"Justin Stanchfield - Bone Lake" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stanchfield Justin)

Mick Saurbeir pulled off the blacktop and parked his Taurus next to a dented flatbed, a bored heeler
dog laying on it, watching him, head rested on his paws, ears flicking as Mick stepped past. He twisted at
the waist, loosening his stiff back as he studied the little town. Gas station, post office, a tavern on either
side of the highway that served as the townтАЩs single street. He reached back into his car for his scuffed
briefcase, leaning across the seat. The car needed washing. So did he. Mick straightened, not bothering
to lock the door, and walked toward the nearest bar, the screen-door creaking as he stepped inside.

A painfully thin woman behind the bar turned away from the television hung above the shelves of half-full
bottles, and limped toward him. A boozy kid, no more than twenty, the only other person in the room,
barely glanced his way, his eyes not half as bright as the dog outside. The woman leaned her elbows on
the linoleum covered bar and smiled.

"What can I get you?"

"Coke, thanks." Mick fished a wrinkled twenty out of his wallet. She came back from the cooler and set
the familiar red and black can in front of him, beads of condensation sweating on the silk smooth
container.

"Need a glass?"

"No. This is fine." He took a long drink, the too-sweet pop tickling his nose, draining half the can in the
first swallow. He wanted a beer, wanted it desperately. These were the hard times, the lonely days when
just the thought of that first cold rush pouring down his throat sang in his blood, humming him back to the
blur he had wasted too many years inside. He took another sip of Coke, resigned that he would never
again dare sample anything stronger. He was tired. More tired than he wanted to admit, the years and the
miles taking their toll. Slowly, he set the briefcase on the stool beside him and opened it. A notebook and
a micro-recorder sat beside an envelope full of photographs. He slipped one of the photos out, a High
School picture of a pretty, brown-haired girl, and laid it in front of the bartender. "Ever seen this
woman?"

The bartender turned the picture around and studied it, frowning slightly, tapping her left hand against the
bar, the cheap silver ring on her finger clicking softly. Mick thought he saw a glimmer of recognition and
pushed his luck a bit further. "Her name is Jennifer Mitchell, but she might be going by Jenny Hale."

The woman stared at Mick from under her thin, plucked eyebrows, suspicious. The boozy kid at the
other end of the bar slid down and looked over MickтАЩs shoulder, his breath reeking. He stared at the
picture, his head wobbling.

"You a cop or something?"

"IтАЩm an investigator." Mick pushed the picture closer to the kid. "Her parents hired me to find her. She
left Salt Lake City last February, and they havenтАЩt heard from her since."

"Salt Lake?" The kid glanced at the can of Coca-cola, a look of disgust washing over his face. "You a
God damned Mormon?"

Mick laughed. "Nope. Just thirsty. Do you know her?"

"Looks a little like that Janey who took up with Timmy Garr. What do you think, Vick?"