"Martha Wells - Bad Medicine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wells Martha)

Bad Medicine
by Martha Wells




Mac was taking his morning constitutional on the path that led sideways up the mountain. The morning air
was cold and clear, and the path's sudden turns took him out onto ledges where the pines dropped
abruptly away, and the view of the town cupped in the little valley below made him stop a moment to
admire it.

Coming around one of those abrupt turns, he saw a hiker standing at one of the natural vantages, looking
down at Silverpan in all its quiet 6:00 am glory. Tourists were the town's mainstay, and though it was too
early in the year for snow and the influx of skiers, it was still a place for those who liked hiking, camping
and fishing. Mac was irritated at the interruption to his morning solitude, but prepared himself to be
neighborly if he had to. This might be one of the guests at the hotel.

Coming up the path, Mac saw that the hiker was facing away from him. The sun hadn't quite reached this
part of the mountain and the ledge was still cloaked in predawn shadow, so it was difficult to make out
anything else. The hiker didn't turn around at the approach of the big elderly black man, who was making
no effort to be quiet.

Mac stopped a few feet behind him, not wanting to startle him, and said, "Good morning."

The hiker turned and Mac saw his eyes. They were twin coals of white fire in empty sockets, unearthly,
impossible, and glowing with a cold heat. Mac froze, caught by surprise and utterly vulnerable.

Then the last edge of the sun topped the peak on the other side of the valley, and yellow dawn light
washed the ledge, dissolving the hiker in its radiance.

Mac stood there a moment, considering the empty ledge, the smudged imprint of hiking boots in the dirt
and pine needles. Then he shook his head in disgust and said to himself, "I can tell right now this is gonna
be a hell of a day."

***

That afternoon Mac stepped out onto the kitchen porch of the Thundershield Lodge for fresh air, and
saw the boy sitting on the stack of damp firewood, barefoot and shivering. His first impulse was to ask
why the hell Charlie Jimenez' boy wasn't in school and did his mother know he'd lost his shoes? But he
saw this boy was too old to be the Jimenez boy, though he was skinny enough and spare to pass for a
twelve year old. And it was not nearly cool enough, even in the shadow of the peak whose rocky slope
came almost down to the wide wooden porch, for a native of Silverpan to be shivering. Mac said, "You
came here to see somebody, son?" The boy's head jerked in surprise. He hadn't heard the screen door
squeak open. His big eyes were frightened and wary and brave all at the same time. He was Hispanic,
maybe fourteen, dark hair a little long, jeans and sweater dusty and ragged. He said, "I need help." "Do
you?" Mac answered. In these days, you had to watch out for vandals and thieves and serial killers and
sociopathic children with guns, besides the other dangers you had always had to watch out for. He was
also wondering if the boy was a runaway and only wanted a handout. The hotel didn't throw leavings out
the back door as if people were stray dogs, but served them in a civilized fashion in the Church pantry on
Main Street. He said, "Who told you to come here?"