"Kim Newman - Castle In The Desert-Anno Dracula 1977" - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)

studios—Traeger or Mill or one of those kids, maybe Bruckheimer—fed this Khorda some money on an
option, but it was never-never stuff. So far as I know, they never killed anyone before."

Junior cried again and put his arms around me. I smelled chlorine on his ragged shirt. I felt all
his weight bearing me down, and was afraid I'd break, be no use to him at all. My bones are
brittle these days. I patted his back, which made neither of us feel any better. At last, he let
me go and wiped his face on a wet handkerchief.

"The police are fine people," he said. He got no argument from me. "Poodle Springs has the lowest
crime rate in the state. Every contact I've had with the PSPD has been cordial, and I've always
been impressed with their efficiency and courtesy."

The Poodle Springs Police Department were real tigers when it came to finding lost kittens and
discreetly removing drunken ex-spouses from floodlit front lawns. You can trust me on this.

"But they aren't good with murder," I said. "Or vipers."

Junior nodded. "That's just it. They aren't. I know you're retired. God, you must be I don't know
how old. But you used to be connected. Linda told me how you met, about the Wade-Lennox case. I
can't even begin to imagine how you could've figured out that tangle. For her, you've got to help.
Racquel is still alive. They didn't kill her when they killed her mother. They just took her. I
want my little girl back safe and sound. The police don't know Racquel. Well, they do … and that's
the problem. They said they were taking the kidnap seriously, but I saw in their eyes that they
knew about Racquel and the bikers and the hippies. They think she's run off with another bunch of
freaks. It's only my word that Racquel was even at the house. I keep thinking of my little girl,
of sands running out. Desert sands. You've got to help us. You've just got to."

I didn't make promises, but I asked questions.

"Racquel said the ALE wanted to sacrifice her? As in tossed into a volcano to appease the Gods?"

"She used a bunch of words. 'Elevate' was one. They all meant 'kill.' Blood sacrifice, that's what
she was afraid of. Those vipers want my little girl's blood."

"Junior, I have to ask, so don't explode. You're sure Racquel isn't a part of this?"

Junior made fists, like a big boy about to get whipped by someone half his size. Then it got
through to the back of his brain. I wasn't making assumptions like the PSPD, I was asking an
important question, forcing him to prove himself to me.

"If you'd heard her on the phone, you'd know. She was terrified. Remember when she wanted to be an
actress? Set her heart on it, nagged for lessons and screen tests. She was—what?—eleven or twelve?
Cute as a bug, but froze under the lights. She's no actress. She can't fake anything. She can't
tell a lie without it being written all over her. You know that as well as anyone else. My
daughter isn't a perfect person, but she's a kid. She'll straighten out. She's got her Mom's iron
in her."

I followed his reasoning. It made sense. The only person Racquel had ever fooled was her father,
and him only because he let himself be fooled out of guilt. She'd never have come to me for gas
money if Junior were still giving in to his princess's every whim. And he was right— I'd seen