"Dan Simmons - Darwin's Blade" - читать интересную книгу автора (Simmons Dan)

Dar swiveled to read his clock. “Not at four-oh-eightA.M .,” he said.

“This one’s worth it.” The connection sounded hollow, as if it were a radio patch or a cell phone.

“Where?”

“Montezuma Valley Road,” said Cameron. “Just a mile inside the canyon, where S22 comes out of the
hills into the desert.”

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Dar. “You’re talking Borrego Springs. It would take me more than ninety
minutes to get there.”

“Not if you drive your black car,” said Cameron, his chuckle blending with the rasp and static of the
poor connection.

“What kind of accident would bring me almost all the way to Borrego Springs before breakfast?” said
Dar, sitting up now. “Multiple vehicle?”

“We don’t know,” said Officer Cameron. His voice still sounded amused.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Don’t you have anyone at the scene yet?”

“I’mcalling from the scene,” said Cameron through the static.

“And you can’t tell how many vehicles were involved?” Dar found himself wishing that he had a cigarette
in the drawer of his bedside table. He had given up smoking ten years earlier, just after the death of his
wife, but he still got the craving at odd times.

“We can’t even ascertain beyond a reasonable doubt whatkind of vehicle or vehicles was or were
involved,” said Cameron, his voice taking on that official, strained-syntax, preliterate lilt that cops used
when speaking in their official capacity.

“You mean what make?” said Dar. He rubbed his chin, heard the sandpaper scratch there, and shook
his head. He had seen plenty of high-speed vehicular accidents where the make and model of the car
were not immediately apparent. Especially at night.

“I mean we don’t know if this is a car, more than one car, a plane, or a fucking UFO crash,” said
Cameron. “If you don’t see this one, Darwin, you’ll regret it for the rest of your days.”

“What do you…” Dar began, and stopped. Cameron had broken the connection. Dar swung his legs
over the edge of the bed, looked out at the dark beyond the glass of his tall condo windows, muttered,
“Shit,” and got up to take a fast shower.



It took him two minutes less than an hour to drive there from San Diego, pushing the Acura NSX hard
through the canyon turns, slamming it into high gear on the long straights, and leaving the radar detector in
the tiny glove compartment because he assumed that all of the highway patrol cars working S22 would
be at the scene of the accident. It was paling toward sunrise as he began the long 6-percent grade,
four-thousand-foot descent past Ranchita toward Borrega Springs and the Anza-Borrega Desert.