cb.damnationgame-第94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！


　　〃Damn。〃　There　was　no　time　for　tactical　thinking。　They'd　have　to　make　a　break　for　it　and　take　what　the　moment　offered；　good　or　bad。　He　pulled　Carys　to　her　feet　and　crossed　to　the　door。　As　he　turned　the　handle　he　glanced　over　his　shoulder　to　check　that　Carys　was　still　following　him；　but　disaster　had　registered　on　her　face。　He　turned　back　to　the　door　and　the　reason…Saint　Thomas；　his　chin　shiny　with　vomit…was　standing　directly　outside　the　door。　He　was　apparently　as　startled　to　see　Marty　as　the　other　way　around。　Using　his　hesitation；　Marty　stepped　into　the　hallway　and　pushed　Tom　in　the　chest。　The　American　fell　back；　the　word　〃Chad！〃　escaping　his　lips　as　he　stumbled　through　the　open　door　opposite；　knocking　over　a　bowl　of　strawberries　as　he　did　so。　The　fruit　rolled　underfoot。
　　Marty　ducked　around　the　dressing…room　door　and　out　into　the　hall；　but　the　American　recovered　his　balance　with　speed；　and　reached　out　to　snatch　the　back　of　his　shirt。　The　attempt　was　sufficient　to　slow　Marty　down；　and　as　he　turned　to　beat　the　arresting　hand　away　he　saw　the　second　American　emerging　from　the　room　the　old　men　were　in。　There　was　a　frightening　serenity　in　the　youth's　eyes　as　he　closed　in　on　Marty。
　　〃Run！〃　was　all　he　could　shout　to　Carys；　but　the　blond　god　stopped　her　as　she　slipped　out　into　the　corridor；　pushing　her　back　the　way　she'd　e　with　a　breathed　〃No；〃　before　continuing　on　his　way　toward　Marty。　〃Hold　her；〃　he　told　his　panion　as　he　took　over　the　hold　on　Marty。　Tom　stepped　out　of　sight　after　Carys；　and　there　was　a　noise　of　struggle；　but　Marty　had　little　time　to　analyze　it；　as　Chad　doubled　him　up　with　a　blow　to　the　stomach。　Marty；　too　confused　by　the　sudden　rush　of　action　to　prepare　for　the　pain；　groaned　and　fell　back　against　the　front　door　of　the　suite；　slamming　it。　The　blond　boy　followed　him　down　the　corridor；　and　through　tear…bleared　eyes　Marty　just　caught　sight　of　the　next　blow　before　it　landed。　He　didn't　see　the　third　or　fourth。　There　was　no　time　between　the　punches　and　kicks　to　stand　upright　or　catch　a　breath。　The　corn…fed　body　pummeling　him　was　lithe　and　strong；　more　than　Marty's　equal。　Vainly；　he　flailed　against　the　tattoo。　He　was　so　damn　tired　and　sick。　His　nose　began　to　bleed　again；　and　still　the　serene　eyes　fixed　him　as　the　fists　beat　his　body　black。　So　calm；　those　eyes；　they　could　have　been　at　prayer。　But　it　was　Marty　who　was　falling　to　his　knees；　Marty　whose　head　was　dragged　back　in　enforced　adulation　as　the　blond　boy　spat　on　him；　Marty　who　said；　〃Help　me〃…or　some　bruised　corruption　of　those　words…as　he　collapsed。
　　Mamoulian　stepped　out　of　the　gaming　room；　leaving　the　pilgrim　to　his　tears。　He'd　done　as　the　old　man　had　asked…they'd　played　a　game　or　two　for　old　times〃　sake。　But　now　the　indulgence　was　over。　And　what　was　this　chaos　in　the　hall；　the　tangle　of　limbs　at　the　front　door；　blood　spattered　on　the　wall？　Ah；　it　was　Strauss。　Somehow　the　European　had　expected　a　late　arrival　at　the　celebrations；　who　it　was　to　be；　he　hadn't　foreseen。　He　stalked　the　corridor　to　see　what　damage　had　been　done；　looking　down　at　the　disfigured；　spittle…laced　face　with　a　sigh。　Saint　Chad；　his　fists　bloody；　was　sweating　a　little：　the　scent　off　the　young　lion　was　sweet。
　　〃He　was　almost　away；〃　the　Saint　said。
　　〃Indeed；〃　the　European　replied；　gesturing　for　the　youth　to　give　him　room。
　　From　his　collapsed　position　on　the　hall　floor　Marty　gazed　up　at　the　Last　European。　The　air　between　them　seemed　to　be　itching。　Marty　waited。　Surely　the　killing　stroke　would　follow　quickly。　But　there　was　nothing；　except　the　gaze　from　those　nonmittal　eyes。　Even　in　his　broken　state　Marty　could　see　the　tragedy　written　in　the　mask　of　Mamoulian's　face。　It　no　longer　terrified　him：　simply　fascinated。　This　man　was　the　source　of　the　nullity　he　had　barely　survived　in　Caliban　Street。　Was　there　not　a　ghost　of　that　gray　air　lurking　in　his　sockets　now；　seeping　from　his　nostrils　and　mouth　as　though　a　fire　smoldered　in　his　cranium？
