"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Courting Rites" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

grandfather. The banjo looks like a normal banjo, but when you touch it, it feels
warm—elastic, as if a live thing were stretched across the drum instead of dried skin.
It will not play for you. In fact, it will not play for anyone except the person who
owns it.”
I scrawled notes, pleased that I also had the tape running inside my desk. I
couldn’t decide if this man was a nutcase or not. He seemed rational, but then, so
did Ted Bundy. “So what happened to it?”
I expected him to shake his head. Instead, his entire expression softened. “It’s
a bit of a story,” he said. “I fell in love.” He took a picture out of his wallet and slid
it across the desk. A professionally done job: black windblown hair, wide painted
eyes, and a glossy mouth. A beauty.
“Her name is Mariah Golden. She lived at Fifth and Fremont. I had occasion
to visit next door. We struck up an acquaintance, and eventually, she convinced me
to stay with her. A week later, I awoke one morning to discover that she and the
banjo had disappeared.”
“Not kidnapped? No ransom?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “And the police say they can’t do anything.”
“I suppose not.” I tapped my pencil on the desk, then quit when I
remembered the tape recorder. “I take a $500 retainer, and charge $25 per hour, plus
expenses.”
He took the money—cash—from his wallet, and set it between us. “I’m
staying in her house, waiting for her. You can reach me there.”
I nodded, knowing I should have asked a dozen more questions, but deciding
that I would rather wait until later. Until I had investigated a bit on my own.
He got up, straightened his pants legs, and nodded once.
“Tell me,” I said. “What is the importance of this banjo?”
He walked to the door, as if he hadn’t heard me, then paused. When he
turned, he watched me for a moment, as if he were assessing me. Finally, he said,
“I’ll die without it,” and then let himself out of the room.
No chemicals bleached the Nevada sky. The sun was pure here, hot and
radiant. The highway looked like a sharp heat vision against the desert brown. Even
my new car, with its fancy air-conditioning system and loud-playing stereo, faded a
little in the heat.
I came out here once a day to view the vast emptiness. The desert reminded
me of life—little patches of growth fighting against an overwhelming army of death.
Death and I were constant companions. In LA, it was part of my job—always a
gunshot away. And here, here my finger rested on the trigger.
I pulled to the side of the road, and shut off the car. Whirling dirt surrounded
me—not a dust storm— just dust devils, playing with my mind. The way that man
had, Silas, the one who wanted the banjo.
He probably wanted the woman, too.
I got out, stretched, and sucked in the dry air. The desert consoled me. It was
the only place where I could admit my unhappiness. I had run away to this small
Nevada town. I had left LA not because of those thousand other detectives, but
because I got to the point where I imagined Death beside me.
It happened late one afternoon, in an alleyway near Graumann’s Chinese. I
had cornered a young pimp who wouldn’t let me take a fourteen-year-old girl— the
one it had taken me nearly a month to find— because, he said, she was his best
“lady.” He was mouthing off to me when I pulled out my pistol. The gun didn’t
make him quit—maybe he thought a lady wouldn’t use one—so I let a shot ricochet