"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Heroics" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

fortune to buy a wedding dress so secret that he couldn't even be in the same
city with her, and she had left Sarah with him.
For safekeeping.
He closed his eyes against the thought, and the swaying grew worse. His
stomach flipped over -- nausea, unfamiliar and unwelcome, adding to his
discomfort.
Cars stayed abandoned on this road for days. He had no idea if anyone
would think to run the plate, and if they did, he doubted they would think to
look for him down here. For all they knew, he was at home. The message on his
answering machine said it all:
_Yes, you've reached Max Sobel, and you should know that I never pick
up this phone unless I recognize the voice speaking into my machine. If I
don't recognize you, I won't call you back, no matter how many times you leave
a message. And claiming an emergency won't help. I learned long ago that an
unlisted number doesn't protect you from unwanted calls, but a well-screened
answering machine does. If you really need to reach me and you don't know me,
try it the old-fashioned way -- by mail._
He had used that message for years, and never regretted it until now.
The embankment. Sarah. He had to wrench his mind away from the other
tangents. And here he'd thought that injuries made the mind focus. Laser-beam
clarity, he had once said in one of his books. Not this never-ending
muzziness, the feeling that he was suddenly wrapped in cotton.
Whatever happened to adrenaline-soaked miracles? Shouldn't he be
running up the hill now, desperate to find Sarah?
He took a deep shuddery breath, and thought, _You can do it._ A mantra,
repeated over and over. _You can do it. You can do it. You can -- you_ will_
-- do it. They had Sarah, and God knew what they would do to her._
The embankment was wet too, the ground soft. He stuck his right foot
into the dirt experimentally, found that it gave easily. He could create his
own stairs. Water seeped into his leather shoes, but he didn't care. He had to
get up to the car. Once he was there, he would figure out what to do.
Right foot, left foot, right hand clawing the mud. The movements
slightly uncoordinated. He hadn't realized how much the use of his other arm
added to his balance. It bobbed against his side, a long aching morass that
sometimes became sharp and stabbing if the arm bounced too hard.
He made himself focus on the climb. Foot, hand, foot, pull. Foot, hand,
foot, pull. The soft mud between his fingers, the damp socks against his toes,
the sound of a car whooshing by above him.
He would make it by sheer will alone. Damn Jackson Ross. Damn his
imagination. Sobel might not be his most famous character, but he was strong.
He had to be.
Sarah was out there.
They had caught him off guard. Two cars, one following closely from
Grand Ronde, the other crossing the line in the Corridor, forcing him to
either drive off the road or hit the on-coming car. He'd been trapped by the
hill on one side, and the embankment on the other, the narrow road curving
ahead of him and behind. There was a small shoulder -- the only measure of
safety -- and he took it almost without thinking.
He'd locked the doors and speed-dialed the hands-free phone on the
dash, keeping the car running. They'd boxed him in, behind and in front,