"Stephen Goldin - Herds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goldin Stephen)

About a mile away, a girl named Deborah Bauer woke up
from a nightmare, screaming.


CHAPTER II
This was not going to be a good day, John Maschen decided
as he drove up the coast to his office in the town of San Marcos.
To his right, the sky was beginning to turn from dark to light
blue as the sun had just begun to make its uphill climb over the
horizon; but it was still hidden from Maschen's view by the sea
cliffs that reared up on the eastern side of the road. In the west,
the stars had vanished into the fading blue velvet that was all
that remained of the night.

No day that starts with having to go to work at five-thirty
in the morning can be any good, Maschen continued. Most
particularly when there's a murder connected with it.
 He drove up to his office building feeling particularly scruffy.
Deputy Whitmore had called and told him it was urgent, and
Maschen hadn't even taken the time to shave. He hadn't wanted
to disturb his still-sleeping wife, and, in the darkness, had taken
the wrong uniform, the one he'd worn yesterday. It smelled as
though he'd played a full game of basketball in it. He'd taken
about fifteen seconds to run a brush through his partially
balding hair, but that had been his only concession to neatness.

No day that starts out like this, he reiterated, can be
anything but messed up.

His watch read five forty-eight as he walked through the door
to the Sheriff's Station. "All right, Tom, what's the story?"

Deputy Whitmore looked up as his boss came in. He was a
boyish-looking fellow, on the force for only half a year so far, and
his lack of seniority made him a natural for the post of night
dispatcher. His long blond hair was neat, his uniform pressed
and spotless. Maschen felt a temporary surge of hatred for
anyone who could look that immaculate at this hour, even
though he knew the feeling was unreasonable. It was part of
Whitmore's job to look efficient this early, and Maschen would
have had to bawl him out if he'd looked any different.

"There was a murder in a private cabin along the coast
halfway between here and Bellington," Whitmore said. "The
victim was Mrs. Wesley Stoneham."

Maschen's eyes widened. True to his expectations, the day had
already become immeasurably worse. And it wasn't even six
o'clock yet. He sighed. "Who's handling it?"