"Laurell K. Hamilton - Anita Blake 03 - Circus Damned" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Laurell K)

The manтАЩs body lay on its back, pale and naked in the weak morning
sunlight. Even limp with death his body was good, a lot of weights, maybe
jogging. His longish yellow hair mixed with the still-green lawn. The smooth
skin of his neck was punctured twice with neat fang marks. The right arm was
pierced at the bend of the elbow, where a doctor draws blood. The skin of the
left wrist was shredded, like an animal had gnawed it. White bone gleamed in
the fragile light.
I had measured the bite marks with my trusty tape measure. They were
different sizes. At least three different vamps, but I would have bet
everything I owned that it was five different vampires. A master and his pack,
or flock, or whatever the hell you call a group of vampires.
The grass was wet from early morning mist. The moisture soaked through the
knees of the coveralls I had put on to protect my suit. Black Nikes and
surgical gloves completed my crime-scene kit. I used to wear white Nikes, but
they showed blood too easily.
I said a silent apology for what I had to do, then spread the corpseтАЩs legs
apart. The legs moved easily, no rigor. I was betting that he hadnтАЩt been dead
eight hours, not enough time for rigor mortis to set in. Semen had dried on
his shriveled privates. One last joy before dying. The vamps hadnтАЩt cleaned
him off. On the inside of his thigh, close to the groin, were more fang marks.
They werenтАЩt as savage as the wrist wound, but they werenтАЩt neat either.
There was no blood on the skin around the wounds, not even the wrist wound.
Had they cleaned the blood off? Wherever he was killed, there was a lot of
blood. TheyтАЩd never be able to clean it all up. If we could find where he
died, weтАЩd have all sorts of clues. But in the neatly clipped lawn in the
middle of a very ordinary neighborhood, there were no clues. I was betting on
that. TheyтАЩd dumped the body in a place as sterile and unhelpful as the dark
side of the moon.
Mist floated over the small residential neighborhood like waiting ghosts.
The mist was so low to the ground that it was like walking through sheets of
drizzling rain. Tiny beads of moisture clung to the body where the mist had
condensed. Beads collected in my hair like silver pearls.
I stood in the front yard of a small, lime-green house with white trim. A
chain-link fence peeked around one side encircling a roomy backyard. It was
October, and the grass was still green. The top of a sugar maple loomed over
the house. Its leaves were that brilliant orangey-yellow that is peculiar to
sugar maples, as if their leaves were carved from flame. The mist helped the
illusion, and the colors seemed to bleed on the wet air.
All down the street were other small houses with autumn-bright trees and
bright green lawns. It was still early enough that most people hadnтАЩt gone to
work yet, or school, or wherever. There was quite a crowd being held back by
the uniform officers. They had hammered stakes into the ground to hold the
yellow Do-Not-Cross tape. The crowd pressed as close to the tape as they
dared. A boy of about twelve had managed to push his way to the front. He
stared at the dead man with huge brown eyes, his mouth open in a little тАЬwowтАЭ
of excitement. God, where were his parents? Probably gawking at the corpse,
too.
The corpse was paper-white. Blood always pools to the lowest point of the
body. In this case dark, purplish bruising should have set in at buttocks,
arms, legs, the entire back of his body. There were no marks. He hadnтАЩt had