"Wilhelm,_Kate_-_Julian(1)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilhelm Kate)

She was right, Stella Johnson probably would be out all day, and on the next day, before eleven, she would check out and vanish again. On the way to the zoo he stopped at a supermarket and bought canned fruit, tuna fish, peanut butter and bread, lemonade mix, whatever else he could think of to last a few days. He knew where he could take Stella Johnson to a duck-hunting camp his father had used regularly. No one would be there this time of year. Rachel watched him with large frightened eyes, but she said nothing.
All afternoon they wandered about the zoo. It was very hot, and the park was crowded. Gradually he worked his way toward a concession stand he remembered from his childhood, and was relieved to see that it still had the same assortment of junk for sale.
"Look," he said, pointing to a board covered with tin badges. "I had a collection of them when I was a kid. Let's get one."
Rachel dragged back. She had been watchful and wary all afternoon, but had not questioned him, had not brought up Stella Johnson once. "I have a headache," she said now, tugging on his arm. "Let's go back and get some rest."
"In a minute." He made his way through the kids who pressed in on the stand. "One of those," he said, pointing to a Junior Detective Badge. Away from the crowd he carefully pinned it to the inside of his wallet while Rachel watched, tight-lipped.
She wanted to return to the motel, but he took her to dinner first, then walked her through the downtown area, pointing out places, stores, streets that held memories for him. It was nearly eleven when they got back to their room.
"What are you planning?" she asked then, standing at the door, pressed against it as if for support.
"I'll wait an hour, until no one's still wandering around, then I'm going up to her room and pretend I'm a local detective investigating an accident she might have witnessed. I'll ask her to go with me to file a report. I know where I can take her for a couple of days."
Rachel shook her head. "You'll go to prison for kidnapping. You might even be shot."
Julian didn't reply. He went to the bathroom to wash his face and hands, comb his hair.
"Julian, you haven't slept since we found her name in those books, two weeks ago. You're too tired to be able to think clearly. We can just follow her when she leaves the motel, see where she goes, and then take time to make real plans, not this cobbled-up scheme that will get you killed."
He lay on the bed, his hands under his head, and tried to find a flaw in his reasoning.
Rachel sat by him. "You know I love you. And you love me. We can have so much together. This has been the best year of our lives. Everything's ahead of us, just waiting. And you're risking it all. This obsession will ruin everything for us.
Julian wished she would shut up. "Tomorrow," he said, "you should check out and get a cab to the airport and fly home. You have nothing to do with this. If anyone questions you, say we had a fight and I left in the car."
She bit her lip, got up and wandered to the mirror, back to the side of the bed where she regarded him for a moment. Then she sighed. "I'm going to the coffee shop. I'll bring some back for both of us."
When she was gone he went to the mirror and looked at himself carefully. It was true, he had not slept much in the past two weeks, and it showed; his eyes were deeply hollowed, his face, always slightly thin, now looked emaciated. Curious how he had not even thought about feeling tired, or jumpy from not sleeping. The pounding surf kept him alert, wide awake, ready to spring. He checked his pocket again to make certain he had keys to Rachel's car, counted his money again, and studied the map again to make certain he remembered the road to the hunting camp. He opened the door when he heard Rachel kick it. She came in holding two paper cups covered with plastic lids.
"Yours is the one with the cross, sugared," she said.
He was grateful that she did not start another scene. He sipped the coffee, sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard.
"There's a party out by the pool," Rachel said. "You'd better wait until they break it up. There's no way you can avoid them."
He checked his watch. He would give them half an hour. Rachel finished her coffee and came to the bed.
"Can we just lie quietly together," she said, "until it's time?'
Julian drained his cup and put it down and she lay beside him. He held her comfortably, not very hard, and she put one hand on his chest, the way they slept every night. Neither spoke. Once he wanted to look at his watch again, but his arm was under her and she was relaxed. He decided not to make her move. He felt himself drifting and he jerked.
"It's only ten after twelve," she murmured. "Try to rest a few more minutes. You're so tired."
He never knew when he fell asleep, or that he was falling asleep. He dreamed that he was wide awake, waiting for the clock hands to move, watching them fixedly in order to catch the motion.
He woke up with a pounding headache; his mouth was lined with rank rat fur. He pushed himself away from the bed groggily, still fully dressed. Rachel was sitting near the window. The room was very bright even with the drapes closed.
"What time is it?" he demanded.
"One, a little after."
"You put something in the coffee? You did that to me!"
She nodded. "Some of the sleeping pills I got last summer. I had to do something. It was all I could think of." She looked and sounded miserable.
"Get out!" he croaked. "Get the hell out of here, out of my apartment, out of my life! Just clear all the way out!"
He yanked the telephone up and dialed Room 22. No one answered. He called the desk and asked if she had checked out; she had.
Rachel did not move until he was finished. Then she came toward him, one hand outstretched, and he felt his own hands clenching. She stopped.
"Can't we even talk about it?"
"Right now I'd like to kill you," he said savagely.
She shook her head hard and closed the space between them in one flash of motion. He slapped her, knocking her backward. She stumbled over a pillow on the floor, caught herself on the foot of the bed, and hung there, gasping. Julian turned and went into the bathroom. He was shaking so hard he thought he might be having a seizure. He stripped and turned on the shower and stood under it until his hands stopped twitching, and he was able to breathe normally. When he returned to the room, Rachel was gone, her suitcase, her jacket, books, everything of hers was gone.
* * * *
Julian waited for his guests, ignoring the nervousness of the others in the apartment. John was unable to stay in any one place more than a few seconds. He flitted like a butterfly trying to decide which flower in a garden was best for his needs. Kim kept looking at Julian, then quickly away, as if afraid his own uncertainty might infect Julian. Julian smiled at him. He alone in the room was not nervous, not uncertain.
Near the windows, Corinne was finishing annotating a manuscript. She brought it to Julian.
"I circled the statements you probably should refute," she said. "Like where they say you're copying Jesus. They have no understanding at all, and that will make people uneasy, and besides, it isn't true."
He nodded. He had read the article thoroughly and knew its every flaw. And he knew it did not really matter what they said; the fact that the article was scheduled for publication the first week in May was what was important.
Dolly Kearns was the photographer and Eric Mendel the writer, who showed up promptly at two. Dolly nodded in approval at the apartment. It was austere, with no ornamentation at all, except a white marble fountain with softly falling water. The fountain was simple, unadorned, four feet high. The only furniture in the room was a wooden bench with cushions, pillows on the floor, several lamps, and a large desk. Venetian blinds covered the windows.
The disciples bowed silently to the guests and filed out the door, leaving Julian, who was seated on the floor.
"Julian Grange?" Eric Mendel asked.
"Just Julian."
"Julian. You read the article? Is there anything you'd like to add, a statement maybe?"
Julian shook his head. "Many things will be printed about me, most of them untrue, some as true as the writer's understanding permits. It does not matter." He paid no attention to Dolly Kearns, who was moving about the room snapping pictures as he talked.
"It is true that you actually baptize people?"
"The act of baptism as a purification rite predates Christianity by thousands of years," Julian said. "It is so old that it fades into the oblivion of prehistory. It was revived in the time of Jesus as a symbol that is immediately understood by everyone who experiences it. Since then it has become perverted and has lost much of its meaning. It has become so closely associated with specific religious rites that it is no longer available to outsiders who do not share those particular beliefs."
"But you do baptize?"
Julian smiled. "You will print what you will. And people will read what they will. But I do have a statement, something you can add to your article. This spring I will show you a miracle."