"Dan Simmons - Joe Kurtz 03 - Hard As Nails" - читать интересную книгу автора (Simmons Dan)

"Mr. Kurtz? Mr. Kurtz?"
Kurtz awoke with the same blurred vision, same nausea, but different pain. It was
worse. Some fool was pulling his eyelids back and shining a light in his eyes.
"Mr. Kurtz?" The face making the sound was brown, male, middle-aged and
mild-looking behind black-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a white coat. "I'm Dr.
Singh, Mr. Kurtz. I dealt with your injuries in the ER and just came from surgery on
your friend."
Kurtz got the face into focus. He wanted to say "What friend?" but it wasn't
worth trying to speak yet. Not yet.
"You were struck in the right side of your head by a bullet, Mr. Kurtz, but it did
not penetrate your skull," said Singh in his mild, singsong voice that sounded like
three chainsaws roaring to Kurtz.
Superman, thought Kurtz. Fucking bullets bounce right off.
"Why?" he said.
"What, Mr. Kurtz?"
 Kurtz had to close his eyes at the thought of speaking again. Forcing himself to
articulate, he said, "WhyтАж didn'tтАж bulletтАж penetrate?"
Singh nodded his understanding. "It was a small caliber bullet, Mr. Kurtz. A
twenty-two. Before it struck you, it had passed through the upper arm ofтАж of the
person with youтАж and ricocheted off the concrete pillar behind you. It was
considerably flattened and much of its kinetic energy had been expended. Still, if you
had been turning your head to the right rather than to the left when it struck you, we
would be extracting it from your brain as we speakтАФprobably during an autopsy."
All in all, thought Kurtz, more information than he had needed at the moment.
"As it is," continued Singh, the soft singsong voice sawing away through Kurtz's
skull, "you have a moderate-to-severe concussion and a subcranial hematoma that
does not require trepanning at this time, your left eye will not dilate, blood has
drained down beneath your eyes and the whites of your eyes are very
bloodshotтАФbut that is not important. We'll assess motor skills and secondary
effects in the morning."
"WhoтАж" began Kurtz. He wasn't even sure what he was going to ask. Who shot
me? Who was with me? Who's going to pay for this?
"The police are here, Mr. Kurtz," interrupted Dr. Singh.
"It's the reason we haven't administered any painkiller since you regained
consciousness. They need to talk to you."
Kurtz didn't turn his head to look, but when the doctor moved aside he could see
the two detectives, plainclothes, one male, one female, one black, one white. Kurtz
didn't know the black male. He had once been in love with the white female.
The black detective, dressed nattily in tweed, vest, and school tie, stepped closer.
"Joseph Kurtz, I'm Detective Paul Kemper. My partner and I are investigating the
shooting of you and Parole Officer Margaret O'TooleтАж" began the man in an almost
avuncular resonant voice.
On, shit, thought Kurtz. He closed his eyes and remembered O'Toole opening a
door for him.
"тАж can be used against you in a court of law," the man was saying. "If you
cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand your
rights as I've just explained them to you?"
Kurtz said something through the pain.