"K. D. Wentworth - Tis The Season" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wentworth K D)

"I got a live one here, maroon Chevrolet van, license number Ida Harry William
one five five. It has that fish-thing on the bumper and a bunch of boxes in the
back under a tarp."

Static crackled. "Computer says it's clean," the dispatcher said after a moment.
"But you watch your butt, Al. We've had sporadic reports of caroling north of
Greenwood and most of the units in your area are tied up."

"Roger, will do." I clicked off with a sigh, then swung my unit across the
median and switched on my flashers. The two skirts looked up and their faces
broke into relieved smiles. Neither of them wore a coat, although the
temperature had been steadily dropping all day. The younger of the two, a
creamy-skinned brunette with legs that just wouldn't quit, raised her arms over
her head and waved. "Over here, officer!"

The air was damn cold as I crossed the median, one hand on my gun, just in case
they wasn't the innocents they appeared to be. My breath turned to white fog and
I started shivering. "What's the problem here, ladies?"

The brunette pouted. I noticed she had a dimple in her chin. She couldn't have
been more than seventeen. "The engine died, I think. At least it won't go and
we're not out of gas." She gestured at the raised hood. "Would you take a look?
My dad's gonna kill me if I don't get home in time to do my algebra homework."

I pushed my hat back and fought to keep my teeth from chattering. "S-sure
thing." I edged along the van as the traffic whizzed past inches away and eyed
the boxes crammed into the back of the van. A bit of goldfringed white fabric
hung out of one. It looked familiar, I thought, kind of like a fancy tablecloth
my morn used to have, or maybe -- an altarcloth?

I kept my cool as I reached the front of the van. "Did you try --" I turned back
just in time to see this mondo crucifix descend toward my skull. I ducked, but
not fast enough, then a galaxy of lights, all different colors, exploded behind
my eyes.

"You didn't hit him hard enough," a tinny female voice complained from far off,
Africa maybe, or Mars. "He's still breathing."

"We want him to breathe, stupid," another female answered. "How else is Father
Lennie gonna baptize him?"

Alarm seeped through my fogged head. I considered opening my eyes, but couldn't
seem to find them. My mouth tasted like the weed-choked bottom of one of them
government-protected wetlands.

"He could just give him last rites instead."
"What good would that do?" asked the second voice, which had a huskier, more
contralto quality. "An altar boy is supposed to receive all seven sacraments.
Well, at least six, I guess, if he's gonna get into Heaven. I guess he don't
need to get married, if he takes holy orders."