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

in America. Only here it mingled with the cajingjing of slot machines and the
smell of money.

He wanted to stay in the MGM Grand, but the Olds wouldn't drive through the lot.
He settled on a cheap tumble-down hotel on the far side of the strip, Complete
with chenille bedspreads and rattling window mr conditioners that dripped water
on the thin brown indoor-outdoor carpet. There he slept in the protective dark
of the blackout curtains, and dreamed:

Angels floated above him, wings so long the tips brushed his face. As he
watched, they tucked their wings around themselves and plummeted, eagle-like, to
the ground below, banking when the concrete of a major superhighway rose in
front of them. He was on the bed, watching helpless, knowing that each time the
long white tail feathers touched the earth, violence erupted somewhere it had
never been before.

He started awake, coughing the deep racking cough of a three-pack-a-day man. His
tongue was thick and tasted of bad coffee and nicotine. He reached for the end
table, clicking on the brown glass bubble lamp, then grabbed his lighter and a
cigarette from the pack resting on top of the cut-glass ashtray. His hands were
still shaking and the room was quiet except for his labored breathing. Only in
the silence did he realize that his dream had been accompanied by the sound of
the pimply-faced boy, sobbing.

It happened just before dawn. A woman's scream, outside, cut off in mid-thrum,
followed by a sickening thud and footsteps. He had known it would happen the
minute the car had refused to enter the Grand's parking lot. And he had to
respond, whether it was his choice or not.

Kincaid paused long enough to pull on his pants, checking to make sure his
wallet was in the back pocket. Then he grabbed his key and let himself out of
the room.

His window overlooked the pool, a liver-shaped thing built: of blue tile in the
late fifties. The management left the terrace lights on all night, and Kincaid
used those to guide him across the interior courtyard. In the half-light, he saw
another shape running toward the pool, a pear-shaped man dressed in the
too-tight uniform of a national rent-a-cop service. The air smelled of chlorine
and the desert heat was still heavy despite the early morning hour. Leaves and
dead bugs floated in the water, and the surrounding patio furniture was so dirty
it took a moment for Kincaid to realize it was supposed to be white.

The rent-a-cop had already arrived on the scene, his pasty skin turning green as
he looked down. Kincaid came up behind him, stopped, and stared.

The body was crumpled behind the removable diving board. One look at her
blood-stained face, swollen and braised neck, her chipped and broken fingernails
and he knew.

All of it.