"Thomas, D C - Double Cross" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thomas D C)

DOUBLE CROSS
By D. C. Thomas

"Kellie, are you busy? I'm off this afternoon and I really want to bike the
towpath. You can borrow my sister's bike."
I glanced at the drawing in progress on the drafting table, and then at the
window. The spring sun threw inviting fingers of light across the living room
floor and a gentle breeze stirred the blinds. The temptation to play hooky was
overwhelming.
"Sure, Bridget, sounds like fun. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
After parking beside the lock, we walked the bikes across a wooden foot bridge
and set a leisurely touring pace, fast enough to keep ahead of the gnats but
slow enough to enjoy the scenery. The Potomac River sparkled through the trees
on our right, while the towpath sloped away to the old canal bed on our left.
About a half mile from our starting point, we passed a man with a bright red
mountain bike stopped beside the towpath, taking a long drink out of a glass
bottle.
Bridget grinned at me over her shoulder. "Hey, Kellie, he's a man after your
own heart--did you notice what he was drinking?"
"Farley's Ginger Ale. That stuff's a bit potent for me. Expensive, too. I'll
stick with Canada Dry, thank you."

Bridget had thoughtfully provided water bottles, and a short distance later we
pulled off for a cool drink. The man on the red bike passed, a matching red
rain poncho flapping from a rack behind the seat.
I didn't see a pack or basket on the bike. "I hope he didn't throw his bottle
away in the weeds back there."
Bridget rolled her eyes. "He probably did. I can't believe how trashy people
can be. Especially in a beautiful setting like this."
The man skimmed past a couple walking a black Labrador, the flapping poncho
eliciting a startled bark from the dog. Bridget and I waited until the couple
passed before starting on.
As I rode along through the green tunnel, serenaded by birds, I tried to
imagine what it was like when the canal had water in it instead of trees and
draft animals walked this same path towing barges.
Jerked out of my reverie by a voice calling, "On your left," I moved to the
right to allow the faster biker to pass.
I shook my head at the disappearing figure of the woman hunched over her
handlebars. "Why would anyone want to ride so fast? She's missing the view."
"She's probably training for a race. Maybe she's entering the Tour de France."

Houses appeared on our left, across a road that bordered the canal, and the
trees in the old canal bed gave way to mowed lawn. The openness was startling
after two miles of thick woods.
We stopped to watch the antics of a flock of geese on a pond across the road.
The approaching buzz of tires caught my attention and I looked back to see
another mountain bike approaching, this one a dusty blue with a tool bag
hanging behind the seat.
I turned to Bridget and said, "What's wrong with that picture?"