Odnośniki
- Indeks
- Billionaire Boys Club 2 Beauty and the Billionaire Jessica Clare
- James Patterson Alex Cross 09 The Big Bad Wolf
- Alex Archer Rogue Angel 03 The Sp
- Alex Joe PiekĹo jest we mnie
- Alex Kava ZabĂłjczy wirus
- An Irresistible Bachelor Jessica Bird
- Hart Jessica Maz na urodziny
- Lyn Hamilton [Archeological Mystery 01] The Xibalba Murders (v1.0) [lit]
- Felix, Net i Nika Tom 13 KlÄ twa Domu McKillianĂłw
- 2007 02. Randka w walentynki 3. Kelly Leslie Czyste Rozkosze
- zanotowane.pl
- doc.pisz.pl
- pdf.pisz.pl
- shakyor.htw.pl
won t be back till late tonight or tomorrow, so I ll let you hear it now. See you later.
After a series of bells and whistles a man s voice came over the speaker. It sounded sort of defeated. Sonny? This is Bob Reynolds, Plymouth Police.
Don t ever even mention anything Irish to me again. The travel agent went and told Mrs. McKinney I was asking about them and they called my chief. He
called me in and reamed me a new one. It seems he s good friends with them. The chief and his wife went on that Wales tour and also on the London tour.
Apparently everybody on the tour knew they were taking the ferry from Wales to Ireland, because Mrs. McKinney s grandmother was going to be ninety or
a hundred, and there was some big family reunion with relatives from all over.
There was a slight pause, more static, throat-clearing. I had the distinct feeling that Officer Reynolds would like to cry. Well, sorry, Bob, that s the kind of
day it s been. The tape rolled on.
The chief and his wife went on the London tour with Mrs. McKinney a couple of years later, and she left early because she got a wire that her
grandmother had upped and died on them. So she went to the funeral in Ireland. Sonny, they are upright citizens. They never even heard about the IRA.
They wouldn t know a criminal if they saw one. They have never loaned their boat to no one, much less to carry guns. The chief told me if I saw them
driving down the street with a cannon tied to the back of their car, I was to assume they were going to a Fourth of July celebration, even if it was February.
And I will be working the midnight to eight a.m. shift for the rest of my life.
I heard a brief burst of Sonny s laughter, a click, then silence. I had to smile, even as my heart went out to the poor man. All his troubles for nothing! I
didn t need the tape to tell me the great IRA caper had been a fantasy with its outline cleverly sketched by Janet, and the colors all foolishly filled in by the
rest of us.
I thought of calling Mitch, but there was no point in bothering him. He would call whenever something happened.
And when would that be? And what would it be? Tired as I was, I still felt edgy. I wanted this situation resolved, and there was not one single thing I could
do to make that happen. I don t deal well in that position. Unfortunately for my peace of mind and sometimes for the outcome of events, I am of the do-
something-even-if-it swrong school. But even I couldn t think of anything to do tonight.
The house was dead quiet. It seemed strangely empty. I had been getting used to having Janet around, or about to be around, or on the phone. I
guessed I d better get un-used to it. The old C&W song . . . alone again . . . naturally.
I thought back to the afternoon. Had Janet taken my car keys by intent or accident? She would have taken the cigarettes and lighter from the
dashboard, then locked the car and automatically have put the keys in her pocket for the walk back to our spot on the beach. She probably merely forgot
to return them, just as I forgot to ask for them. Then, when she panicked at the thought of police and lawyers, she simply had them, ready to use.
I wondered where Janet was on this cold, unwelcoming night. Still driving, hastening through the darkness, fearing every set of headlights that
appeared behind her? Holed up somewhere in a motel for the night, waiting for the heavy knock upon the door? In jail, wondering if she would ever be
free? In a hospital, hurt and alone? Wrapped around a tree in the fatal steel embrace of my car? None of my scenarios were happy ones.
And I can tell you that it is a very difficult exercise in mental calisthenics suddenly to categorize your lover as quite possibly a killer, a murderer. You think
of butterfly kisses and soft caresses. You see warm laughter playing around the lips and in the eyes. You remember shared showers and fast, hard hugs.
You recall the silly banter and the serious conversations. You recollect again and again how she said she loved you and you believe that but you also
wonder how she would have felt about you if you d owned a liquor store in Plymouth.
The phone rang and I jumped about a foot. It was Mitch. Janet had apparently beaten the roadblocks at the bridges. No car matching mine had tried to
cross. There was no report of anyone seeing my car anywhere along Route Six. They were now checking secondary roads. A multi-state alarm was now
out for the car, he informed me. Great. I had visions of what shape it would be in when if I ever got it back.
Continuing his update, Mitch added that Sonny had called. He was in Stamford, Connecticut and gathering some interesting information, but would go
into details upon his return tomorrow. He was sorry about my car and about Janet, of course. Of course. Looking back, I thought Sonny had been
suspicious of her for a while now. I realized that I had been, too, but my suspicions had floated just below the surface of my conscious thought. I d been too
busy teetering along the edge of love to let them come into my waking thoughts.
Naively, I had insisted on pursuing the gun-running possibility because that s what I had wanted to believe. I wished to God I had listened to my brain
instead of my hormones. Do some people actually do that?
I had another drink and a TV mystery dinner while I watched a nice impersonal account of the Mexican War of the 1840s on The History Channel. I
actually became interested in how many future Civil War generals had learned their trade as junior officers in that conflict. Then I must have dozed, for
when I opened my eyes, German Messerschmidts were diving across the sky, and I didn t think they had been around in the 19th century. It must be time
for bed.
So I let the dog out, and right back in. Fargo will happily swim in 38-degree water, but the first drop of rain sends him scurrying for his bed. We retired
shortly. I was sapped and stiff and depressed. Then and there I resolved to cut the smoking all together, drink only spring water and eat nothing but plain
yogurt and crabgrass for the rest of my life. My performance that afternoon had been pitiful.
Surprisingly, I fell fast asleep on those happy thoughts and slumbered late and soundly until Fargo woke me the next morning with a rather desperate
look in his eye. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]