"Marc Laidlaw - The Diane Arbus Suicide Portfolio" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laidlaw Marc)

but the bottom of an airshaft choked with trash, castoffs. Not official business, no,
but he was glad for his .38 and flashlight as he pushed through the gate into a
cemetery.
HeтАЩd never seen the place before, not in years of patrolling the city on foot
and in cars. He must have driven past--even down--this alley a hundred times and
never noticed the wall and gate. As expected, it was full of trash; the old marble and
granite headstones were shattered, chipped, vandalized, discolored. His shoes
crunched through a fine covering of broken glass; it was like walking on the Coney
Island shore, even down to the smell of urine. He flicked his flashlight over carved
angels with brutalized faces and seared wings. Stubs of crosses with the arms
snapped off appeared to give the finger to the living. Every beam he aimed into the
tumble of graves sent off a hundred harsh new shadows. He couldnтАЩt be sure where
heтАЩd looked and where he hadnтАЩt.
He wiped off the lid of a relatively clean crypt and settled down to wait. With
the flashlight off, his eyes adjusted quickly to the dark. His cigarette made the only
human movement. So where was she? A dwarf could sneak around in here easier
than a full-grown woman--but it would be hard to come soundlessly in all this glass.
He laid the envelope of prints on the stone beside him and smoked three cigarettes
before a shadow came out of nowhere. He jumped down from his seat and instantly
lost sight of her among the stones.
 тАЬWhoтАЩs there?тАЭ he said.
She came forward again. тАЬNo names, Inspector. Of course, I already know
yours.тАЭ
As heтАЩd guessed, she was small as a child, her face a gray blur of blended
shadows. He knew she wouldnтАЩt appreciate any light leaping on her.
Her hand darted out to the tombstone surface and stole away the envelope
holding his prints. She slid them into her hand and made a frantic gesture for his
flashlight. She turned away from him, crouched over and laid the prints on the
ground. Shielding the light with her body, she switched it on.
He heard her gasp, then further sounds of pleasure. He tried to make out
details he might use later to recognize her under other circumstances, but her
silhouette was as empty as a doorway into a starless sky, with only little wisps of
reflected light peeking through her spiky hair like bursts of solar flares. He grew
impatient listening to her. She sounded like a starving animal wolfing down a huge
meal.
тАЬAll right,тАЭ he said finally, тАЬyouтАЩve seen enough.тАЭ As he stepped toward her,
she shut off the light and jumped back. The prints lay on the ground between them
like a dozen stray windows into a glossier world. He had the feeling that if he
stepped on one he might fall into it--fall into that bathtub full of radiant blood. He
could almost see the glare of the flash shining from the time-frozen surface. Even in
black and white, it had a reddish tint.
тАЬCome on, you said a trade. LetтАЩs have your dozen.тАЭ
She didnтАЩt move. He could tell she was measuring him, reading his character
in a way heтАЩd never experienced before, eating him up with the dark sunken pits in
her face. He made a grab for his flashlight, wanting superstitiously to shine a beam
into those hollows and fill them in with eyes.
She backed away, being small enough that an edge of crypt shadow neatly
swallowed half of her. Another stupid move and the rest would disappear. Without
the light he felt more helpless than if sheтАЩd taken his gun. He held his ground,
stooping to gather his prints.