"Sean McMullen - Walk to the full moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (McMullen Sean)

Scan McMullen

Walk to the Full Moon
MEAT WAS BOUGHT AT A high price by the Middle Pleistocene hominids of the Iberian Peninsula.
Large prey meant more meat, yet large prey was very dangerous. The pressure to hunt was
unrelenting, for the hominids were almost entirely carnivorous, but the people lived well because their
technology was the most advanced in the world.

It is unusual for a linguist to be called for in a murder investigation, especially an undergraduate
linguist. Had my Uncle Arturo not been in charge, and had I not been staying at his house at the time,
I would not have become involved at all. He told me little as he escorted me into the Puerto Real clinic
and took me to a meeting room.

On a monitor screen was a girl in a walled garden. Crouching in a comer, she had a fearful, hunted
look about her. I could see that she wore a blanket, that her skin was olive-brown, and that her
features were bold and heavy, but not unattractive. Somehow, it took a while for me to notice the most
remarkable thing about her: she had no forehead!

"Who -- I mean what is she?" I exclaimed.

"That's what a lot of people want to know," replied my uncle. "I think she is a feral girl with a deformed
head. She was found this morning, on a farm a few kilometers north of here."

"Has she said anything?" I asked, then added, "Can she talk?"

"Carlos, why do you think I called you? This is a clinic where the staff are quite good at dealing with
tourists who don't speak Spanish, but this girl's language stopped them cold."

"So she does speak?"

"She seems to use words, that is why you are here. Before you ask, she is locked in the walled
garden at the center of the clinic because she can't stand being indoors. We need to communicate
with her, but we also need discretion. Someone senior in the government is involved. DNA tests are
being done."

I was about to commence my third year at university, studying linguistics. Being continually short of
money, I would drive my wreck of a motor scooter down to Cádiz every summer, stay with my uncle,
rent a board and go windsurfing. By now I owed Uncle Arturo for three such holidays, and this was the
first favor he had asked in return. My mind worked quickly: love child of government minister, hit on
the head, abandoned in the mountains, DNA tests being done to establish the parents' identities.

"There are better linguists than I," I said.

"But I know I can trust you. For now we need total discretion."

I shrugged. "Okay, what do I do?"

"She must be hungry. When a blackbird landed in the garden she caught it and ate it. Raw."

I swallowed. She sounded dangerous.