"Kevin O'Donnel Jr. - The Journeys of McGill Feighan 01 - Caverns" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Jr Kevin)

cheeks, the second sound came in: the offkey clang of a discarded bronze.
Tobbins. Tobbins was here, on this street. Going for the gold himself.
"I'm a Searcher," he babbled, "I hear the bell, it's right in that house there,
I've got to get in quickтАФ"
Disbelieving scowls washed across the patrolmen's faces; the nearer took
a menacing step towards him. "Gedover here," he snarled.
He glanced over his shoulder. Yes. It had to be that house. He couldn't let
Tobbins do him out of it, he couldn't let the cops delay him; damn the risks,
the frazzled reflexesтАФ
*PING*
He was pressed against the plate-glass picture window, peeping through a
crack in the draperies, hearing the cops shout, "HEY!" while their racing feet
scuffed concrete and grass.
*PING*
Stubbing his toe on the mahogany coffee table, groping through the
shadows for the staircase because the bell was upstairs, and a pounding
rattled the front door, and a sleepy angry voice from above said, "Who the
hellтАФ"
But the mutter gave him the direction and he was rushing up the stairs on
all fours and the cops were bellowing a siren split the distance a hoarse,
befuddled woman said, "Pat, shome-body's in the housh!"
"We'll see about thatтАФ"
"No, don't, shtay!"
"тАФsomebody breaks into my house, break his damn neck, besides the
boy's alone, could be anotherтАФ"
"Be careful!"
Scrambling across the green-carpeted landing; three doors, all ajar, all
dark within; voices there; this, a push, a John dammit; that one! Swing it
open, stagger through it, kid on a bed. A kid who didn't move, who didn't
even turn his head at the intrusion.
When Schwedeker went to him, stood above him looking, the boy's eyes
grew. And grew. The bell's echoes shivered down into silence. It was a
warm, loving silence, and it embraced Schwedeker like a long-lost brother.
Peace, he thought, protection.
He dropped to his knees by the side of the bed, dropped to his knees and
raised his hands high, so the furious father, bursting into the room, throwing
on the light, would see that he was no threat.
The kid had black hair and brown eyes. His skin was soft; his cheeks
were pinched. Under the blanket, his five-year-old arms and legs were
sticks. He did not speak, except with his eyes.
 The father, huge and grossly fat, grabbed Schwedeker's collar. The coat
flew off; the tunic spattered rainbows on the cowboy-covered wallpaper.
"What the hell?"
"I'm a Flinger," he said, rising, turning, but keeping his hands above his
head, palms open. "Jose Schwedeker, retired. Your son's a Flinger, too. I've
just rung his changes. He's the strongest I've ever met." A thundering crash
from the first floor made him wince. "The cops," he explained. "They just
kicked in your front door. Don't worry about it, though. I'll buy you a new
one." Relief was on him; he couldn't help but laugh. "Two new doors." The
laughs dipped deeper and deeper into his belly. His knees gave way,