"Connie Willis - The Last of the Winnebagos" - читать интересную книгу автора (Willis Connie)

The Last of the
Winnebagos
by Connie Willis

On the way out to Tempe I saw a dead jackal in the road. I was in the
far left lane of Van Buren, ten lanes away from it, and its long legs were
facing away from me, the squarish muzzle flat against the pavement so it
looked narrower than it really was, and for a minute I thought it was a
dog.
I had not seen an animal in the road like that for fifteen years. They
can't get onto the divideds, of course, and most of the multiways are
fenced. And people are more careful of their animals.
The jackal was probably somebody's pet. This part of Phoenix was
mostly residential, and after all this time, people still think they can turn
the nasty, carrion-loving creatures into pets. Which was no reason to have
hit it and, worse, left it there. It's a felony to strike an animal and another
one to not report it, but whoever had hit it was long gone.
I pulled the Hitori over onto the center shoulder and sat there awhile,
staring at the empty multiway. I wondered who had hit it and whether
they had stopped to see if it was dead.
Katie had stopped. She had hit the brakes so hard she sent the jeep into
a skid that brought it up against the ditch, and jumped out of the jeep. I
was still running toward him, floundering in the snow. We made it to him
almost at the same time. I knelt beside him, the camera dangling from my
neck, its broken case hanging half open.
"I hit him," Katie had said. "I hit him with the jeep." I looked in the
rearview mirror. I couldn't even see over the pile of camera equipment in
the back seat with the eisenstadt balanced on top. I got out. I had come
nearly a mile, and looking back, I couldn't see the jackal, though I knew
now that's what it was.
"McCombe! David! Are you there yet?" Ramirez's voice said from inside
the car.
I leaned in. "No," I shouted in the general direction of the phone's mike.
"I'm still on the multiway."
"Mother of God, what's taking you so long? The governor's conference is
at twelve, and I want you to go out to Scottsdale and do a layout on the
closing of Taliesin West. The appointment's for ten. Listen, McCombe, I
got the poop on the Amblers for you. They bill themselves as 'One Hundred
Percent Authentic,' but they're not. Their RV isn't really a Winnebago, it's
an Open Road. It is the last RV on the road, though, according to Highway
Patrol. A man named Eldridge was touring with one, also not a
Winnebago, a Shasta, until March, but he lost his license in Oklahoma for
using a tanker lane, so this is it. Recreation vehicles are banned in all but
four states. Texas has legislation in committee, and Utah has a
full-divided bill coming up next month. Arizona will be next, so take lots of
pictures, Davey boy. This may be your last chance. And get some of the
zoo."
"What about the Amblers?" I said.
"Their name is Ambler, believe it or not. I ran a lifeline on them. He was
a welder. She was a bank teller. No kids. They've been doing this since