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

crepe soled shoes, kept his pockets empty so nothing jangled or swished.
Like a croc in a river he arrived and departed unannounced by auditory
cues. Some of the staff found it unnerving.

I packed a set of coveralls in a backpack with my rubber boots, hoping I
wouldn't need either, and grabbed my laptop, briefcase, and the
embroidered canteen cover that was serving as that season's purse. I was
still promising myself that I wouldn't be back until Monday, but another
voice in my head was intruding, insisting otherwise. When summer arrives
in Montreal it flounces in like a rumba dancer: all ruffles and bright
cotton, with flashing thighs and sweat-slicked skin. It is a ribald
celebration that begins in June and continues until September. The
season is embraced and relished. Life moves into the open. After the
long, bleak winter, outdoor cafes reappear, cyclists and Rollerbladers
compete for the bike paths, festivals follow quickly one after another
on the streets, and crowds turn the sidewalks into swirling patterns.
How different summer on the St. Lawrence is from summer in my home state
of North Carolina, where languid lounging on beach chairs, mountain
porches, or suburban decks marks the season, and the lines between
spring, summer, and fall are difficult to determine without a calendar.
This brash vernal rebirth, more than the bitterness of winter, had
surprised me my first year in the North, banishing the homesickness I'd
felt during the long, dark cold. These thoughts were drifting through my
mind as I drove under the Jacques-Cartier Bridge and turned west onto
Viger. I passed the Molson brewery, which sprawled along the river to my
left, then the round tower of the Radio-Canada Building, and thought of
the people trapped inside: occupants of industrial apiaries who
undoubtedly craved release as much as I did. I imagined them studying
the sunshine from behind glass rectangles, longing for boats and bikes
and sneakers, checking their watches, bitten by June.

I rolled down the window and reached for the radio. Gerry Boulet sang
"Les Yeux du Cceur." I translated automatically in my mind. I could
picture him, an intense man with dark eyes and a tangle of curls flying
around his head, passionate about his music, dead at forty-four.
Historic burials. Every forensic anthropologist handles these cases. Old
bones unearthed by dogs, construction workers, spring floods, grave
diggers. The coroner's office is the overseer of death in Quebec
Province. If you die inappropriately, not under the care of a physician,
not in bed, the coroner wants to know why. If your death threatens to
take others along, the coroner wants to know that. The coroner demands
an explanation of violent, unexpected, or untimely death, but persons
long gone are of little interest. While their passings may once have
cried out for justice, or heralded warning of an impending epidemic, the
voices have been still for too long. Their antiquity established, these
finds are turned over to the archaeologists. This promised to be such a
case. Please.

I zigzagged through the logjam of downtown traffic, arriving within
fifteen minutes at the address Lamanche had given me. Le Grand