"picoult, jodi, mercy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Picoult Jodi)
"I shouldna have expected anything different," he muttered, talking to himself as he pulled on a pair of twill trousers and a pilled Shetland sweater. Once, when he'd been caretaker of Carrymuir, he'd seen the ghost of Mary Queen of Scots herself, sailing away from Loch Leven Castle dressed as a laddie, as she'd been
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when she escaped its prison hundreds of years before. It had left him with a queer feeling in his stomach and a beating in his head not unlike a hangover--sensations he felt right now.
Angus knew that although most people would dismiss him as someone in the throes of Alzheimer's, he was really a victim of collective memory. It was a sort of reincarnation, a resurrection of some other clan member's thoughts. He happened to be privy to whatever was plaguing Cameron MacDonald I. And tonight, Cameron Mac-Donald I was not pleased with the actions of Cameron MacDonald II.
"I dinna know what he can be thinking," Angus said, pulling slippers onto his feet, because they were the first footwear he could find in his bedroom. "Young Cam always has to be reminded about the way of things."
Angus, in fact, had been the one to convince Cam to return to Wheelock and become police chief after his father's death. Almost exactly eight years ago, Cameron had come to Scotland to tell Angus about Ian's accident. At the time, Angus had been seventy-four, caretaker at Carrymuir all his life, although his wife had died twelve years earlier and all his relatives were living in Massachusetts. Young Cameron, who was a bit of a wanderer, had volunteered to sit at Carrymuir for several years to spell Angus, but Ian's early death had altered the plans. Cam had taken Angus to the tavern for a wee dram, knowing that he, like everyone else, would take the loss of a clan chief hard. He spread his palms over the scarred wooden bar and told him of the ice, the tractor-trailer, the bend in the narrow road. He said this all in a monotone, because it wasn't quite real to him yet, and he mentioned, as the doctors had, that his father had felt no pain. When he was finished speaking, Angus looked up at him, his eyes bright and dry. "Aye, well," he said, "so I'll be stayin' here a wee bit longer."
To Angus's horror, Young Cam had wanted to trade. He'd stay at Carrymuir, he said, and Angus could go home and take over the clan. The thought had shaken Angus more than his nephew's death; you simply couldn't cross the lines of leadership like that.
Even now, Angus remembered the shine of Cam's brow and the set of his jaw as he fought his own birthright. It's no' a real title, he had said. There's nothing I can do as chief that ye canna do better.
Angus had shrugged, finished off his whiskey, and stared at the boy. He wondered if Cam realized that he had slipped into Angus's own Scots burr, not because of a familiarity with the pattern of speech in Carrymuir, but simply because it had been bred into him. "Duty is duty," Angus had said, "and a laird is a laird. And be there a clan or no', lad, ye canna doubt your own blood."
Of course, stubbornness had also been passed down over the generations of MacDonalds, so Angus had accepted a compromise. Cam returned to Wheelock, but so did Angus, and the lands and grand house at Carrymuir were left to the Scottish National Trust.
Every morning over his rainbow banquet of vitamins and heart medication Angus forced his mind back to Carrymuir, so that he would not wake up one morning and find that he could not remember it any longer. He pictured the strong stone house, the fireplace in the great hall, the sheep that spilled about the old crofters' huts like a current. He did not let himself dwell on the fact that Carrymuir, which had never been taken by Campbells or English or anyone else, was now overrun with tourists.
But he did not have time for that now. Angus pulled his bathrobe on over his clothes, and at just after three in the morning, began to walk in his slippers the mile from his small home to the Wheelock police station, where once again he would be his great-nephew's conscience.
INVESTIGATION REPORT
Wheelock Township Police Dept.
