"Van Lustbader, Eric - Linnear 04 - The Kaisho" - читать интересную книгу автора (Van Lustbader Eric)

Do Duc drove the blade of the pocket knife into Hope's lower belly and, using the strength coming up through the soles of his feet, ripped the knife upward through her flesh and muscle, and reached her heart.
He watched with a trembling of intensity as surprise, disbelief, confusion and terror chased each other across her face. It was a veritable smorgasbord of delicious emotions which he sopped up with his soul.

He stepped quickly back from the bright fountain of blood that erupted. A foul stench filled the bedroom.
Silence. Not even a scream. He had been trained to kill in this manner.
Do Duc looked down, staring at his wife's viscera which gleamed dully in the morning light. Steam came off them. The iridescent coils" seemed to him beautiful in both pattern and texture, speaking to him in a language that had no rules, no name.
The sight and the smell, familiar as old companions, reminded him of where, soon, he would be headed.
On the plane ride up to New York, Do Duc had time to think. He drew out the strip of color head-shots of himself he had taken in an automated booth in a mall where he had stopped on his way to the airport in Lauderdale. Then he put it away, along with his ticket stub, which was made out in the name of Robert Ashuko, and opened a copy of Forbes. While he stared at the text, he pulled out of memory the information he had memorized just after he had moved to Hollywood. It had been sent to him in a book of John Singer Sargent's paintings, remarkable for the extraordinary sensuality of their women, the lushness of their landscapes.
The information was contained on a page on which was printed a full-length photo of Sargent's magnificent painting Madame X, which seemed to Do Duc to secure the imperious eroticism that smoldered in these female creatures of another age.
He had decoded the information, memorized it, then had burned it, flushing what ashes remained down the toilet. The book he had kept to gaze at again and again. It was the one item he regretted leaving behind, but it was far too large and cumbersome to take with him on this particular journey.
Deplaning at Kennedy airport. Do Duc went immediately to the wall of lockers in the main terminal. There he

produced a key with a number stamped into it. He inserted it into the appropriate lock and removed the contents of the locker, which consisted of what appeared to be a physician's black bag.
Do Duc rented a car. He used a false driver's license and a protected credit card, one that could not be traced to him, and would not show up on a hot sheet. He had spent some time in New York, and so had no trouble finding the Belt Parkway even through the tricky maze of the airport grounds. Some miles east, in Nassau County, the highway became the Southern State Parkway.
It was heading toward evening, and traffic was barely moving. A Mack truck loaded with gravel heading west had jumped the divider, and plowed head-on into, first, a VW bug, then a Toyota MR2, and finally a Chevy Citation. Do Duc didn't mind the slow going; he had time to kill and, besides, the vectors of the disaster interested him. By the degree of the carnage he began calculating the speeds of the respective vehicles. Then he began to imagine what it must have been like inside them.
Death, whether quick or drawn-out, was his meat, and he was never sated.
He could hear a howling filling his ears, flooding his mind until his fingers resonated to its frequency. Feral lights danced before his eyes like forest sprites, and every manifestation of civilization dropped away. Time, thus naked, turned primeval, and Do Duc, a beast in the forest, was fearless, omnipotent. He thought briefly of Hope, not of her life, but of her death, and he feasted on it all over again.
Do Duc took the Wantaugh State Parkway exit, and headed north for two exits. He was now on Old Country Road. By this time, the world had reverted to normal except for the slight aura visible to him around each person he passed.
Old Country Road took him into Hicksville, where he came upon the sprawling Lilco building on his right. At

first glance, it could have passed for a school: a two-story red-brick structure. He pulled over, unfolded a. hand-drawn map of the building's interior. Everything he needed to know was clearly marked. He memorized the map, put a lit match to one corner, watched it burn into his fingertips. He mashed what ashes remained into the car's ashtray, then got out and went quickly across Old Country Road.
He was in and out within seven minutes, having retrieved boots, overalls, shirt, webbed utility belt and, most important, an official laminated clip-on ID. The photo of the man, Roger Burke, looked nothing like Do Duc, but it made no difference.
Three miles from the building. Do Duc stopped the car and changed into the Lilco uniform. Working with an artist's knife, provided for him in the capacious doctor's satchel, he pried up the outer layer of lamination. He cut one of his photos from the strip he had taken outside Lauderdale, glued it over Burke's black countenance, replaced the lamination. The result would fool no one for long, but Do Duc didn't need long.
He looked at his watch: just after seven. Dinner time. He found a Chinese take-out restaurant, ordered, brought the loaded plastic bag back to the car. He broke open several cardboard containers, extended the first and second fingers of his right hand. With this utensil, he shoveled into his mouth cold rice lacquered with a glutinous fish sauce. He washed this down with draughts of strong black tea. Refreshed, he was ready to go.
He made his way back to the packed northbound Wan-taugh Parkway, which soon turned into the Northern State Parkway heading west. The first exit was Post Avenue, and he took this north. Just after he crossed Jericho Turnpike he found himself in the tony suburb of Old Westbury. He went under the Long Island Expressway, made a left onto the north service road. Just past the Old Westbury Police Station, he made a right onto Wheatley Road. Here, in

