scoonts.theminotaur-第44章

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oared　as　the　rear　of　the　car　slewed　and　smoke　poured　from　the　tires。　Scrambling　behind　a　parked　car；　Camacho　managed　to　fire　one　shot　at　the　fleeing　car；　although　he　knew　that　the　hollow…point　＋P。38　slug　had　no　chance　of　penetrating　the　body　of　the　car。　Someone　leaning　out　a　rear　passenger　window　hosed　another　burst　in　his　general　direction　as　the　car　ran　the　stop　sign　at　the　next　corner。　The　bullets　slapped　the　concrete　and　parked　cars。　Luis　Camacho　huddled　behind　a　car　and　listened　to　the　engine　noise　fade　away。
　When　he　walked　back　to　the　Cadillac；　Dreyfus　was　watching　the　cuffed　men　lying　in　the　street　and　lighting　his　pipe　while　the　police　lieutenant　used　his　car　radio。　Camacho　looked　at　the　man　who　had　been　shot。　He　was　dead；　with　two　holes　in　his　chest　about　four　inches　apart。　A　cocked　nine…millimeter　Beretta　automatic　lay　on　the　street　near　him。
　〃Was　it　you　that　got　this　guy？〃　Camacho　asked　Dreyfus。
　〃Yeah。　After　he　took　a　shot　at　you。〃
　〃No　shit。〃
　〃You　are　a　goddamn　hopeless　romantic；　Luis。〃
　The　lieutenant　came　over　at　a　trot。　His　face　was　livid。　〃You　fucking　idiot！　Are　you　tired　of　living？　You　almost　got　one　of　us　killed！　We're　the　good　guys；　or　haven't　you　keyhole　peepers　heard？〃
　〃I'm　sorry。　I　just　didn't　think　it　through。〃
　〃The　FBI；　the　fearless　band　of　idiots。〃　The　lieutenant　said　the　words　softly；　a　benediction；　a　sublime　pronouncement　of　irrefutable　truth。　He　looked　up　and　down　the　street；　breathing　deeply。　The　red　tinge　in　his　cheeks　subsided　slowly。　Finally　he　said；　〃Okay；　Rambo。　How　do　you　want　this　to　read？〃
　〃Hell；　just　tell　it　straight。　This　car　came　along　and　parked　in　front　of　a　crime　scene。　I　approached　them　and　identified　myself　and　one　of　them　pulled　a　weapon。〃　He　shrugged。
　The　police　officer　nudged　one　of　the　prone　men　with　his　foot。　〃A　real　smart　bunch　of　punks。　Drive　right　up　and　park　across　the　street　from　two　cars　with　government　plates。　You　shitheads　deserve　to　be　in　jail。　Just　in　case　you　haven't　figured　it　out；　you're　under　arrest。〃
　The　wail　of　an　approaching　siren　caromed　from　the　fronts　of　the　dilapidated　houses。
　〃See　you　around；　Lieutenant；〃　Camacho　said。
　〃Leaving？　Some　congressman　fucking　his　secretary　tonight？〃
　〃You　city　guys　can　handle　this。　Mrs。　Jackson's　my　problem。〃
　〃The　old　lady　can　cool　off　without　you；　Rambo。　I'm　gonna　go　get　a　search　warrant　for　this　house；　and　you're　gonna　have　to　sign　an　affidavit。　A　couple　of　them。　You　and　your　sidekick　here；　J。　Edgar　Earp；　are　gonna　be　working　with　me　for　the　next　eighteen　hours。　Now　get　your　cute　little　ass　over　here　and　start　searching　this　car。　Let's　see　what　these　hot　shooters　were　driving　around。〃　The　lieutenant　was　right。　It　did　take　eighteen　hours。
　
　Terry　Franklin　never　knew　how　long　he　stayed　in　the　bathroom。　The　flowers　on　the　wallpaper　formed　a　curious　pattern。　Each　had　a　petal　that　joined　to　an　offset　flower；　all　of　them；　it　was　very　curious　how　they　did　that。　He　thought　about　how　the　flowers　joined　and　about　nothing　at　all　for　a　long；　long　time。
　When　he　came　out　of　the　bathroom　the　house　was　dark　and　silent。　He　flipped　on　the　kitchen　light　and　drank　milk　from　the　carton　in　the　refrigerator。　He　was　very　tired。　He　climbed　the　stairs　and　lay　down　on　the　bed。
　The　sun　was　shining　in　the　windows　when　he　awoke。　He　was　still　dressed。　He　used　the　toilet；　then　went　downstairs　and　found　something　to　eat　in　the　refrigerator。　Cold　pizza。　He　ate　it　cold。　It　was　left　over　from　a　week　or　more　ago　when　he　had　taken　the　whole　family　to　Pizza　Hut。　He　thought　about　that　for　a　while；　trying　to　recall　just　when　it　had　been；　remembering　the　crowd　and　the　kids　with　the　cheese　strings　dangling　from　their　mouths　and　hands。　The　memory　was　fresh；　as　if　it　had　happened　just　a　short　while　ago；　yet　it　was　all　wrong。　The　memory　was　from　the　wrong　perspective；　like　when　you　remember　a　scene　from　your　childhood。　You　remember　it　as　you　saw　it　as　a　child；　with　everything　large　and　the　adults　tall　and　the　other　children　just　your　size。　That's　the　way　he　remembered　Pizza　Hut。