Case # 95-9050
STATE vs. MacDONALD, James Reid White male, age 36, D.O.B. 3/14/59. Place of birth: Boston MA Ht. 6'4", wt. 200 lbs. green eyes, auburn hair
CHARGES: Murder One
PLACE: Wheelock Inn, Main St., Wheelock MA
DATE:
MERCY
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September 19, 1995
Allie did at least a hundred things each day simply because of their effect on Cam. They bound him to her: she'd drop his shirts off at the cleaners without being asked, or lay out a bowl of cereal for him before she went to bed so it was there in the morning, or, as in the case of the tea, open herself to teasing just to guarantee an exchange of conversation. She made his life run so smoothly that he never had to wonder about those little details that plague everyone else--like turning the clocks back in the fall, or always having enough milk in the refrigerator, or keeping handy the right size batteries for whatever piece of electronic equipment he was fixing. She told herself this was something she wanted to do, a silent promise she'd made on her wedding day to the handsome, magnificent man standing beside her. If every day flowed seamlessly into the next for Cam, he'd never have reason to wonder, What if?
It never occurred to Allie that this was very similar to behav-
iorally drugging Cam. Or that every selfless errand she ran for her husband was another silken strand that wrapped him tight, like a spider trapping her prey with guilt. Or that Cam was strong enough, and sure enough, to break out of any hold or system Allie could ever create.
Then again, maybe this had occurred to her, and that was the reason she continued.
Sometimes, when Cam was working the midnight-to-eight shift, and Allie was lying in bed, she let her hands move restlessly over her own body. She pretended that Cam would notice something ridiculously simple--like the fact that all his socks were neatly paired and folded in his underwear drawer--and would turn to her with the same look on his face that Allie often gave to him. Allie, he'd say, his eyes burning with wonder and worship, have you done all this for me?
Cam had gone back to the station in the middle of the night to relieve Zandy, who was watching over Jamie MacDonald. When Allie heard the car pull into the driveway, she slid the egg from the bowl where it had been waiting to the sizzling pan. By the time Cam had kicked the dirt off his boots and hung his coat up in the mudroom, Allie was already slipping the egg onto a slice of toast.
She placed her hand on the back of his neck as he settled heavily at the kitchen table, rubbing his face with his hands. "Tired?" she asked.
Cam made an indistinguishable noise in the back of his throat. He picked up his fork just as Allie laid the steaming plate in front of him. His mouth watered at the sight of the hot food, but he carefully set the fork on the edge of the plate and turned back to Allie.
She was at the sink, scraping the frying pan. She had a thing about letting food sit in a frying pan, and was obsessive about scrubbing it clean the second it came off the stove. Her shoulders were tense with effort, but she was humming.
"Allie," he said, but she didn't hear him over the running water. "Allie!"
She turned around quickly, pressing up against the basin of the sink as if he'd scared the hell out of her instead of just raising his voice. "What's the matter with your egg?"
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"Nothing." Cam took a deep breath. "Allie," he said, "do you think he was right?"
Allie slid into the chair across from her husband. There was no question in her mind what he was asking. "Do you?"
Cam stared at her so forcefully Allie could feel his gaze. She covered her chest with her palms, picturing in a quick flash Cam's mouth drawing deep at her breast the night before. "I don't know," he admitted. "But my hands are tied. He killed a woman; we've got the body. He's got scratches on his face and Hugo found skin cells that match up under Maggie MacDonald's fingernails." He paused a moment, cocking his head. "If I was dying of cancer and in god-awful pain and I asked you to kill me, would you do it?"
Allie didn't hesitate. "Yes. But then I'd kill myself, too."
Cam's mouth fell open. "Because you'd murdered me?"
"No," Allie said. "Because you'd be dead."
71 If'vA. put her toothbrush down at the edge of the sink and stared L VJ. at the medicine cabinet one more time. She'd done it before at other people's houses--peeked inside--but this was a little different. This wasn't simple curiosity, but a burning desire to put together the pieces. And it seemed patently wrong to invade the privacy of a woman who had gone out of her way to give her employment and shelter all in one day.
Mia opened the mirrored door, watching her own image lengthen and swerve and then fall away to a neat array of glass shelves.
Tylenol, and iodine, and syrup of ipecac. Gauze pads and Band-Aids and Laura Ashley perfume. Ban deodorant, Brut aftershave. Kaopectate.
The only prescription medicine she recognized was a form of penicillin. Well, that, and the birth control pills. She had used the same kind at one point.
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