"Stephen King. The Girl who loved Tom Gordon." - читать интересную книгу автора

you guys did wrong! It occurred to her that those might be the last words
she would ever hear Pete say, and she actually shuddered at the idea, as at
the sight of some monstrous shape in the shadows.
Her tears dried up more quickly this time and the weeping wasn't so
intense. When she got to her feet again (waving her cap around her head
almost without realizing it) she felt halfway to being calm. By now they'd
surely know she was gone. Mom's first thought would be that Trisha had
gotten pissed at them for arguing and gone back to the Caravan. They'd call
out for her, then retrace their steps, asking people they met on the trail
if they'd seen a girl in a Red Sox cap (she's nine but tall for her age and
looks older, Trisha could hear her Mom saying), and when they got back to
the parking area and found she wasn't in the van, they'd start getting
seriously worried. Mom would be frightened. The thought of her fright made
Trisha feel guilty as well as afraid. There was going to be a fuss, maybe a
big one involving the game wardens and the Forest Service, and it was all
her fault. She had left the path.
This added a new layer of anxiety to her already disturbed mind and
Trisha began to walk fast, hoping to get back to the main trail before all
those calls could be made, before she could turn into what her mother
called A Public Spectacle. She walked without taking her previous,
meticulous care in moving from point to point in a straight line, turning
more and more to the west without realizing it, turning away from the
Appalachian Trail and most of its subsidiary paths and trails, turning in a
direction where there was little but deep second-growth woods choked with
underbrush, tangled ravines, and ever more difficult terrain. She
alternately called and listened, listened and called. She would have been
stunned to learn that her mother and brother were still locked in their
argument and did not know, even yet, that Trisha was missing.
She walked faster and faster, waving at the swirling clouds of minges,
no longer bothering to skirt clumps of bushes but simply plowing straight
through them. She listened and called, called and listened, except she
wasn't listening, not really, not anymore. She didn't feel the mosquitoes
that were clustered on the back of her neck, lined up just below her
hairline like drinkers at happy hour, guzzling their fill; she didn't feel
the noseeums caught and wriggling in the faint sticky lines where her tears
were still drying.
Her giving way to panic wasn't sudden, as it had been at the feel of
the snake, but weirdly gradual, a drawing in from the world, a shutting
down of outer awareness. She walked faster without minding her way; called
for help without hearing her own voice; listened with ears that might not
have heard a returning shout from behind the nearest tree. And when she
began to run she did it without realizing. I have to be calm, she thought
as her sneakered feet sped past the point of jogging. I was just in the
van, she thought as the run became a sprint. I don't know why we should pay
for what you guys did wrong, she thought, ducking - barely - a jutting
branch that seemed to thrust itself at one of her eyes. it scraped the side
of her face instead, drawing a thin scrawl of blood from her left cheek.
The breeze in her face as she ran, tearing through a thicket with a
crackling sound that seemed very distant (she was unaware of the thorns
which ripped at her jeans and tore shallow gouges on her arms), was cool