"c302" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

8:27 A.M., Saturday, March 4, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

Desiree awoke puffy eyed. Her head throbbed. She thought she heard Jeremy crying in the next room, the one she'd painted blue with yellow elephants for Jeremy as a nursery. Then she remembered. Her sinuses ached from having cried until she simply could cry no longer, but lay with her head under a pillow racking her body with dry, heaving sobs. She'd done her best to maintain public composure throughout the funeral yesterday. Grief was a private matter. She couldn't stand one single person more offering to help her. Jeremy was dead, she'd killed him, nobody could help, and she wanted to lash out at anyone who dared think they could. She'd clenched her teeth until icicles of pain shot up her jaw at each hug and patronizing "It's okay to cry, you'll feel better if you do," as if she hadn't already until it hurt and it hadn't made her feel anything but worse. Why couldn't these people have done something before it was too late, preventing the tragedy? The police, the hospital, even Axton had offered condolences. She hated them for thinking it was easier to offer meaningless kindnesses than to have done something useful. But she was in her bed now. That must have been a dream. That's it. She must have the flu or something. A fever. What a horrible dream! She'd dreamt her own recklessness had killed her baby. Yet she dared not feel her belly, for fear she'd find it empty now, and that it hadn't ever been a dream. A nightmare, but never a dream. She dared not look out the bedroom door, for fear she'd be able to see the kitchen counter, and on it, the small urn with Jeremy's ashes. My God, why did the urn have to be so small! She heard Matty puttering around in the flat. Matty walked by the doorway. Desiree was afraid Matty would break into some disgustingly cheerful "look who's up, sleepyhead," but it never came. Matty looked at her consolingly, eyes pained, a sad smile. "I made you some toast, if you're up to it." Thank God for Matty. Half her gallons of tears were cried on her shoulder. Desiree hauled herself out of bed and made a half-hearted attempt to freshen up. She crunched Matty's toast listlessly, standing at the kitchen counter, absently stroking Jeremy's urn. "I always hated cremation," she said. "But Manukau will be too far to visit when I'm old." Matty reached out and held her hand. "But then maybe I'll live here after all," she said with a weak chuckle. "I wouldn't blame Morgan for divorcing me. Then I'd be free to move back here." "Your Morgan loves you too much for that," Matty said. "How could he? How could he love a mother who killed his baby?" "You didn't—" Desiree shook her head. She didn't want to hear that it wasn't her fault. "I have to find him, though. Tell him." "He'll understand," Matty said. "Have the CyberCorps people here been able to contact him?" Desiree flushed at the allegation she inferred, that she hadn't tried hard enough. "I've tried, damnit! How much harder can I try?" She'd spent hours on the phone. "Of course you have! I wasn't accusing you. It's the CyberCorps I'm talking about; those confused assholes. I don't understand why they can't just put you on the phone with him. They know where he is, surely." But the CyberCorps liaison people in Auckland claimed they weren't allowed to contact him. They apologized for being simply too busy to handle even a death in the family, but, they were terribly sorry, they had a country to put back together. They'd offered her the phone number of Hanscom Air Force Base where Morgan's papers in January said he was destined, but the operator could never raise anyone in the U.S. Upon calling back the CyberCorp in Auckland, their best suggestion was to write him a letter. "I can't tell my husband I killed our child in a letter!" They were terribly sorry, and... Desiree sipped her coffee, not tasting it. "I'm going to have to find him," Desiree finally said. Matty nodded. "I knew it would come to that. I'm going to come with you." "No, you're not. But thanks for the offer. I'm meeting Dieter Axton at ten. I don't know what I can bargain with to get a flight to Boston, but I've got one more hour to think of something." But the hour passed, and Desiree found herself in Axton's office, just three doors down from where Morgan had worked, and still she had nothing to offer. "It's a terrible thing," he said, smiling that stupid ass smile of his. "You know I'd help if I could." "I know you'd help if I had something to offer," she said bitterly. He threw out his hands. "My hands are tied. I even came down here to meet you on a Saturday. I don't have a jet at my disposal. If I did, I'd absolutely let you use it. Morgan was a valuable employee here." Another lie; she knew he'd hated Morgan. Fifteen minutes after he'd granted her an audience, and they'd gone around in circles, Axton always dancing away from the issue that he could help if he wanted to if there'd been something in it for him, he said he was sorry, and that he'd have to cut their meeting short. "Something I have to attend to," he said, and with a condescending pat on her shoulder, he left her sitting in his office. Desiree fumed for a full minute before she rose. "Hell hath no fury," she said to the empty office. Well, if bartering was the coin of the realm, perhaps he had something she could use elsewhere. She began hesitantly rifling the papers on his desk. Reports, printouts, his draft notice, bank statements. Nothing of value. She moved behind his desk and aggressively opened drawers. Pens, pencils. A baseball. She stopped. Was it signed? No. Nothing here of great value. A gun. A curvy thing, a .38, she recognized, like private eyes carried in movies. She stared at it. Debating. She'd never fired one, but it looked pretty simple. If she was going to traipse off to Boston... She took it. Carefully placed it in her handbag, pointing away. A half-formed thought flashed through her mind; if she didn't use the gun for protection, she could use it for something else.

