"Elrod, P N - Vampire Files 10 - Cold Streets" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

Copyright й 2003 by P. N. Elrod.

First edition: January 2003

ISBN 0-441-01009-1 (alk. paper)

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA



1
Chicago, January 1938

I REMAINED invisible during the ride to the ransom drop, with no idea where we
were beyond the few verbal cues passed to my partner, who was playing chauffeur.
Our cue-giver and client, Mrs Vivian Gladwell, didn't know I was floating next
to her in the rear seat of her Cadillac. Her daughter had been kidnapped two
weeks ago, and the poor woman had enough on her mind without having to deal with
a supernatural gumshoe.
"He said to stop on that bridge just ahead," she told Escott, using the speaking
tube that served the driver's compartment. I could imagine my partner nodding.
"And then what?" His voice was thin through the tube, my bodiless state muffled
the sound almost too much to hear him.
"I'm to drop the money off the right-hand side."
"Very well."
We'd been on a merry little tour of Chicago for some time now, driving from
phone box to phone box. Each time we paused, she had to rush out and wait for it
to ring, then get fresh instructions from the kidnapper on where to go next. He
said he was watching, so Escott faithfully followed instructions, just in case.
The big car eased to a halt, skidding a little on icy slush, motor thrumming
impatiently. I hoped this wouldn't be another water-haul. Not waiting for Escott
to come open the door, Vivian slid across the seat toward me. I kept my
incorporeal self out of her way, clinging weightlessly to the suitcase she
pulled along. It was full of cash meant to buy back her daughter's life.
The bridge didn't seem to be over water, a complication we could do without. I
have a problem crossing the free-flowing kind. Vivian gave a small ladylike
grunt of effort, lifting the case, banging it against something. I sensed the
shape of a wide railing. Just as well I couldn't see how far the drop would be.
I hate heights.
Wrapped around the case, I gave an internal wince for what was to come.
A shove, then a horrible, time-suspending plunge, truly awful. I couldn't force
myself to hang on. It didn't matter that in this state I'd suffer no hurt from
the fall; instinct took over. I whipped away a crucial second early and made a
slower landing.
Oddly, there wasn't a lot of impact noise from the case when it hit. Just a soft
thump. Maybe it was in a snowdrift. I sensed the ground and tried to figure out
where the cash had gone. It would have been nice to be visible, enabling me to
see, but too much of a risk. The kidnapper had brains behind his efforts. I had
to respect that.