no relief of his pain； no sense of triumph； it would only allow him to step out of the Zero Point and； with his task pleted； die in peace。
Down through the vaulted conifers came fluttering white wings of storm light； and again； and still more； as if the cracking sky were casting out a radiant multitude。 Thunder and the rush of wind beat like pinions at Joe's ears； and by the many thousands； feathered shadows swooped and shuddered between the tree trunks and across the forest floor。
Just as he and Barbara reached her Ford Explorer at the weedy end of the narrow dirt lane； a great fall of rain hissed and roared through the pines。 They piled inside； their hair and faces jewelled； and her periwinkle…blue blouse was spattered with spots as dark as plum skin。
They didn't encounter whatever had frightened the deer from cover； but Joe was pretty sure now that the culprit had been another animal。 In the run to beat the rain； he had sensed only wild things crouching…not the far deadlier threat of men。
Nevertheless； the crowding conifers seemed to provide ideal architecture for assassins。 Secret bowers； blinds； ambushments； green…dark lairs。
As Barbara started the Explorer and drove back the way they had e； Joe was tense。 Surveying the woods。 Waiting for the bullet。
When they reached the gravel road； he said； 'The two men that Blane named on the cockpit tape。
'Dr。 Blom and Dr。 Ramlock。'
'Have you tried to find out who they are； launched a search for them？'
'When I was in San Francisco； I was prying into Delroy Blane's background。 Looking for any personal problems that might have put him in a precarious psychological condition。 I asked his family and friends if they'd heard those names。 No one had。'
'You checked Blane's personal records； appointment calendars； his chequebook？'
'Yeah Nothing。 And Blane's family physician says he never referred his patient to any specialists with those names。 There's no physician； psychiatrist； or psychologist in the San Francisco area by those names。 That's as far as I carried it。 Because then I was awakened by those bastards in my hotel room； a pistol in my face； and told to butt out。'
To the end of the gravel road and onto the paved state route； where sizzling silver rain danced in a froth on the blacktop； Barbara fell into a troubled silence。 Her brow was creased； but not…Joe sensed…because the inclement weather required that she concentrate on her driving。
The lightning and thunder had passed。 Now the storm threw all its energy into wind and rain。
Joe listened to the monotonous thump of the windshield wipers。 He listened as well to the hard…driven drops snapping against the glass； which seemed at first to be a meaningless random rattle； but gradually he began to think that he perceived hidden patterns even in the rhythms of the rain。
Barbara found perhaps not a pattern but an intriguing puzzle piece that she had overlooked。 'I'm remembering something peculiar； but。。。
Joe waited。
'。。。but I don't want to encourage you in this weird delusion of yours。'
'Delusion？'
She glanced at him。 'This idea that there might have been a survivor。'
He said； 'Encourage me。 Encouragement isn't something I've had much of in the past year。'
She hesitated but then sighed。 'There was a rancher not far from here who was already asleep when Flight 353 went down。 People who work the land go to bed early in these parts。 The explosion woke him。 And then someone came to his door。'
'Who？'
'The next day； he called the county sheriff； and the sheriff's office put him in touch with the investigation mand centre。 But it didn't seem to amount to much。'
'Who came to his door in the middle of the night？'
'A witness；' Barbara said。
'To the crash？'
'Supposedly。'
She looked at him but then quickly returned her attention to the rain…swept highway。
In the context of what Joe had told her； this recollection seemed by the moment to grow more disturbing to Barbara。 Her eyes pinched at the corners； as if she were straining to see not through the downpour but more clearly into the past； and her lips pressed together as she debated whether to say more。
A witness to the crash；' Joe prompted。
I can't remember why； of all places； she went to this ranch house or what she wanted there。'
'She？'
'The woman who claimed to have seen the plane go down。'
'There's something more；' Joe said。
'Yeah。 As I recall 。 。 。 she was a black woman。'
His breath went stale in his lungs； but at last he exhaled and said； 'Did she give this rancher her name？'
'I don't know。'
'If she did； I wonder if he'd remember it。'
At the turnoff from the state route； the entrance road to the ranch was flanked by tall white posts that supported an overhead sign bearing graceful green letters on a white background： LOOSE CHANGE RANCH。 Under those three words； in smaller letters and in script： Jeff and Mercy Ealing。 The gate stood open。
The oiled…gravel lane was flanked by white ranch fencing that divided the fields into smaller pastures。 They passed a big riding ring； exercise yards； and numerous white stables trimmed in green。
Barbara said； 'I wasn't here last year； but one of my people gave me a report on it。 ing back to me now。 。 。 It's a horse ranch。 They breed and race quarter horses。 Also breed and sell some show horses like Arabians； I think。'
The pasture grass； alternately churned by wind and flattened by the pounding rain； was not currently home to any horses。 The riding ring and the exercise yards were deserted。
In some of the stables； the top of the Dutch door at each stall was open。 Here and there； from the safety of their quarters； horses peered out at the storm。 Some were nearly as dark as the spaces in which they stood； but others were pale or dappled。
The large and handsome ranch house； white clapboard with green shutters； framed by groupings of aspens； had the deepest front porch that Joe had ever seen。 Under the heavy cape of gloom thrown down by the thunderheads； a yellow glow as weling as hearth light filled； many of the windows。
Barbara parked in the driveway turnaround。 She and Joe ran through the rain…previously as warm as bath water but now cooler…to the screened porch。 The door swung inward with a creak of hinges and the singing of a worn tension spring； sounds so rounded in tone that they were curiously pleasing； they spoke of time passed at a gentle pace； of gracious neglect rather than dilapidation。
The porch furniture was white wicker with green cushions； and ferns cascaded from wrought…iron stands。
The house door stood open； and a man of about sixty； in a black rain slicker； waited to one side on the porch。 The weather…thickened skin of his sun…darkened face was well creased and patinaed like the leather of a long…used saddlebag。 His blue eyes were as quick and friendly as his smile。 He raised his voice to be heard above the drumming of the rain on the roof。 'Mornin'。 Good day for ducks。'
'Are you Mr。 Ealing？' Barbara asked。
'That would be me；' said another man in a black slicker as he appeared in the open doorway。
He was six inches taller and twenty years younger than the man who had mented on the weather。 But a life on horseback； in hot sun and dry wind and the nip of winter； had already begun to abrade the smooth hard planes of youth and bless him with a pleasantly worn and appealing face that spoke of deep experience and rural wisdom。
Barbara introduced herself and Joe； implying that she still worked for the Safety Board and that Joe was her associate。
'You poking into that after a whole year？' Ealing asked。
'We weren't able to settle on a cause；' Barbara said。 'Never like to close a file until we know what happened。 Why we're here is to ask about the woman who knocked on your door that night。'
'Sure； I remember。'
'Could you describe her？' Joe asked。
'Petite lady。 About forty or so。 Pretty。'
'Black？'
'She was； yes。 But also a touch of something else。 Mexican maybe。 Or more likely Chinese。 Maybe Vietnamese。'
Joe remembered the Asian quality of Rose Tucker's eye