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

 If she were awake.
If she were alive.
He closed his eyes, swayed again. Water. He was probably dehydrated. He
crossed the road, went back to his car, put on the flashers so that they
wouldn't miss him (he was being careless about too many details; a warning
sign. He knew it, but he wasn't going to stop), and then reached into his
briefcase, made a small map pointing the way to that road. He didn't trust
anything to fate, not this time. Not with Sarah at stake.
A truck roared by, spattering him with dust and gravel. Exhaust fumes
floated past him, adding to his dizziness. He reached across the back seat,
grabbed the bottle of water he'd hardly touched on the drive, worked the cap
off with his good hand, and drank. The water was warm, but it tasted
wonderful, better than water ever had before. He made himself drink all of it,
and as he did, his gaze fell on one of JoAnn's scarves, crumpled under the
seat.
He let out a little sigh. It would help, that scarf. It wasn't as good
as a gun, but it was something. A sign maybe.
Then he smiled at himself. He used to be too rational to believe in
signs. Jackson Ross never believed in signs. But then, Jackson Ross would have
already been blundering up the hill, gun out, ready to take down an army
one-handed -- and doing it, through ingenuity and sheer balls.
Sobel managed to pry the scarf free, its silk edge feeling fragile
beneath his fingertips. But silk was a strong fiber, right? He seemed to
remember that from his reading. Silk was one of those miracle fibers.
He hoped.
With his teeth and his good hand, he managed to tie a knot in the
scarf. Then he struggled to get it over his head. That was harder than he'd
imagined -- the little jolts of pain making him gasp. Once the sling was one,
sliding his arm into place was even more difficult. At one point, he had to
lean against the car and force himself to breathe evenly to keep from passing
out.
Once it was done, though, he felt an odd relief. His shoulder wasn't
supporting the dead weight any more. Now his back and neck were. And his arm
felt halfway decent in this position. Maybe he would make it after all.
He turned, looked at the road, the oil trail. Visions of _Deliverance_
-- the movie, not the book (he was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that he
hadn't read the book) -- rose in his mind. But he was going to go.
She was just a little girl.
He looked both ways, crossed, patted his right jeans pocket, felt the
weight of the cell phone. He didn't remember putting it inside, but it was
there, bobbing against his thigh. His security. His link to the outside world.
Maybe if he just waited a moment longer, he'd get back up. He'd get
help.
But he knew how far it was from any town. The county was wide and long,
with only a few state police cars -- usually divided between Highways 101 and
18, trying to catch speeders on the dangerous narrow roads. It would take a
long time for someone to come for him.
Too long.
He staggered across the road, then straightened. He had to be able to
walk. He had to be able to _fight_. He had to be able to defend himself and