"Grafton, Sue - Kinsey Millhone - Q is for Quarry Txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grafton Sue)

"Quit acting like a mother hen. I'm not helpless. It's a muscle pull, that's all; my sciatica acting up. Even healthy people get hurt, you know. It's no big deal."

In the harsh light of day, I could see that, despite the transfusion, his skin had gray undertones, and the smudges beneath his pale brows made his eyes appear to recede. He was dressed for the outdoors, wearing brown cords, hiking boots, a red-plaid wool shirt, and a fisherman's vest.

"You want to sit up here?"

"I'm better off where I am. I'm never quite sure when I'm going to need to lie down."

"Well, just let me know if you want to switch places." I tugged at my seat belt, which was hung up somewhere. I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to get the mechanism to release a sufficient length of belt so I could clip it into place. Meanwhile, Dolan put the car in gear. The engine coughed and died twice, but finally sputtered back to life, and we were under way. The interior smelled of nicotine and dog. I didn't picture Dolan as the doggy type, but I didn't want to ask. The floorboards were strewn with gas receipts, discarded cigarette packs, and assorted cellophane bags that had once contained potato chips, cheese-and- cracker sandwiches, and other heart-healthy snacks.

We gassed up at a service station adjacent to the freeway and then he eased the car out into the traffic, heading north on the 101. As soon as we were settled at a steady speed, Dolan punched in the car lighter and reached for the pack of Camels he had resting on the dash.

Stacey said, "Hey! Have mercy. You've got a cancer patient back here."

Dolan again angled the rearview mirror so he could see Stacey's face. "That doesn't seem to stop you from smoking that pipe of yours."

"The pipe's purely recreational. At the rate you smoke, you'll be dead before me."

Dolan said, "Nuts," but left the pack where it was. Stacey tapped me on the shoulder. "See that? The guy looks after me. You'd never guess that about him."

Dolan's smile barely registered, but it softened his face. After the town of Colgate, the railroad tracks and the highway ran parallel to the ocean. To the north, the Santa Ynez Mountains loomed dark and gray, dense with low-growing vegetation. There were scarcely any trees, and the contours of the foothills were a rolling green. Much of the topography was defined by massive landslides, sandstone and shale debris extending for miles. Dolan and Stacey conducted a conversation that consisted of fishing and hunting stories - endless accounts of all the creatures they'd shot, hooked, trapped, and snagged; gutted, skinned, and toted home. This, with men, passes for a load of fun.

We sped past the state beach park, where camping sites consisted of adjacent oblongs of asphalt that looked suspiciously like parking spaces. I'd seen campers and RV's lined up like piano keys while the occupants set out aluminum picnic tables and chairs, stoking up their portable barbecues in areas much smaller than the yards they had at home. The children would gorge on hot dogs and potato chips, frolic in the ocean, and then bed down in the car, hair sticky, their bodies infused with residual salt like little cod fillets. For Dolan and Stacey, the sight of the line of campers triggered a recollection of another unsolved homicide - two teens shot to death on an isolated stretch of beach. After that, they spent time pointing out the various locations where past homicide victims had been dumped. Santa Teresa County had provided a number of such spots.

A few miles beyond Gull Cove, Dolan took the turnoff and headed west on California 1. I found myself lulled by the passing countryside. Here the hills were undulating, dotted with shaggy masses of the dark green oaks that marched across the land. The skies were pale blue with only the faintest marbling of clouds. The air smelled of the hot, sun-dried pastures sprinkled with buttercups, where occasional cattle grazed.

The two-lane road wound west and north. From time to time, the route cut through irregular, high-arching rock beds. On one of these stretches, thirty-two years before, a mammoth boulder tumbled down the slope, shattering the windshield of my parents' car as we passed. I was sitting in the rear, playing with my paper doll, scowling because I'd just bent her left cardboard leg at the ankle. I felt a flash of uncontrollable five-year-old rage because her foot looked all crookedy and limp. I was just setting up a howl when one of my parents made a startled exclamation. Perhaps the falling rock was briefly visible on de- scent, bouncing in a jaunty shower of smaller rocks and dirt. There was no time to react. The force of the boulder smashed through the windshield, crushing my father's head and chest, killing him instantly. The vehicle veered right, careening out of control, and crashed against the rocky hill face.

The impact flung me forward, wedging me against the driver's seat. From this confining cage of crumpled metal, I kept my mother company in the last, long moments of her life. I understand now how it must have felt from her perspective. Her injuries were such that there was no way she could move without excruciating pain. She could hear me whimper, but she had no way to know how badly I was hurt. She could see her husband was dead and knew she was not far behind. She wept, keening with regret. After a while, she was quiet, and I remember thinking that was good, not knowing she'd left her body and floated off somewhere.

Dolan swerved to avoid a ground squirrel that had skittered across the pavement in front of us. Instinctively, I put a hand out to brace myself and then I focused on the road again, disconnecting my emotions with all the skill of a vivisectionist. It's a trick of mine that probably dates back to those early years. I tuned into the conversation, which I realized belatedly had been directed at me.

Dolan was saying, "You with us?"

"Sure. Sorry. I think I missed that."

"I said, this guy, Frankie Miracle, we talked about last night? He got picked up on a routine traffic stop outside Lompoc. The schmuck had a busted taillight, and when the officers ran the plate, the vehicle came up stolen and wanted by the Los Angeles County Sheriffs Department. Galloway reads him his rights and throws him in the hoosegow. Meanwhile, the car's towed to the impound lot. When Galloway sits down to write his report, he reads the APB, indicating the registered owner's the victim of a homicide. He goes back over to the jail and tells Frankie he's under arrest for murder and reads him his rights again. Two days after that, Stacey and I go deer hunting and come across the girl."

"Yeah, if it wasn't for the taillight, Frankie could've been in Oregon and we might not've tied him to the situation here."

"What about the weapon? I don't remember any mentionof it."

"We never found the knife, but judging form the wounds, the coroner said the blade had to be at least five inches long. Rumor has it, Frankie carried something similar, though he didn't have it on him when we picked him up."

Stacey said, "He probably tossed it or buried it. Country up there is rugged. Search and Rescue came through and did a grid search but never turned up anything." He leaned forward and tapped Con on the shoulder, pointing to a side road going off on our right a hundred yards ahead. "That's it. Just beyond this bridge coming up."

"You think? I remember it was farther down, along a stretch of white three-board fence."

"Oh. Maybe so. You could be right about that."