"Paul Levinson - Loose Ends (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Levinson Paul)

of what must have been a hospital room. Fumes of formaldehyde
hung in his nostrils and made him gag. "I see you're awake, Dr.
Harris," a lazy Texas accent jarred him. "You ran into a rack
of luggage at the airport and sustained a moderate concussion,
but you're going to be just fine."
Jeff leaned up on an elbow to get a look at the nurse.
"Where am I?"
"Dallas General Hospital. We'll need to run a few tests on
you, and if everything's all right you'll probably be able to
leave in the morning."
"I..." Jeff fell back on the pillow and tried to breathe
slowly. He felt cold and clammy and slightly in shock. He took
several deep breaths, and tried to focus more clearly on the
nurse. Her eyes looked red and puffy. Outside his room he heard
what sounded like a radio or holocenter blaring in the corridor
-- a tumult of loud talking and wailing. "What's going on out
there?"
Nurse K. Arthur burst into tears, and Jeff got a sudden
feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew exactly what the
ruckus was about.
"They killed the President," she sobbed. "I really
shouldn't disturb you with this. They rushed him to Parkland
Memorial, but he was too far gone." She heaved with tears. "He
was so young, so beautiful. Why would anyone want to _do_
something like that?"
Jeff reached out to comfort her. "Ow!" Pain cut through
his back like a stiletto.
"Here, let me help you." Arthur leaned over and gently
eased Jeff back into bed. "You probably wrenched a muscle or
two." She puffed up the pillow and smiled. "There. I'll tell
the doctor you're up and I'm sure he'll look in on you a little
later." Her smiled suddenly wavered and tears welled up again in
her eyes. "They wounded Vice President Johnson and killed
Governor Connally. They say it was one of those Communists.
What's going to happen to the country now?"
"I don't know," Jeff barely answered, too tired to tell her
that although her information was wrong, her sense of impending
catastrophe was all too on-target.
He slept fitfully the rest of the day, pestered and
punctured by a procession of interns and orderlies bent on
waking him up, taking his temperature, and telling him he needed
more sleep. He asked for a TV or radio at least five times and
got nothing. The phone by his bed was broken. He couldn't tell
whether the morgue-like atmosphere was standard or a consequence
of the assassination. The assassination -- every time he
thought of it, he felt like retching. A leaden, queasy
thickness of despair seemed to hang over everything.
He fell asleep at last into something deeper that let him
dream. He watched a team of 19th century surgeons, long hair and
whiskers and bitter-sweet alcohol smell in the room, work over