"Wilson, F Paul - adversary 3 - The Touch" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson F. Paul)

back home. He drove slowly, taking the short route through downtown Monroe,
where all the buildings clustered around the tiny harbor like anxious bathers
waiting for a signal from the lifeguard. He liked the solitude of a late night
drive through the shopping district. During the day the streets would be
stop-and-go all the way. But at this hour, especially now that all the
construction was done and he didn't have to dodge excavations or follow detour
signs, he could cruise, adjusting his speed so he could hit the lights just
right. A smooth ride, now that the trolley tracks had been covered with asphalt.
He pushed a cassette into the player and The Crows came on, singing "Oh, Gee."
He watched the clapboarded shop fronts slip by. He hadn't been in favor of the
downtown restoration at first when the Village CouncilЧwhy did Long Island towns
insist on calling themselves villages?Чhad decided to redo the harborfront in a
Nineteenth Century whaling motif. Never mind that any whaling in this vicinity
of the North Shore had been centered to the east in places like Oyster Bay and
Cold Spring Harbor, the village wanted a make-over. Passing the newly faced
seafood restaurants, clothing stores, and antique shops, Alan had to admit that
it looked good. The former lackluster hodgepodge of storefronts had taken on a
new, invigorated personality, fitting perfectly with the white-steepled First
Presbyterian Church and the brick-fronted town hall. Monroe was now something
more than just another of the larger towns along Long Island's "Preferred North
Shore."
The illusion almost worked. He could almost imagine Ishmael, harpoon on
shoulder, walking down to the harbor toward the PequodЕ passing the new Video
Shack.
Well, nothing was perfect.
A red light finally caught him and he pulled to a stop. As he waited, he watched
Clubfoot AnnieЧthe closest thing Monroe had to a shopping bag ladyЧhobble across
the street in front of him. Alan had no idea of her real name; neither, so far
as he knew, did anybody else. She was known to everyone simply as Clubfoot
Annie.
He was struck now, as he was whenever he saw her, by how a misshapen foot that
no one had bothered to correct on a child could shape the life of the adult.
People like Annie always managed to get to Alan, making him want to go back in
time and see to it that someone did the right thing. So simpleЕ some serial
casting on her infant equinovarus deformity would have straightened it out to
normal. Who would Annie be today if she'd grown up with a normal foot? Maybe
sheЧ
Something slammed against the right front door, jolting Alan, making him jump in
his seat. A ravaged caricature of a human face pressed against the passenger
door window.
"You!" the face said as it rolled back and forth against the glass. "You're the
one! Lemme in! Gotta talk t' ya!"
His hair and beard were long and knotted and as filthy as his clothes. The eyes
shone but gave no evidence of intelligence. Whatever mind he had must have been
pickled a long time ago. The man straightened up and pulled on the door handle,
but it was locked. He moved along the side of the car toward the hood. He looked
like a Bowery derelict. Alan could not remember ever seeing the likes of him in
Monroe.
He crossed in front of the car, pointing at Alan over the hood, all the while
babbling unintelligibly. Tense but secure, Alan waited until the bum was clear