"Edward Bryant - The Transfer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bryant Edward)

Because Jim knew many people through his work, we socialized quite a lot,
and our friends sometimes remarked that we looked so much like each other.

Jim would allow his easy Midwestern chuckle and make a joke about the
psychological studies of how so many human beings and their pets come to
resemble each other. Transference.
And who was who? he'd say. Everyone would laugh.
The storm is breaking.
And here we are at the Sleepaway Motel in Bishop, California.
I will open my eyes; I will.
Here we are in a forsaken desert town I've never seen before and hope I
never will again. Jim. Dorrie. And the new man in my life. I sound so flip
only because it keeps the hysteria at bay. I had enough of trying to
scream through the gag.
The heat lightning had flashed over the mountains as we checked in. One
more long day to San Diego. Our first vacation in years. The Wild Animal
Park on my birthdaythat was Jim's promise.
We checked into the motel, that damned motel, that motel of the damned,
and thenShut up, Dorrie! There is nothing left to do. Only one thing left
undone.

The knock.
Must be the manager, Jim had said. Probably didn't get a clear impression
on the credit card or something.
When he unlatched the door
Don't scream, Dorrie, don't.
it burst open, Jim flung aside, the nameless man with the gun, the pistol,
the metal dark and shining, the threat and the darkness.
It is our vacation. My birthday is in only a few days. These things don't
happen to people, not to normal people, good people.
Oh, but they do, Dorrie, the man said. I know your name. Your
husbandJim?said it before I took care of his tongue. Did you appreciate my
giving him the Demerol before I worked on his face?
Not to normal people, they don't. I'm not normal.
Oh, said the man, you look normal enough to me, as normal as any other
woman tied to the bed with her husband's two neckties, an Ace bandage, and
a roll of gauze. Taste in ties a little conservative, eh? I figure you'll
act normal enough when I get around to you. That's it. Keep your eyes
open.
I am bound tightly, my shoulders hard against the headboard, my limbs
stretched apart, my body open and vulnerable. I have no choice but to face
Jim. He is roped upright into the wooden chair at the foot of the bed.
The weather, Dorrie. My voice now is solely in my head. The storm is
breaking. The smooth contour swirls. The rain and the wind will come. If
only they would rush in and cleanse
Oh yes, Dorrie, says the man. I'm glad your husband was a doctor. Handy he
brought his bag along. Saved me no end of trouble. He holds tip the
disposable scalpel in one hand, the mask that Jim wore in the other. No.
No, Dorrie. It's not a mask at all.
The hemostats, the glittering clamps are set out on the bedspread. The