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Chapter 30.2

8:27 A.M., Saturday, March 4, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

Desiree awoke puffy eyed. Her head throbbed. She thought she heard Jeremy crying in the next room, the one she'd painted blue with yellow elephants for Jeremy as a nursery. Then she remembered. Her sinuses ached from having cried until she simply could cry no longer, but lay with her head under a pillow racking her body with dry, heaving sobs. She'd done her best to maintain public composure throughout the funeral yesterday. Grief was a private matter. She couldn't stand one single person more offering to help her. Jeremy was dead, she'd killed him, nobody could help, and she wanted to lash out at anyone who dared think they could. She'd clenched her teeth until icicles of pain shot up her jaw at each hug and patronizing "It's okay to cry, you'll feel better if you do," as if she hadn't already until it hurt and it hadn't made her feel anything but worse. Why couldn't these people have done something before it was too late, preventing the tragedy? The police, the hospital, even Axton had offered condolences. She hated them for thinking it was easier to offer meaningless kindnesses than to have done something useful. But she was in her bed now. That must have been a dream. That's it. She must have the flu or something. A fever. What a horrible dream! She'd dreamt her own recklessness had killed her baby. Yet she dared not feel her belly, for fear she'd find it empty now, and that it hadn't ever been a dream. A nightmare, but never a dream. She dared not look out the bedroom door, for fear she'd be able to see the kitchen counter, and on it, the small urn with Jeremy's ashes. My God, why did the urn have to be so small! She heard Matty puttering around in the flat. Matty walked by the doorway. Desiree was afraid Matty would break into some disgustingly cheerful "look who's up, sleepyhead," but it never came. Matty looked at her consolingly, eyes pained, a sad smile. "I made you some toast, if you're up to it." Thank God for Matty. Half her gallons of tears were cried on her shoulder. Desiree hauled herself out of bed and made a half-hearted attempt to freshen up. She crunched Matty's toast listlessly, standing at the kitchen counter, absently stroking Jeremy's urn. "I always hated cremation," she said. "But Manukau will be too far to visit when I'm old." Matty reached out and held her hand. "But then maybe I'll live here after all," she said with a weak chuckle. "I wouldn't blame Morgan for divorcing me. Then I'd be free to move back here." "Your Morgan loves you too much for that," Matty said. "How could he? How could he love a mother who killed his baby?" "You didn't—" Desiree shook her head. She didn't want to hear that it wasn't her fault. "I have to find him, though. Tell him." "He'll understand," Matty said. "Have the CyberCorps people here been able to contact him?" Desiree flushed at the allegation she inferred, that she hadn't tried hard enough. "I've tried, damnit! How much harder can I try?" She'd spent hours on the phone. "Of course you have! I wasn't accusing you. It's the CyberCorps I'm talking about; those confused assholes. I don't understand why they can't just put you on the phone with him. They know where he is, surely." But the CyberCorps liaison people in Auckland claimed they weren't allowed to contact him. They apologized for being simply too busy to handle even a death in the family, but, they were terribly sorry, they had a country to put back together. They'd offered her the phone number of Hanscom Air Force Base where Morgan's papers in January said he was destined, but the operator could never raise anyone in the U.S. Upon calling back the CyberCorp in Auckland, their best suggestion was to write him a letter. "I can't tell my husband I killed our child in a letter!" They were terribly sorry, and... Desiree sipped her coffee, not tasting it. "I'm going to have to find him," Desiree finally said. Matty nodded. "I knew it would come to that. I'm going to come with you." "No, you're not. But thanks for the offer. I'm meeting Dieter Axton at ten. I don't know what I can bargain with to get a flight to Boston, but I've got one more hour to think of something." But the hour passed, and Desiree found herself in Axton's office, just three doors down from where Morgan had worked, and still she had nothing to offer. "It's a terrible thing," he said, smiling that stupid ass smile of his. "You know I'd help if I could." "I know you'd help if I had something to offer," she said bitterly. He threw out his hands. "My hands are tied. I even came down here to meet you on a Saturday. I don't have a jet at my disposal. If I did, I'd absolutely let you use it. Morgan was a valuable employee here." Another lie; she knew he'd hated Morgan. Fifteen minutes after he'd granted her an audience, and they'd gone around in circles, Axton always dancing away from the issue that he could help if he wanted to if there'd been something in it for him, he said he was sorry, and that he'd have to cut their meeting short. "Something I have to attend to," he said, and with a condescending pat on her shoulder, he left her sitting in his office. Desiree fumed for a full minute before she rose. "Hell hath no fury," she said to the empty office. Well, if bartering was the coin of the realm, perhaps he had something she could use elsewhere. She began hesitantly rifling the papers on his desk. Reports, printouts, his draft notice, bank statements. Nothing of value. She moved behind his desk and aggressively opened drawers. Pens, pencils. A baseball. She stopped. Was it signed? No. Nothing here of great value. A gun. A curvy thing, a .38, she recognized, like private eyes carried in movies. She stared at it. Debating. She'd never fired one, but it looked pretty simple. If she was going to traipse off to Boston... She took it. Carefully placed it in her handbag, pointing away. A half-formed thought flashed through her mind; if she didn't use the gun for protection, she could use it for something else.


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