"Bowes-ShadowAndGunman" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bowes Richard)

When I proudly handed her the money, Stacey regarded me curiously. Innocent in a
strange kind of way, I couldn't imagine why. A few minutes later she came out of
a drug store already looking much better and said, "You are definitely ready for
Dr. X. You can learn a lot. But watch out for him. And remember you come there
as my friend."

That struck me as odd. "Is he a psychiatrist?"

"No. He hasn't let that happen to him," She took Beacon Street out of town.

I remember asking, "His name is Dr. X?" as she turned off Beacon and down a
curving suburban road. Ponds lay behind stands of trees. Victorian mansions
spread over the tops of hillocks.

"He needs to protect his identity. There are a lot of things society just
doesn't understand."

Without slowing, she drove through a set of open iron gates, went up a curving
driveway and parked under a portico. "He has a nice house," I said.

"Actually, this is my mother's place. He practices here while she's away."
Before getting out of the car, Stacey slipped some of the pills from the bottle
into her pocket.

She called, "Hello?" when she opened the front door. The place was quiet, dark
with the curtains mostly drawn. On the hall table was a used Kleenex and a
coffee cup filled with half-drowned cigarettes. In a corner lay an empty glass.
Wine had dried into the rag.

To our left was a book-lined room that I identified as the library. A figure in
a black suit stirred on a couch, a small man with a round face and a fringe of
gray hair. "A new communicant ?" he asked in the voice of a testy troll. For a
bad moment I thought that this was Dr. X.

"Hello, Max," said Stacey. "Max was once an Episcopal priest," she explained as
she led me through a big kitchen. It stank of garbage and dirty dishes. On the
table lay an open dictionary with pages hollowed out to create a pocket. On a
sideboard a silver bowl had been polished till it shone in the gloom. Upstairs,
someone put on a record, jazz piano.

Lonely notes echoed through the halls. Stacey opened a door and motioned me down
a flight of stairs. At the bottom was a low, windowless room. Walls, ceiling,
floor were all painted a dead white. Bright lighting was set in the ceiling. The
only furnishings were a white table and two chairs.

At the table facing the door was a guy, older, maybe thirty. A black beard made
it hard to tell. "Dr. X," said Stacey, "this is Kevin." He was big and looked
like he had once been fat. He wore a blue Oxford knit shirt outside his pants.

"Hi, Kevin." Dr. X rose to shake my hand. "Stacey's talked about you."