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

Surely this time, they would let him get away.

A hooker knocked on the window of his car. He thought he could smell the sweat
and perfume through the rolled-up glass. Her cleavage was mottled, her cheap
elastic top revealing the top edge of brown nipple.

He shook his head, then turned the ignition and grabbed the gear shift on the
column to take the car out of park. The Olds roared to life, and with it came
the adrenaline rush, hormones tinged with panic. He pulled out of the parking
space, past the hooker, down Hollywood Boulevard toward the first freeway
intersection he could find.

Kincaid would disappear from the LAPD as mysteriously as he had arrived. He
stopped long enough to pick up his clothes, his credit cards, and a hand-painted
coffee mug a teenaged gift in Galveston had given him twenty years before, when
she mistakenly thought he had saved her life.

He merged into the continuous LA rush hour traffic for the last time, radio off,
clutching the wheel in white-knuckled tightness. He would go to Big Bear, up in
the mountains, where there were no people, no crimes, nothing except himself and
the wilderness.

He drove away from the angels.

Or so he hoped.

Kincaid drove until he realized he was on the road to Las Vegas. He pulled the
Olds over, put on his hazards and bowed his head, unwilling to go any farther.
But he knew, even if he didn't drive there, he would wake up in Vegas, his car
in the lot outside. It had happened before.

He didn't remember taking the wrong turn, but he wasn't supposed to remember.
They were just telling him that his work wasn't done, the work they had forced
him to do ever since he was a young boy.

With a quick, vicious movement, he got out of the Olds and shook his fist at the
star-filled desert sky. "I can't take it anymore, do you hear me?"

But no shape flew across the moon, no angel wings brushed his cheek, no reply
filled his heart. He could turn around, but the roads he drove would only lead
him back to Los Angeles, back to people, back to murders in which little girls
stood in pools of blood. He knew what Los Angeles was like. Maybe they would
allow him a few days rest in Vegas.

Las Vegas, the fertile plains, originally founded in the late 1700s like LA,
only the settlement didn't become permanent until 1905 when the first lots were
sold (and nearly flooded out five years later). He thought maybe the city's
youth and brashness would be a tonic, but even as he drove into town, he felt
the blood beneath the surface. Despair and hopelessness had come to every place