"Van Lustbader, Eric - Dark Homecoming(eng)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Van Lustbader Eric)

DARK HOMECOMING
ERIC LUSTBADER
POCKET BOOKS New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY
Copyright (c) 1997 by Eric Van Lustbader
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lustbader, Eric.
Dark homecoming / Eric Lustbader p. cm. ISBN 0-671-00329-1 I. Title.
PS3562.U752D
'.54-dc21 96-
CIP
First Pocket Books hardcover printing July
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

This is for Two Women:
My Wife, Victoria
and Claire Zion
Both of whom shared this book with me in the most intimate ways.

Printed in the U.S.A.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The following medical personnel were extraordinarily helpful and patient:
Dr. Bertram J. Newman
Dr. Michael Baden, Chief Forensic Expert, NY State Police
Diane, Ken, Kimberly, Marilyn and Cynthia at the Dialysis Dept, Boca Raton Community Hospital
Candy Wilson, Transplant Coordinator, Palm Beach, Martin,
St. Lucie Counties, South Florida Miami Organ Recovery Program, University of Miami
All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come; thither they return again.
-Ecclesiastes 1:7
The Human body was designed to walk, run or stop; it wasn't built for coasting.
-Cullen Hightower
DARK HOMECOMING
PROLOGUE
"Last night I had a dream," Heitor Bonita said, "and this is what I dreamed-"
"Madre de mentiras, I beg you. Don't tell me your dreams," Antonio Bonita said. "I already know your dreams."
"This one's different," Heitor replied. "You don't know this one."
There ensued a small but ungainly pause while "Mope-itty Mope" by the Boss-Tones doo-wopped out of the speakers. Music of these old American groups from the 1950s was Heitor's idea. Antonio would have preferred Machito's hyper-hot Afro-Cubano jazz, but it seemed the kids who hung out in Miami's South Beach weren't very hip to Latino roots, and didn't much care to be. Their loss. But even Antonio had to admit it was the Boneyard's gain.
Ever since they'd opened this club, it had been packed. Antonio had been skeptical when he'd first heard the idea, but it had seemed so off-the-wall that Heitor had glommed on to it right away. Not that they were directly involved; like always, they were far removed from official ownership. Deep in the shadows where nobody could see, they raked in the money. From the first moment they had set foot on American soil, they had made certain that all of their business dealings-from their main chemical and ore mining company to a fistful of import-export holding companies to their fledgling entertainment venture, which indirectly owned the Boneyard as well as other clubs throughout Florida and the Southeast-were strictly legitimate. Unlike in Latin America, where graft and wholesale corruption were among the main moneymakers of old-line family businesses and governments alike. These men were comfortable with politicians and bureaucrats. They knew their way around governments because they were able to sniff out the tiniest whiff of corruption and turn it to their own ends.
"I don't want to hear the dream." Looking around, Antonio could see that P. T. Barnum had vastly underestimated his market potential. There's ten thousand suckers born every minute. "I have an evil feeling about it."
When they looked at each other, it was like staring in the mirror. They both thought, simultaneously: There is my brother, but there is also me. That was because Heitor and Antonio were identical twins, even down to the extraordinary amber color of their eyes.
Heitor said: "An evil feeling, is it?" His face took on the aspect of a hungry fox nosing its way into a henhouse.
Tall and lean as serpents, they were handsome men, in their own way. Their hair, thick and curling, was tawny as copper, and the planes of their faces were sculpted hard over ridged bone. This attribute and many others they inherited from their mother. But another, mystic side to them they gained from someone outside their family circle. This was manifested in their auras, which were powerful and magnetic in the manner of a black widow. There was a remarkable stillness about them, the curled and damped energy one observes in liquid mercury. They were predators who did not have to move much in order to get what they wanted.
When "Hong Kong Jelly Wong" by the Royaltones came on, Heitor said, "This dream is important, and evil or not, it must be spoken of." He and his brother were dressed in shades of gray that most approximated the inside of an oyster shell: short-sleeved shirts, tight trousers from the 1960s, thin-soled Keds without socks. Both of them despised socks.
Antonio said nothing, knowing in his heart this moment would come.
Heitor said, "I dreamed I was a very devout Jew. And as this Jew I woke from a dream as if I was just born. Understand me, this dream was more like a holy vision." His arms, thrown wide, described a circle. "The holy vision told me that the Messiah was coming on Sunday. Good news, is it? The evil news was it was Super Bowl Sunday."
For a moment, the twins stared at each other. Then, as one, they exploded into laughter. The extraordinary thing was that even in such an unguarded moment, they seemed like mirror images. And, in truth, on the surface there was virtually nothing to differentiate them, save perhaps one liked doo-wop and the other liked Cu-bop.
"I spoke to the Weimaraner today." Heitor meant Senator Weiman.
"I told you not to do that," Antonio said. "It's too soon."