stark contrast with the industrial clutter of Hicksville, he cruised slowly past large old-money estates, complete with white-brick walls, stately oaks, winding driveways and massive brick or fieldstone houses with whitewashed porticos or columned porte-cocheres.
The house he was looking for stood well back from the road, behind a ten-foot-high serpentine red-brick wall. It had a black wrought-iron gate and an electronic security squawk-box. Do Duc pulled up to it.
'Roger Burke, Lilco,' he said into the grill set into the metal box, in response to a thin, electronicized voice. He had to put his head and shoulders out the window of his car to do it, and this afforded him an excellent view between the posts of the gate, along the wide crushed-clam-shell drive that swept up to the white and dark-green house. He noted a large black-and-tan Rottweiler bounding through the thick privet hedges. Dangerous beasts, they had originally been Roman cattle dogs centuries ago. Nowadays, they were most popular as police and guard dogs because of their ferociousness and their strength.
He gave Burke's Lilco ID number and a line about having to check the feeder cables because of a dangerous outage in the area. The simplest lies were the most believable, he had been taught, and the risk of raw electricity made even the most stout-hearted people nervous. A moment later, he heard electronic servos start up, and the gates began to swing slowly inward.
Do Duc pulled on padded gloves with a black rubberized exterior, put the car in gear, went slowly up the driveway. He drove with his left hand only. His right hand was buried in the open jaws of the black physician's bag.
He saw the armed guard coming toward him across the wide sloping lawn and he stopped obediently. Not far away the Rottweiler, unleashed, was urinating nervously in some sheared boxwood as he eyed Do Duc with a half-open mouth.
The guard came up, made eye contact, and asked for

Do Duc's ID. He was clad in sneakers, jeans, a chambray workshirt and a corduroy jacket beneath which his piece bulged from its shoulder holster. Mafia button-man or ex-cop. Do Duc mused; these days it was difficult to say.
In either case, he was not a stupid man, and Do Duc had made his move before the guard could get suspicious about the hand in the bag. With his left hand. Do Duc grabbed a fistful of chambray, jerked the man toward him. The guard's hand was on his way to the butt of his gun when Do Duc's right hand, wrapped around a slender steel blade, flashed upward.
There was a certain amount of galvanic reaction when the blade buried itself in the soft flesh of the guard's throat. Do Duc was ready for it, but even so the guard, who was very strong, almost jerked out of Do Duc's grip. Do Duc rose up off his seat, slamming the blade through the roof of the guard's mouth into the base of his brain.
The body in his hands trembled. There was the quick offensive stench as the guard's bowels gave way. The Rottweiler was downwind, and it began to whine, then growl as its nostrils filled with the scent of death.
'Couldn't be helped,' Do Duc said as if to an invisible companion as he heard the dog coming fast at him. He let go of the corpse and opened the car door in almost the same motion.
The Rottweiler, ears flat back, teeth bared, was already upon him. The frightening, stubby muzzle was white with saliva. Do Duc led with his left hand, catching it between the dog's snapping jaws as it leapt, flinging him back against the car roof.
The long teeth penetrated into the rubberized glove, and while the animal was thus occupied. Do Duc took the bloody blade and inserted it into the Rottweiler's left ear, punching it right through to the other side.
The teeth almost came through the padding then, as the dog bit down in reflex. Do Duc stepped away from the fountain of blood, holding the twitching beast at arm's

length, grunting at its weight, but happy at the resistance in his biceps and deltoid muscles.
In the end, he was obliged to slip off the glove because, even in death, the Rottweiler would not relinquish its hold. Do Duc bent, extracting the blade from the dog. He wiped it on the leg of the guard's jeans, then climbed back into the -car, resuming his journey up the driveway to the massive porte-cochere.
The mock Doric columns rose above him as he pulled in, turned off the ignition. He took the physician's bag from the seat beside him, went up the brick steps to the front door,
'Mr Goldoni?'
The well-dressed man standing in the doorway shook his head. 'Dominic Goldoni is, ah, away.'
Do Duc frowned, consulting papers on a steel clipboard; papers that were meaningless to the situation. This the Goldoni residence?'
'Yes, it is,' the well-dressed man said. He was handsome in a large-featured Mediterranean manner. His brown eyes were hooded, liquid. He was pushing fifty, and seemed foreign, almost courtly in his rich Brioni suit, Roman silk shirt and thousand-dollar loafers. 'Are you the Lilco man?'