"Foster, Alan Dean - Alien Nation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

detective tensed. He'd popped the Newcomer pretty hard. But retaliation
wasn't what the cop had on his otherworldly mind. He ignored Sykes as he
moved past him to kneel beside the dead alien. Fingers groped Raincoat's
upper arm, hunting for a pulse. Sykes mumbled a desultory query.
"Nothing." The Newcomer's tone was emotionless. "He's quite dead."
Rising, he turned to see Sykes cradling the bruised fist he'd struck out
with. The detective took a step, stumbled. Instantly a massive arm went
around his upper body to support him. Concern entered the alien's voice.
"Your hand will require attention."
Sykes jerked himself free, stumbling a second time but angrily refusing
additional assistance. "Get the hell away from me! I don't need your
goddamn help!"
Obediently the alien released his grip. Sykes nearly lost his balance,
had to steady himself against the tunnel wall. He was a picture of
impotent rage and frustration. One alien dead was good. One still on the
loose was infuriating. His reactions to the Newcomer cop standing
stolidly nearby and gazing back at him with that slightly inquisitive
expression they always wore when trying to comprehend the vagaries of
human nature provoked feelings inside Sykes that lay somewhere in
between.
 III

The lights hanging from the ceiling of the minimart were supplemented by
the harsh glare of the coroner's floods. Had to make sure every inch of
every wound was properly illuminated for the cameras. Don't miss any
important details or you'll have the boys from Forensics all over you
before you can say "severe trauma to the skull." Movietime. Sykes had seen
enough contemporary coroner work to last him a lifetime. It was enough to
make you curse the invention of the camcorder. Stills were easier to look
at. But stills were never as thorough. Or as graphic.
They'd brought what was left of Bill Tuggle into the market for the usual
preliminary study, which considering the force of the blasts his body had
absorbed had taken plenty of time. Now they were loading the body bag
into the back of the meat wagon. Sykes stood and watched. There wasn't
anything else to do and he was already wondering if he'd be able to stand
going to Tug's funeral. Right now he was still numb enough to watch.
Hopefully, he was going to be very busy very soon.
The store and the street outside were crowded, packed with Los Angeles
Metropolitan Police Department blackand-whites, Forensics vehicles, and
cops trying to keep back a crowd of alien rubberneckers who'd gathered
to stare. Two of the cops working the crowd were Newcomers, like 27
 28

the one Sykes had floored. A few humans stood out in the mass of
onlookers. Everybody loves a catastrophe, the detective mused dully.
They were closing the doors on the wagon now. Not even a lumpy outline
left to stare at. Nine years. No ring, no flowers, but plenty of beer and
gags and good work and pleasant memories. A lot shared. Just the memories
left now. Oh yes, and something else. Some unfinished business he had to
attend to. He shuffled into the overlit store.