"Salem Falls" - читать интересную книгу автора (Picoult Jodie)ACKNOWLEDGMENTSIf I could cast a spell, like some of my protagonists in this novel, it would be one to acquire unlimited knowledge. After all, a novelist is only as good as her experts when it comes to learning about fields that are unknown to her. For this reason, I’d like to thank the following people: my doctors and psychiatric personnel-on-call, David Toub, MD; Jim Umlas, MD; Tia Horner, MD; Marybeth Durkin, MD; and Jan Scheiner; Betty Martin, for all toxicological information; Detective-Lieutenant Frank Moran, for police procedure following a sexual assault; Chris Farina, who took me behind the scenes at a diner; and Lisa Schiermeier, the DNA scientist who managed to teach a science-challenged gal like me genetics. Thanks to Aidan Curran for the egg pickup line; to Steve Ives for all things baseball and a keen editorial eye; to Diana and Duncan Watson for the BLT scene; to Teresa Farina for transcription under fire; and to Hal Friend for a virtual tour of the Lower East Side. I am indebted to the works of Starhawk and Scott Cunningham, from which I began to understand the Wiccan religion. Kiki Keating helped shape the beginnings of the judiciary plot here; Chris Keating provided the most incredibly prompt legal answers for the book that grew out of it; and Jennifer Sternick did such a fantastic job helping me craft the trial that I may never let her go as a legal consultant. Thanks to Laura Gross, Camille McDuffie, and Jane Picoult for their contributions in shaping and selling this novel. My sincere gratitude to JoAnn Mapson, whose private chapter-by-chapter workshop sessions made me believe in this book and turned it into something better than I even imagined. And last, but not least, I’d like to sing the praises of Kip Hakala and Emily Bestler at Pocket Books. If every author had the unflagging support and devotion of an editorial duo like these two, publishing would be a wonderful world indeed. Several miles into his journey, Jack St. Bride decided to give up his former life. He made this choice as he walked aimlessly along Route 10, huddling against the cold. He had dressed this morning in a pair of khaki pants, a white shirt with a nick in the collar, stiff dress shoes, a smooth-skinned belt-clothing he’d last worn 5,760 hours ago, clothing that had fit him last August. This morning, his blue blazer was oversized and the waistband of his trousers hung loose. It had taken Jack a moment to realize it wasn’t weight he’d lost during these eight months but pride. He wished he had a winter coat, but you wore out of jail the same outfit you’d worn in. What he did have was the forty-three dollars that had been in his wallet on the hot afternoon he was incarcerated, a ring of keys that opened doors to places where Jack no longer was welcome, and a piece of gum. Other inmates who were released from jail had family to pick them up. Or they arranged for transportation. But Jack had no one waiting for him, and he hadn’t thought about getting a ride. When the door closed behind him, a jaw being snapped shut, he had simply started walking. The snow seeped into his dress shoes, and passing trucks splattered his trousers with slush and mud. A taxi pulled onto the side of the road and the driver unrolled the window, but Jack kept struggling forward, certain that the cab had stopped for someone else. “Car trouble?” the driver called out. Jack looked, but there was no one behind him. “Just walking.” “Pretty miserable weather for that,” the man replied, and Jack stared. He could count on one hand the number of casual conversations he’d had in the past year. It had been better, easier, to keep to himself. “Where you headed?” The truth was, he had no idea. There were countless problems he hadn’t considered, most of them practical: What would he do for work? For transportation? Where would he live? He didn’t want to return to Loyal, New Hampshire, not even to pick up his belongings. What good was the evidence of a career he no longer had, of a person he would never be? The cabdriver frowned. “Look, buddy,” he said, “why don’t you just get in?” Jack nodded and stood there, waiting. But there was no bright buzz, no click of the latch. And then he remembered that in the outside world, no one had to unlock a door before he entered. |
||
|