"Alan Dean Foster - Impossible Places" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

Spitting out rain, he worked his way to the back of the boat and took control of the tiller. The dugout
swung around, pounded back upstream. There was a boiling in the water that did not arise from a
submerged stone. The blood had drawn piranhas, as Carlos had known it would.
He circled the spot until the river relaxed. There was nothing to be seen. It was quiet save for the
yammer of the engine and the ceaseless rain. He tossed the little pistol into the deep water, then headed
for shore. When he was within easy swimming distance he rocked the boat until it overturned, then let it
go. From shore he watched it splinter against the first rocks. Exhilarated, he turned and started into the
jungle, heading back the way he’d come.
Almost, he had been surprised. Almost. Now it was finished. Nina was his, and he Nina’s. Max was a
harmless memory in the bellies of many fish. Carlos thought of the hot, smooth body awaiting him, and of
the money, more than he’d ever dreamed of having. Both now his to play with. Together they would flee
this horrible place, take a boat across the border into Bolivia, thence fly to Santiago. He harbored no
regrets over what he had done. To gain Paradise a man must be willing to make concessions.
She was waiting for him, tense, sitting on the couch in the greeting room of the little lodge. Her eyes
implored him as she rose.
He grinned, a drenched wolf entering its den. “It’s over. Done.”
She came to him, still unable to believe. “The truth now, beloved. There was no trouble?”
“The ape is dead. Nothing remains but bones, and the river will grind them between its rocks. By the
time the Madre de Dios merges with the Inambari there will be nothing left of him. We will speak of it as
we planned; that the boat hit a rock and went over. I swam to shore, I waited; he did not surface. There
is nothing for anyone to question. Everything is ours!” He swept her into his arms and fastened his mouth
to hers. She responded ferociously.
They were alone in the lodge, the buildings empty around them, thunder echoing their passion as she
led him toward the back building. There she flung back the thin blanket and put a knee onto the bed, her
eyes beckoning, her breasts visible behind the neck of her thin blouse. He leaned forward, only to pause
with a grimace.
“Dirty, as always.” He bent and began brushing at the sheets. She nodded and did likewise. Only
when the last of the brown, curly hairs had been swept to the floor did he join with her in the middle.
They spent all that night there and all the following morning. Then he crossed the river and paid one of
the Indians to carry downstream the message announcing the unfortunate death of Max Ventura.
They ate, and made a pretext of tidying the lodge lest the swollen river carry any unannounced tourists
to their doorstep. Then they showered, soaping each other, luxuriating in their freedom and the
cleanliness of one another, and walked out through the rain toward the back building.
Once again Carlos was first to the bedside, and once again he was compelled to hesitate. “I thought
we cleaned out the last of him yesterday.” He indicated the sheets.
Nina too saw the curving brown hairs, then shrugged and swept them onto the floor with a hand.
“There was always hair everywhere from him. Not just in the bed. In my own hair, in the clothes, on the
furniture, everywhere. It was disgusting.”
“I know. No more of that.” He brushed hard until he was sure his own side was spotless, then joined
her.
No police came the next day, or the next. It would take three or four days by motorized dugout to
reach Maldonado, a day again to come upstream to the lodge. Carlos wasn’t worried. The jungle was
dangerous, the river unforgiving, and he, Carlos, had been made foreman of this place. Why would he kill
his beloved employer? Indeed, hadn’t he risked his own life to try to save him, battling the dangerous
current and threatening whirlpools before exhaustion had forced him to shore? It was a sad time. Nina
cried manfully for the Indians who came to offer their sympathies, while Carlos hid his smile.
In the bed that night they found the hair again.
“I don’t understand.” She was uncertain as she regarded the sheets. “I swept and dusted the whole
building. We brushed these out.”
Clearly she was in no mood for lovemaking. Not while memories of him still lingered in this place and