"Kit Reed - Song of the Black Dog" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Kit)

Yeah, he thinks bitterly. Yeah, right.

There are a thousand people in the auditorium, city officials and guests, all in some variation on black tie,
velvet, opera-length pearls. The gentry have come out for this press conference—the unveiling of the
superdog. A thought flies across Bill's mind: If there is a dog. Shifting on his haunches, sweating for no
apparent reason, he thinks: What if I kidnap the thing? Down, boy. Focus. First in his class in
Communications Studies, but a tad bit A.D.D. No wonder he can't keep a job.

The woman who discovered and trained the black dog continues thoughtfully. "We're not certain exactly
which combination of pheromones alerts the black dog, but we do recognize his singular power. He can
rush into a burning building or dig his way into earthquake debris and go like an arrow to the victim most
in need."

Fine, Bill thinks, your basic Saint Bernard. It helps to picture him bounding over the snow with that keg
of rum and the pink tongue flapping. Pant pant pant. Hello, I am here to save you. He tries to laugh, but
his belly is jittering and when he tries to swallow, the spit won't go down. There is something terribly the
matter here, and nobody sees it but him.

"The black dog is unique," she says. "He has no interest in the quick or the dead."

Unaccountably, Siefert feels twin points of light, like paired lasers, fixed on him. The eyes—why can he
not see the eyes? It leaves him jittery and unsettled.

What the forensics officer says next will flatten him.

"His peculiar skill is like no other." Severe in black, with her own offbeat elegance, the tall, bony woman
creates a silence so profound that even the mayor gets nervous.

Then she says into the hush: "He can identify the dying."

The journalists mutter among themselves. From the orchestra seats far below comes a muffled cry.

"He has the uncanny ability to smell impending death." In case they still don't get it, she finishes: "The
black dog knows who's next to die."

Everything inside Siefert's head skids to a stop. He wants to silence the other journalists, stop them
breathing if he has to, so he can hear what comes next. He has to know! He leans forward with his mouth
open and his tongue out like a dog hanging out a car window, gulping the words like rushing air. If he
could, he would find a way to stop his heart to create the silence he needs to grasp her meaning. Stop the
pounding of his blood so he can hear.

"Understand," she says, "he can predict the exact moment."

The audience gasps.
The speaker smooths her varnished hair with a proud, confident smile. She is in the homestretch now.
Explain. Make the pitch. Walk away with an extra million in public funding. "This makes him particularly
useful in triage situations, like earthquake and building collapses, when the living and the dead are trapped
under tons of rubble, and for us there is no telling which is which. Of course we have instruments to
detect body mass as well as warmth and motion and the sound of breathing, but we have no time to