"Gregory Maguire-Lost" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maguire Gregory)

"Do it," she said. The newcomer, an older man in a Red Sox cap faded to pink,
obliged. The window shattered, spraying glassy baby teeth. As she clawed for
the
recessed lock in the rear door, Winnie heard the mother begin to whimper. The
door creaked open and more metal scraped. Winnie lurched and sloped herself
in.
The child strapped into the booster seat was too large for it. Her legs were
thrown up in ungainly angles. "Maybe we can unlatch the whole contraption and
drag it out," said Winnie, mostly to herself; she knew her voice wouldn't
carry
in the wind. She leaned over the child in the car's dark interior, into a
hollow
against which pine branches bunched on three sides. She fumbled for the
buckle
of the seat belt beneath the molded plastic frame of the booster. Then she
gave
up and pulled out, and slammed the door.
"I'll get it," said Red Sox Fan, massing up.
"They said leave everybody where they were," said Cell Phone, "you could snap
a
spine and do permanent damage."
"No spine in her," said Winnie. "It's a life-size Raggedy Ann doll, a decoy."
The emergency services arrived, and Winnie, valuing her privacy, shrank back.
The fumes of the spilled gasoline followed her back to her car. She sat and
bit
a fingernail till she tore a cuticle, unwilling to talk to the police. To her
surprise, the traffic began crawling again within fifteen minutes. The police
never noticed that she was another illegal driver doing a solo run in the
carpool lane.
And then, despite her missed exit, the snarl-up, the downpour, the rush hour,
she wasn't late after all. Damn.
"Someone's been here before us," observed the older woman in the mulberry
windcheater, pocketing the keys. She flopped her hand against the inside wall
to
knock a light switch. The air was stale, almost stiff. A few translucent
panels
overhead blinked, and then steadied. Winnie noted: It's your standard-issue
meeting room. It proves the agency's fiscal prudence and general probity. A
few
tables with wood laminate, sticky with coffee rings. Fitted carpets of muddy
rose, muddier in the high-traffic zones. Folding chairs pushed out of their
congregational oval. As if whatever group that met here last night had
cleared
out with rude speed.
"Someone's been here, but not the cleaning crew," said the woman. "They don't
pay me for housekeeping. Oh, well, come in, and we'll set ourselves up by
ourselves." A veteran in the social work world, wearing one of those
grandmotherly rain hats like a pleated plastic freezer bag. She wriggled out
of
her jacket, which was a bit snug, and she smiled sourly. Her nylon sleeves