"Alexander Jablokov - Dead Man" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jablokov Alexander)

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When I came back into the dining room, the waitress was cleaning the dead
manтАЩs empty table. I slung my gear and ran for the door.
 тАЬYou want me to wrap this?тАЭ she called after me.

тАЬHave a good holiday season,тАЭ I said. тАЬIf I donтАЩt see you.тАЭ

His car door hung open. IтАЩd taken care of the starter before going in. Clearly,
heтАЩd figured that out in a couple of seconds. Quick thinking. My client kept telling
me how smart he was, but considering the source, I hadnтАЩt paid much attention.

The ridgeline rose steeply above the gravel parking lot, hazed with bare oak
branches. Here and there clumps of dry leaves hung on. The lumps of squirrelsтАЩ
nests hung exposed. The sky was bright blue.

I heard branches thrashing and snapping, upslope. I followed. The underbrush
was savage, the biological precursor to concertina wire. After a few minutes of
fighting, I found a watercourse. If I bent down, I missed most of the branches.
Rocks turned under my feet. I saw the scrapes and footprints that showed the dead
man had reached the same conclusion I had.

But what did the poor bastard think he was doing? There wasnтАЩt anywhere for
him to go anymore. From what IтАЩd seen, despite his desperate need to hold on to his
body, he hadnтАЩt taken very good care of it. Pushing uphill would strain him. I figured
heтАЩd be hitting a wall in fifteen minutes or so.

The watercourse grew steeper. This was probably close to a waterfall when it
rained. Tree roots criss-crossed above me. Their sharp ends jabbed down at me as I
grabbed them. I had to lean way back and feel up with my fingers past where I could
see. They were wet and slippery.

I finally found one that was rougher and drier than the others and hauled
myself up. It sagged under my weight. I got my elbow into a stable crook and
looked upтАФto find myself staring at the muddy tread of a sneaker. The dead man
put his foot in the middle of my chest and, not hurrying at all, pushed.

I lost my grip on the wet roots and fell backward. I bounced, hard, and rolled.
Each rock took a punch at me on the way down. I finally came to a stop, face in the
mud. A thrashing from above, then silence.

I checked the gear first, then my body. Both looked like they could still do the
job. I started up again, moving more carefully this time.

Above the waterfall, the forest opened out. I couldnтАЩt see where he had gone.
It might have been up the steeper ridge face to my left, or up the open valley to
where the ridge hairpinned around, forming a high valley.

Someone cleared his throat. I looked up. A guy with a gun stood on a rock
outcropping.