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

sprawled him on the bare wood floor. "A hundred new ones, with what I
save in Occleftian fees. Oh, God, I've found it!"
And then the cops were there, their guns drawn, the barrels glued to
Schwedeker's light show. Behind them stood a third man, a gray man, with
hollow cheeks and pain-racked eyes. "Hello, Jose," he said over the blue
shoulders.
"Mort." He giggled. "Mort, I've change-rung a gold!"
"Uh-huh." He grimaced. "I heard."
"Somebody tell me what's going on here," demanded one cop. The other
seconded his motion with a brusque nod.
The father was dazed. Dropping onto the bed next to the boy, he looked
up, and choked out, "My sonтАФmy son's a Flinger. McGill. He's a Flinger!"
"So you are a Searcher," said the cop, nudging Schwedeker with the point
of his shoe.
Schwedeker grinned, for maybe the first time since he'd retired. "Was," he
told him. He got to his hands and knees and crawled to the foot of McGill's
bed. "I was a Searcher. Not any more. I don't need to. I'm a change-ringer,
now." As the cops left, he spread his coat on the floor and curled into it. "I'll
sleep here, okay?" he asked the father.
"Sure," said Feighan. Repeatedly, he tapped the heel of his palm above
his right ear, as though to knock dust off his brain. "Sure, it's a fine warm
spot and there's a soft quilt for your mattress. But McGillтАФ" Rising, he
walked to the window overlooking the front yard, and watched the
bantering patrolmen saunter back to their cruiser. Tobbins drifted after them
like a leaf caught in a tractor-trailer's slipstream. "But you're wasting your
time, you are. The boy's a paralytic, always has been. Five years and two
months old; hasn't moved a finger or made a sound sinceтАж" His hand
found a can of roasted peanuts in his bathrobe pocket. He shook a quarter of
the can into his mouth and chewed noisily. His jowls jiggled.
A grenade of sick disappointment burst in Schwedeker's belly. Paralyzed?
Mute? All those years of Searching, all the pain and loneliness and derision,
was it to end in this? Because the peace was there. The boy McGill was a
latent Flinger. The reward would be his, the protection would be his, but the
restтАФ the caring, the coaching, the camaraderieтАФhow could he possibly find
that with a child who was almost a vegetable?
What a lousy, rotten way to go outтАФnursemaid to a cabbage. Staring at
the floor, he cursed. A tear of self-pity trickled down his cheek.
"Whoozhis bum?" asked an intoxicated woman.
He lifted his eyes. StandingтАФleaningтАФin the doorway was a pale,
red-nosed woman in a dirty nylon nightgown. Her long black hair was
snarled and dead. She blinked and squinted at him. "Jose Schwedeker," he
said dully. "Flinger, retired. I've just rung your son's changes."
"Him?" An exaggerated expression of disbelief contorted her face as she
waved vaguely at McGill. She staggered, and caught the doorjamb for
support. "A Flingersh shomebody whoтАФ" She raised a finger and belched.
"Who can jump from plaish to plaish without moving, right?" Widening her
eyes, she gaped owlishly at Schwedeker. "Right?"
"That's right," he said, "butтАФ"
"Boy, thash a relief." She giggled; her eyelids inched shut.
"Pardon?" he asked after a few moments.