"Reichs, Kathy - Temperance Brennan 01 - Deja Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichs Kathy)

about seven-thirty. Think of someplace new. I feel like something
exotic." Though it could be risky with Gabby, that was our usual
routine. She knew the city much better than 1, so the choice of
restaurant usually fell to her.

"Okay. A plus tard."

"A plus tard," I responded. I was surprised and a bit relieved. Normally
she'd stay on the phone forever. I often had to manufacture excuses to
escape. The telephone has always been a lifeline for Gabby and me. I
associate her with the phone as I do no one else. This pattern was set
early in our friendship. Our graduate student conversations were a
strange relief from the melancholy that enveloped me in those years. My
daughter Katy finally fed, bathed, and in her crib, Gabby and I would
log hours on the line, sharing the excitement of a newly discovered
book, discussing our classes, professors, fellow students, and nothing
in particular. It was the only frivolity we allowed ourselves in a
nonfrivolous time in our lives. Though we talk less frequently now, the
pattern has altered little in the decades since. Together or apart, we
are there for each other's highs and lows. It was Gabby who talked me
through the AA days, when need for a drink colored my waking hours and
brought me to at night, trembling and sweating. It is me whom Gabby
dials, exhilarated and hopeful when love enters her life, lonely and
despairing when, once again, it leaves. When the coffee was ready I took
it to the glass table in the dining room. Memories of Gabby were
replaying in my mind. I always smiled when I thought of her. Gabby in
grad seminar. Gabby at the Pit. Gabby at the dig, red kerchief askew,
hennaed dreadlocks swinging as she scraped the dirt with her trowel. At
six foot one she understood early that she'd never be a conventional
beauty. She didn't try to become thin or tan. She didn't shave her legs
or armpits. Gabby was Gabby. Gabrielle MacAulay from Trois-Rivi6res,
Quebec. French mother, English father. We'd been close in grad school.
She'd hated physical anthropology, suffered through the courses I loved.
I felt the same about her ethnology seminars. When we left Northwestern
I'd gone to North Carolina and she'd returned to Quebec. We'd seen
little of each other over the years, but the phone had kept us close. It
was largely because of Gabby that I'd been offered a visiting
professorship at McGill in 1990. During that year I'd begun working at
the lab part time, and had continued the arrangement after returning to
North Carolina, commuting North every six weeks as the caseload
dictated. This year I had taken a leave of absence from UNC-Charlotte,
and was in Montreal full time. I'd missed being with Gabby, and was
enjoying the renewal of our friendship. The flashing light on the
answering machine caught my eye. There must've been a call before Gabby.
I had it set to answer after four rings unless the tape had already been
triggered. Then it would pick up after one. Wondering how I could've
slept through four rings and an entire message, I went over and pressed
the button. The tape rewound, engaged, and played. Silence, then a
click. A short beep followed, then Gabby's voice. It was only a hang-up.
Good. I hit rewind and went to dress for work. The medico-legal lab is