"The long way home" - читать интересную книгу автора (Klavan Andrew)

CHAPTER TWO

Surrounded I knelt down beside the fallen killer.

He didn't move. His upper lip was all smashed up and there was dark blood smearing his mouth. His mouth was open and I could see the blood staining his teeth too.

I began to search his clothes. I knew I had to hurry. Someone could come into the bathroom at any moment and see me kneeling over his body. They would call for help and then I'd have the police after me again.

Quickly, I went through the pockets of his windbreaker first. They were empty. Then, one by one, I went through the pockets of his jeans. In the left front pocket I found a single key on a chain. The key was unmarked, but the chain said, "Harley-Davidson Motorcycles." I slipped the key into my pocket. I figured that would slow the guy down at least.

I went on searching. In his right front pocket I found a silver money clip with about two hundred dollars in it. Yes, I know the Ten Commandments and yes, I know you're not supposed to steal. But this didn't feel like stealing. The guy was a killer, after all-my killer, if he'd had his way. I figured he owed me at least this much. I stuffed the cash into the same pocket as the key.

Just then, the killer groaned and shifted. I tensed, watching him. His hand lifted from the floor and groped weakly at the air. His eyelids fluttered. His bloody mouth moved, his lips parting. He was starting to come around.

I was running out of time. I had to get out of here.

I scooped up the knife from the floor. I slipped the brutal blade under my belt so that it went into my pocket. I pulled down my fleece so that it hid the handle. That's when I noticed the blood on my hands. It was the killer's blood, plus some of my own from my bruised knuckles. I turned on the faucet, let the cold water run over my fingers. It stung like crazy, but I forced myself to keep my hands there as the blood washed off. I watched as the red streaks stained the water and swirled with it down the drain.

Finally, I splashed cold water on my face again, just as I had before the killer came in. Just as I had then, I pulled a couple of paper towels out of the dispenser and dried myself off quickly.

And just as I had before, I looked into the mirror. I looked at my own reflection.

I was pale now. My cheeks were a weird gray, the color of concrete, only with spots here and there of frantic red. A line of sweat ran down my temple.

But my eyes were determined.

The killer gave another low groan. He shifted on the floor as he continued to wake up.

I swiped the line of sweat off my face. It was time to go.

I moved to the door and pushed through. I walked down the little hallway that led into the main part of the library's second floor.

It was pretty much your usual library: one expansive room filled with shelves of books. There were some long reading tables in front of the shelves. There were people sitting at the tables, poring over open books and writing in notebooks. There was an information desk to my right with a librarian sitting on a high stool behind it. The walls were all made of steel-framed glass, big windows looking out at the sky and the buildings of downtown Whitney and Main Street below.

It seemed strange to me that everything should be normal here, everything quiet and peaceful, the way a library ought to be. I thought the whole room would've heard me fighting with the killer in the bathroom. But in fact, the fight had happened with hardly a sound. No one suspected.

I glanced at the exits. There were two of them. There was one staircase down to the main floor on my left and another to my right, just beside the information desk. I was about to head for the staircase on my left.

But I stopped before I even took a step.

There was a man loitering there. A small, wiry, olive-skinned man with a thin mustache. He was wearing khaki slacks and a brown jacket. He was leaning against a shelf, idly turning the pages of a dictionary.

I turned to the other stairway. I saw another man-a man sitting at a reading desk near the head of the stairs. He was a short guy, too, but thick and muscular and mean-looking. He had a block-shaped head with short hair and rough skin on his cheeks. He was staring down at a newspaper that lay open on the desk in front of him.

I looked back at the mustache-man near the left staircase. Back at the block-headed man to my right.

They were Homelanders. I knew it the moment I saw them.

They had both exits blocked. I was surrounded.