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

S6minaire. A remnant of the vast holdings of the Catholic Church, Le
Grand S6minaire occupies a large tract of land in the heart of Montreal.
Centre-ville. Downtown. My neighborhood. The small, urban citadel
endures as an island of green in a sea of high-rise cement, and stands
as mute testimony to a once-powerful institution. Stone walls, complete
with watchtowers, surround somber gray castles, carefully tended lawns,
and open spaces gone wild. In the glory days of the church, families
sent their sons here by the thousands to train for the priesthood. Some
still come, but their numbers are few. The larger buildings are now
rented out and house schools and institutions more secular in mission
where the Internet and fax machine replace Scripture and theological
discourse as the working paradigm. Perhaps it's a good metaphor for
modern society. We're too absorbed in communicating among ourselves to
worry about an almighty architect.

I stopped on a small street opposite the seminary grounds and looked
east along Sherbrooke, toward the portion of the property now leased by
Le Collge de Montr6al. Nothing unusual. I dropped an elbow out the
window and peered in the opposite direction. The hot, dusty metal seared
the skin on my inner arm, and I retracted it quickly, like a crab poked
with a stick. There they were. juxtaposed incongruously against a
medieval stone tower, I could see a blue-and-white patrol unit with
POLICECOMMUNAUTT URBAINE DE MONTRTAL written on its side. It blocked the
western entrance to the compound. A gray Hydro-Quebec truck was parked
just ahead of it, ladders and equipment protruding like appendages to a
space station. Near the truck a uniformed officer stood talking with two
men in work clothes.

I turned left and slid into the westbound traffic on Sherbrooke,
relieved to see no reporters. In Montreal an encounter with the press
can be a double ordeal, since the media turn out in both French and
English. I am not particularly gracious when badgered in one language.
Under dual assault I can become downright surly. Lamanche was right. I'd
come to these grounds the previous summer. I recalled the case-bones
unearthed during the repair of a water main. Church property. Old
cemetery. Coffin burials. Call the archaeologist. Case closed.
Hopefully, this report would read the same. As I maneuvered my Mazda
ahead of the truck and parked, the three men stopped talking and looked
in my direction. When I got out of the car the officer paused, as if
thinking it over, then moved toward me. He was not smiling. At 4:15 P.M.
it was probably past the end of his shift and he didn't want to be
there. Well, neither did 1.

"You'll have to move on, madame. You may not park here." As he spoke he
gestured with his hand, shooing me in the direction in which I was to
depart. I could picture him clearing flies from potato salad with the
same movement.

"I'm Dr. Brennan," I said, slamming the Mazda door. "Laboratoire de
M6decine 1,6gale."