　　In　the　room　where　he　and　the　European　had　played　cards　Whitehead　moved　stealthily　across　to　the　pillow　of　his　makeshift　bed。　Events　in　the　hall　had　shifted　the　focus　for　a　useful　moment。　He　slipped　his　hand　beneath　the　pillow　and　drew　out　the　gun　hidden　there；　then　crept　through　into　the　adjoining　dressing　room；　and　slipped　out　of　sight　behind　the　wardrobe。
　　From　that　position　he　could　see　Saint　Tom　and　Carys　standing　in　the　hallway；　watching　events　at　the　front　door。　Both　were　too　intent　on　the　gladiators　to　notice　in　the　darkened　room。
　　〃Is　he　dead　。　。　。？〃　Tom　asked；　from　a　distance。
　　〃Who　knows？〃　Whitehead　heard　Mamoulian　reply。　〃Put　him　in　the　bathroom；　out　of　the　way。〃　Whitehead　watched　as　Strauss〃　inert　bulk　was　hauled　past　the　door　and　into　the　room　opposite；　to　be　dumped　in　the　bathroom。　Mamoulian　approached　Carys。
　　〃You　brought　him　here；〃　he　said　simply。
　　She　didn't　reply。　Whitehead's　gun　hand　itched。　From　where　he　was　standing　Mamoulian　made　an　easy　target；　except　that　Carys　stood　in　the　way。　Would　a　bullet；　fired　at　her　back；　pass　through　her　and　into　the　European？　The　thought；　though　appalling；　had　to　be　contemplated：　survival　was　at　issue　here。　But　the　moment's　hesitation　had　snatched　his　chance。　The　European　was　escorting　Carys　toward　the　gaming　room；　and　out　of　shot。　No　matter；　it　left　the　coast　clear。
　　He　slipped　out　of　hiding　and　darted　to　the　dressing…room　door。　As　he　stepped　into　the　corridor　he　heard　Mamoulian　say：　〃Joseph？〃　Whitehead　ran　the　few　yards　to　the　front　door；　knowing　the　chance　of　escape　without　violence　was　gossamer…thin。　He　grabbed　the　handle　and　turned　it。
　　〃Joseph；〃　said　the　voice　behind　him。
　　Whitehead's　hand　froze　as　he　felt　invisible　fingers　plucking　at　the　nape　of　his　neck。　He　ignored　the　pressure　and　forced　the　handle　around。　It　slid　in　his　sweaty　palm。　The　thought　that　breathed　at　his　neck　pressed　around　his　axis　vertebra；　the　threat　unmistakable。　Well　then；　he　thought；　the　choice　is　out　of　my　hands。　He　released　the　door　handle　and　turned　fully　around　to　face　the　card…player。　He　was　standing　at　the　end　of　the　corridor；　which　seemed　to　be　darkening；　being　a　tunnel　extruded　from　Mamoulian's　eyes。　Such　potent　illusions。　But　simply　that：　illusions。　He　could　resist　them　long　enough　to　bring　their　forger　down。　Whitehead　raised　the　gun　and　pointed　it　at　the　European。　Without　giving　the　card…player　another　moment　to　confound　him；　he　fired。　The　first　shot　hit　Mamoulian's　chest；　the　second　his　stomach。　Perplexity　crossed　the　European's　face。　Blood　spread　from　the　wounds　across　his　shirt。　He　did　not　fall；　however。　Instead；　in　a　voice　so　even　it　was　as　if　the　shots　had　not　been　fired；　he　said：　〃Do　you　want　to　go　outside；　Pilgrim？〃　Behind　Whitehead；　the　door　handle　had　started　to　rattle。
　　〃Is　that　what　you　want？〃　Mamoulian　demanded。　〃To　go　outside？〃　〃Yes。〃　〃Then　go。〃　Whitehead　stepped　away　from　the　door　as　it　was　flung　open　with　such　venom　the　handle　impaled　itself　in　the　corridor　wall。　The　old　man　turned　away　from　Mamoulian　to　make　good　his　escape；　but　before　he　could　take　a　step　the　light　in　the　corridor　was　sucked　away　into　the　pitch　darkness　beyond　the　door；　and　to　his　horror　Whitehead　realized　that　the　hotel　had　disappeared　from　beyond　the　threshold。　There　were　no　carpets　and　mirrors　out　there；　no　stairs　winding　down　to　the　outside　world。　Only　a　wilderness　he'd　walked　in　half　a　life　ago：　a　square；　a　sky　shot　with　trembling　stars。
　　〃Go　out；〃　the　European　invited　him。　〃It's　been　waiting　for　you　all　these　years。　Go　on！　Go！〃　The　floor　beneath　Whitehead's　feet　seemed　to　have　bee　slick；　he　felt　himself　sliding　toward　the　past。　His　face　was　washed　by　the　open　air　as　it　glided　into　the　hallway　to　meet　him。　It　smelled　of　spring；　of　the　Vistula；　which　roared　to　the　sea　ten　minutes〃　walk　from　here；　it　smelled　of　blossom　too。　Of　course　it　smelled　of　blossom。　What　he'd　mistaken　for　stars　were　petals；　white　petals　lifted　by　the　breeze　and　gusted　toward　him。　The　sight　of　the　petals　was　too　persuasive　to　be　ignored；　he　let　them　lead　him　back　into　this　glorious　night；　when　for　a　few　shimmering　hours　the　whole　world　had　promised　to　be　his　for　the　taking。　Even　as　he　conceded　his　senses　to　the　night　the　tree　appeared；　as　phenomenal　as　he　had　so　often　dreamed　it；　its　white　head　shaking　slightly。