"Kate Wilhelm - And the Angels Sing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilhelm Kate)

that was leaving a trail of water with every step. He backed off the Navajo rug and out to the
kitchen to put the wet coat on a chair, let it drip on the linoleum. He grabbed a handful of paper
toweling and wiped his glasses, then returned to the bedroom.

He reached down to remove the kid's raincoat and jerked his hand away again.

"Jesus Christ!" he whispered, and backed away from her. He heard himself saying it again, and then
again, and stopped. He had backed up to the wall, was pressed hard against it. Even from there he
could see her clearly. Her face was smooth, without eyebrows, without eyelashes, her nose too
small, her lips too narrow, hardly lips at all. What he had thought was a coat was part of her. It
started on her head, where hair should have been, down the sides of her head where ears should
have been, down her narrow shoulders, the backs of her arms that seemed too long and thin, almost
boneless.

She was on her side, one long leg stretched out, the other doubled up under her. Where there
should have been genitalia, there was too much skin, folds of skin.

Eddie felt his stomach spasm, a shudder passed over him. Before, he had wanted to shake her, wake
her up, ask questions; now he thought that if she opened her eyes, he might pass out. And he was
shivering with cold. Moving very cautiously, making no noise, he edged his way around the room to
the door, then out, back to the kitchen where he pulled a bottle of bourbon from a cabinet and
poured half a glass that he drank as fast as he could. He stared at his hand. It was shaking.

Very quietly he took off his shoes, sodden, and placed them at the back door next to his
waterproof boots that he invariably forgot to wear. As soundlessly as possible he crept to the
bedroom door and looked at her again. She had moved under, was now drawn up in a huddle, as if she
was as cold as he was. He took a deep breath and began to inch around the wall of the room toward
the closet where he pulled out his slippers with one foot, and eased them on, and then tugged on a
blanket on a shelf. He had to let his breath out then; it sounded explosive to his ears. The girl
shuddered and made herself into a tighter ball. He moved toward her slowly, ready to turn and run,
and finally was close enough to lay the blanket over her. She was shivering hard.

He backed away from her again and this time went to the living room, leaving the door open so that
he could see her, just in case. He turned up the thermostat, retrieved his drink from the kitchen,
and again and again went to the door to peer inside.

He should call the state police, he knew, and made no motion toward the phone. A doctor? He nearly
laughed. He wished he had a camera. If they took her away, and they would, there would be nothing
to show, nothing to prove she had existed. He thought of her picture on the front page of the -
North Coast News-, and snorted. -The National Enquirer-? This time he muttered a curse. But she
was news. She certainly was news.

Mary Beth, he decided. He had to call someone with a camera, someone who could write a decent
story. He dialed Mary Beth's number, got her answering machine and hung up, dialed it again. At
the fifth call her voice came on.

"Who the hell is this, and do you know that it's three in the fucking morning?"

"Eddie Delacort. Mary Beth, get up, get over here, my place, and bring your camera."