"Kate Wilhelm - Deepest Water" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilhelm Kate)

Deepest Water

Kate Wilhelm

1

Afterward everyone said the memorial service had been poignant yet beautiful, exactly what Jud would
have wanted. But not yet, Abby protested despairingly, silently, not at forty-eight years old! For days she
had said little or nothing, as if her vocal cords had frozen, she had lost the power of speech. People held
her hand, embraced her, patted her, and she understood that they were trying to express something, but
she could feel herself adding layer after layer of protective, invisible shielding against every touch,
removing herself in a way that kept her numb and rigid, unresponsive to their sympathy, unable to stop
adding to the cocoon that might keep her safe. Shock, they said; she was still in shock.

Exactly what her father had ordered, the funeral director assured her, even to the box that Jud had
provided along with his instructions. He placed the box in her hands deferentially, then walked away with
his head bowed until he had cleared the crematorium chapel, when he straightened and walked more
briskly.

“Honey, we have to leave now,” Brice said at her elbow. He took the box from her, held it under his
arm, and put his other arm around her shoulders, guided her toward the door. People were waiting. Jud’s
parents from California, Lynne — Abby’s mother from Seattle — Brice’s parents from Idaho, friends,
strangers… Lynne had said the family would have to go back to the house after it was over; everyone
would expect coffee, wine, something to help ease them back to the world of the living. She would take
care of things, she had promised, that’s what she had come for, to help Abby; then she wept. Abby had
looked at her in wonder. Her parents had been divorced for so many years, why was she crying now?

“Mrs. Connors?” Another stranger, another outsider.

She paused, expecting him to hold out his hand, kiss her cheek, something.

“I’m Lieutenant Caldwell,” he said apologetically. “State special investigations. I need to talk to you—”

Brice’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “You can’t be serious!” he said. “Not now!”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “Of course not now. But tomorrow? Around ten in the morning?”

Abby accepted this as numbly as she had accepted everything else. She nodded.

“We’ve already told the police everything we know,” Brice said. He tugged at her shoulder; she started
to move again.

“I understand,” Caldwell said, still apologetic. “I’ll explain in the morning. I’m very sorry, Mrs. Connors.”
Then he was gone, and they walked out into a fine light rain.

There were a lot of reporters, a camera crew, others waiting. After years of struggling, Judson Vickers
had become an overnight best selling author; his death by murder was news, at least today it was news.
Abby walked past the crowd blindly.

That night, after the mourners had gone, and only her mother remained for one more night, Lynne said