"Robert McCammon - Night Calls The Green Falcon" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCammon Robert R)

flashing in his face and a red matchbook clenched in his hand.
The police would come and ask their questions. An ambulance without
a siren would take JulieтАЩs corpse away, to a cold vault. Her picture would
be in the Times tomorrow, and the headline would identify her as the
Fliptop KillerтАЩs ninth victim. Her claim to fame, he thought, and almost
wept.
I saw him, he realised. I saw the Fliptop. I had hold of the bastard.
And there in his hand was the matchbook Julie had given him. The
bartender at the Grinderswitch might know the Fliptop. The bartender
might be the Fliptop. It was a vital clue, Cray thought, and if he gave it up
to the police it might be lost in shufflings of paper, envelopes and plastic
bags that went into what they called their evidence storage. The police
didnтАЩt care about Julie Saufley, and they hardly cared about the other
street victims, either. No, Julie was another statistic тАУ a тАШcrazyтАЩ, the cops
would say. The Fliptop Killer loved to kill тАШcraziesтАЩ.
Julie had given him a clue. Had, perhaps, fought to keep it with her
dying breath. And now what was he going to do with it?
He knew, without fully knowing. It was a thing of instincts, just as his
long-ago gymnastic training, track-and-field and boxing championships
were things of instincts. Inner things, that once learned and believed in
could never be fully lost.
He opened the closetтАЩs door.
A musty, mothball smell rolled out. And there it was, on its wooden
hanger amid the cheap shirts and trousers of an old dreamer.
It had once been emerald-green, but time had faded it to more of a
dusky olive. Bleach stains had mottled the flowing green cape, and Cray
had forgotten how that had happened. Still, heтАЩd been a good caretaker:
various rips had been patched over, the only really noticeable mar a
poorly-stitched tear across the left leg. The cowl, with its swept-back,
crisply winglike folds on either side of the head and its slits for the eyes,
was in almost perfect condition. The green boots were there on the floor,
both badly scuffed, and the green gloves were up on the shelf.
His Green Falcon costume had aged, just like its owner. The studio had
let him keep it, after he came out of the sanatorium in 1954. By then
serials were dying anyway, and of what use was a green suit with a long
cape and wings on the sides of its cowl? In the real world, there was no
room for Green Falcons.
He touched the material. It was lighter than it appeared, and it made a
secret тАУ and dangerous тАУ whispering noise. The Green Falcon had made
mincemeat out of a gallery of villains, roughnecks and killers, every
Saturday afternoon in the cathedrals of light and shadow all across
America. Why, then, could the Green Falcon not track down the Fliptop
Killer?
Because the Green Falcon is dead, Cray told himself. Forget it. Close the
door. Step back. Leave it to the police.
But he didnтАЩt close the door, nor did he step back. Because he knew,
deep at his centre, that the Green Falcon was not dead. Only sleeping, and
yearning to awaken.
He was losing his mind. He knew that clearly enough, as if somebody
had thrown ice water in his face and slapped him too. But he reached into