"Walter M. Miller - The Best of Walter M. Miller" - читать интересную книгу автора (Miller Walter M)

Brush whipped as he dove through the hedge. Cleo came to the window beside me, and began calling
after him.
Swearing softly, I tugged my trousers over my pajamas, slipped into shoes, and hurried downstairs to
give chase. But he had taken my flashlight.
Outside, beneath a dim, cloud-threatened moon, I stood at the hedge, staring out across the meadow
toward the woods. The night was full of crickets and rustlings in the grass. I saw no sign of him.
"Kenny!"

He answered me faintly from the distance. "Don't try to follow me, Dad. I'm going where they can
cure me."
I vaulted the fence and trotted across the meadow toward the woods. At the stone fence, I paused to
listenтАФbut there were only crickets. Maybe he'd seen me coming in the moonlight, and had headed back
toward the creek.
The brush was thick in places, and without a light, it was hard to find the paths. I tried watching for the
gleam of the flashlight through the trees, but saw nothing. He was keeping its use to a minimum. After ten
minutes of wandering, I found myself back at the fence, having taken a wrong turning somewhere. I heard
Cleo calling me from the house.
"Go call the police! They'll help find him!" I shouted to her.
 Then I went to resume the search. Remembering the snap, and the "X" by the fork in the creek, I
trotted along the edge of the pasture next to the woods until I came to a dry wash that I knew led back
to the creek. It was the long way around, but it was easy to follow the wash; and after a few minutes I
stumbled onto the bank of the narrow stream. Then I waded upstream toward the fork. After twenty
yards, I saw the flashlight's gleamтАФand heard the crunch of the shovel in moist ground. I moved as quietly
as I could. The crunching stopped.
Then I saw him. He had dropped the shovel and was tugging something out of the hole. I let him get it
out be-tore I called ...
"Kenny ..."
He froze, then came up very slowly to a crouch, ready to flee. He turned out the flashlight.
"Kenny, don't run away from me again. Stay there. I'm not angry."
No answer.
"Kenny!"
He called back then, with a quaver in his voice. "Stay where you are, DadтАФand let me finish. Then I'll
go with you. If you come any closer, I'll run." He flashed the light toward me, saw that I was a good
twenty yards away. "Stay there now ..."
"Then will you come back to the house?"
"I won't run, if you stay right there."
"Okay," I agreed, "but don't take long. Cleo's frantic."
He set the light on a rock, kept it aimed at me, and worked by its aura. The light blinded me, and I
could only guess what he might be doing. He pried something open, and then there was the sound of
writing on tin. Then he hammered something closed, replaced it in the hole, and began shoveling dirt over
it. Five minutes later, he was finished.
The light went out.
"Kenny ... ?"
"I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't want to lie . . . I had to."

I heard him slipping quickly away through the brushтАФback toward the pasture. I hurried to the fork
and climbed up out of the knee-deep water, pausing to strike a match.
Something gleamed in the grass; I picked it up. Cleo's kitchen clock, always a few minutes slow.
What had he wanted with the clock?
By the time I tore through the brush and found the path, there was no sound to, indicate which way he