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

weekday afternoon? Whatever happened to compassion? When did people start
disapproving of a man on his hand and knees, injured on the side of the road?
He managed to push himself up and head toward the car. It looked as
wounded as he felt, leaning awkwardly on its shot-out tires. The doors were
closed, although he remembered leaving his open, and there was no trace of
Sarah inside.
His stomach churned. Why would they take her? Had they followed him
from Portland? He'd spent the night after taking JoAnn to the airport, done a
bit of research at Powell's, and left Sarah with a close friend who often
babysat for them. He didn't notice anyone following him after he picked Sarah
up. When they had lunch, he saw nothing out of the ordinary in the restaurant,
although he wasn't sure how he would have noticed. Coping with a
three-year-old who was determined to get pie first took most of his energies.
This didn't seem random. And that scared him more than anything.
He reached the car. It felt like safety, but safety was elusive. He'd
always known that, but not viscerally, not like now. He peered inside, saw the
stuffed dog he'd bought Sarah days ago, felt his heart twist. How she looked
at him. How she trusted him.
God knew what they were doing with her. Doing to her.
And why.
His briefcase was still in the back. He pulled open the back driver's
side door, reached in, felt his left arm sway, prayed it wouldn't hit
anything. Fingers brushed against the edge, but he was getting used to the
pain. Or maybe he was numb. Blessedly numb.
As long as he held onto his mind.
He opened the briefcase, saw his laptop, his business papers, his extra
credit card. And his cell phone. His pager. How strange. They should have
taken everything, shot out the hands-free phone, the ignition, made sure he
was stranded.
But they hadn't.
He picked up the cell, speed-dialed 911, identified himself as the man
who had called before. He probably should have just spoken to the hand-held.
He wondered if the men had even bothered to cut the connection.
"Stay there, sir," the dispatch said. "The county sheriff and an
ambulance will be there momentarily."
How, he wondered, when they didn't know where there was? He supposed it
didn't matter. The highway was the only way through the Van Duzer Corridor.
They probably figured they'd stumble on him soon enough.
"They took Sarah." His voice sounded thick and muzzy to his own ears.
"Are you injured, sir?" Apparently the dispatch had picked up on that.
Maybe he sounded worse that he thought.
"Broken arm, I think. But Sarah -- "
"Sarah is?"
"My daughter. Nearly. I'm adopting her. I just got the papers." Not
relevant. He usually was relevant when he spoke. _Focus. Focus_.
"How old is she?"
"Three."
He spun around, realizing that the dispatch was keeping him talking
until the help arrived. His brain was working slowly, but it was working. He
stared at the tire tracks on the gravel, at the road. No other cars had