　He　sat　the　empty　plate　in　the　sink　and　ran　some　water　into　it；　then　went　into　the　living　room　and　lay　down　on　the　couch。　He　was　tired　again。　He　slept　most　of　the　day。
　
　12
　
　At　four　o'clock　Saturday　afternoon　an　exhausted　Luis　Camacho　arrived　home　with　a　raging　headache　and　went　straight　to　bed。　When　he　awoke　the　house　was　quiet　and　dark　and　his　wife　was　asleep　beside　him。　He　checked　the　luminous　display　on　the　clock…radio　on　the　bedside　stand：　12：47。　Slipping　on　his　robe；　he　padded　downstairs　to　the　kitchen；　where　he　raided　the　refrigerator。　He　got　a　plate　from　the　dishwasher　and　helped　himself　to　some　leftover　meat　loaf　and　a　couple　of　big　spoonfuls　of　tuna　casserole。　He　nuked　it　for　a　minute　in　the　microwave　while　he　poured　a　glass　of　milk。
　From　the　kitchen　table　he　could　see　Albright's　bedroom　window　across　the　waist…high　cedar　fence；　just　twenty　feet　or　so　away。　The　window　was　dark。　Good　ol'　Harlan　Albright…Peter　Aleksandrovich　Chistyakov。　Yuri。
　Matilda　Jackson　had　unlocked　her　front　door　and　opened　it　for　her　killer；　then　turned　her　back　on　him。　So　it　was　someone　she　thought　she　had　no　reason　to　fear。　A　small…caliber　automatic　with　a　good　silencer；　the　point…blank　coup　de　grace；　the　methodical　search　of　the　house　for　possible　witnesses　and　the　turning　off　of　the　lights　and　appliances；　certainly　he　was　no　thief　or　teenage　drug　guard…turned…gunman。　No；　Mrs。　Jackson　had　been　the　victim　of　a　trained；　experienced　assassin　who　convinced　her　it　was　safe　to　admit　him　into　her　house。　Perhaps　he　told　her　he　was　with　the　FBI？　Then　he　put　two　bullets　into　her　brain。
　Not　to　protect　Pochinkov；　who　had　diplomatic　immunity　and　could　not　be　arrested　or　prosecuted。　The　Americans　needed　no　testimony　from　Mrs。　Jackson　or　anyone　else　should　they　decide　to　declare　Pochinkov　persona　non　grata。　Camacho　thought　about　the　picture　of　Terry　Franklin　in　his　jacket　pocket；　which　he　had　hoped　Mrs。　Jackson　might　recognize。　He　had　discussed　the　possibility　of　Mrs。　Jackson　identifying　Franklin　with　Harlan　Albright。
　And　Albright　had　lost　no　time。　Why　take　a　chance？　Why　risk　endangering　a　valuable　agent？　He　probably　had　not　pulled　the　trigger　himself。　Just　a　quick　call　from　a　pay　phone　and　Mrs。　Jackson　was　on　her　way　to　the　graveyard。
　The　ability　to　kill　people　with　a　telephone　call…that's　the　ultimate　manifestation　of　power；　isn't　it？　And　those　ignorant　charlatans　in　the　Caribbean　are　still　sticking　pins　into　dolls。　If　only　they　could　prehend　how　far　mankind　had　progressed　with　the　wondrous　aid　of　modem　technology；　developed　from　the　triumphant　findings　of　rigorous；　unbiased　science。　Two　thousand　years　anno　domini　murder　is　no　longer　uncertain；　affected　by　mysterious　forces　and　mystic　symbols　and　the　position　of　the　moon　and　planets。　We　civilized　moderns　just　let　our　fingers　do　the　walking。。。
　Camacho　rinsed　the　dirty　dish；　glass　and　fork　and　placed　them　in　the　dishwasher。　Somewhere　here　in　the　kitchen　his　wife　had　cigarettes　hidden。　They　had　both　quit　smoking　six　months　ago；　but　she　still　liked　to　savor　a　cigarette　in　the　afternoon　over　a　cup　of　coffee　while　a　soap　blared　on　the　television。　And　she　thought　he　didn't　know。　A　cop　is　supposed　to　know　things；　lots　of　things；　and　occasionally　he　finds　he　knows　too　much。
　The　pack　was　on　the　top　shelf　in　the　pantry；　behind　a　box　of　instant　rice。　After　a　couple　of　puffs；　he　poured　himself　a　finger　of　bourbon　and　added　water　and　ice。　He　sat　at　the　kitchen　table　and　opened　the　sliding　glass　door　to　the　backyard　a　few　inches　to　exhaust　the　smoke。
　Beyond　the　back　fence　the　houses　facing　the　next　street　over　were　silhouetted　against　the　glare　of　the　streetlights。　The　shapes　cast　weird　shadows　in　his　backyard。　He　smoked　two　cigarettes　before　he　finished　the　whiskey　and　put　both　butts　in　the　garbage　under　the　sink。　In　the　family　room　he　lay　down　on　the　couch　and　pulled　the　throw　blanket　over　him。
　As　he　tried　to　relax　the　faces　and　images　ran　through　his　mind　in　a　disjointed；　unconnected　way：　Albright；　Franklin；　Matilda　Jackson　with　her　obscene　third　eye。　Admiral　Henry；　Dreyfus　with　his　pipe　and　files；　Harold　Strong　blunt　and　profane；　all　the　letters　with　their　penciled　block　words　that　said　nothing　at　all　a