　ended。　Parked　at　a　prudent　distance　he　watched　them　get　out　of　the　car。　The　European　paid　the　driver　and　then；　after　some　delay　unlocking　the　front　door；　he　and　Carys　stepped　into　a　house　whose　dirtied　lace　curtains　and　peeling　paintwork　suggested　nothing　abnormal　in　a　street　whose　houses　were　all　in　need　of　renovation。　Alight　went　on　at　the　middle　floor：　a　blind　was　drawn。
　　He　sat　in　the　car　for　an　hour；　keeping　the　house　in　view；　though　nothing　happened。　She　did　not　appear　at　the　window；　no　letters　were　thrown；　wrapped　in　stones　and　kisses；　out　to　her　waiting　hero。　But　he　hadn't　really　expected　such　signs；　they　were　fictional　devices；　and　this　was　real。　Dirty　stone；　dirty　windows；　dirty　terrors　skulking　at　his　groin。
　　He　hadn't　eaten　properly　since　the　announcement　of　Whitehead's　death；　now　for　the　first　time　since　that　morning；　he　felt　healthily　hungry。　Leaving　the　house　to　creeping　twilight；　he　went　to　find　himself　sustenance。
　　
　　53
　　Luther　was　packing。　The　days　since　Whitehead's　death　had　been　a　whirlwind；　and　he　was　dizzied　by　it。　With　so　much　money　in　his　pocket；　every　minute　a　new　option　occurred　to　him；　a　fantasy　now　realizable。　For　the　short　term　at　least　he'd　decided　to　go　home　to　Jamaica　for　a　long　holiday。　He　had　left　when　he　was　eight；　nineteen　years　ago；　his　memories　of　the　island　were　gilded。　He　was　prepared　to　be　disappointed；　but　if　he　didn't　like　the　place；　no　matter。　A　man　of　his　newfound　wealth　needed　no　specific　plans：　he　could　move　on。　Another　island；　another　continent。
　　He　had　almost　finished　his　preparations　for　departure　when　a　voice　called　him　from　downstairs。　It　wasn't　a　voice　he　knew。
　　〃Luther？　Are　you　there？〃　He　went　to　the　top　of　the　stairs。　The　woman　he'd　once　shared　this　small　house　with　had　gone；　left　him　six　months　ago　taking　their　children。　The　house　should　have　been　empty。　But　there　was　somebody　in　the　hall；　not　one　but　two　people。　His　interlocutor；　a　tall；　even　stately　man；　stared　up　the　stairs　at　him；　light　from　the　landing　shining　on　his　wide；　smooth　brow。　Luther　recognized　the　face；　from　the　fune