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cupboard.
Ryan knelt again, reaching his right hand underneath the legs, feeling for
what had caught his eye. His fingertips brushed the coldness of metal.
He withdrew it and held it up to his eye to see it clearly, realizing
immediately that it was a full-metal jacket, 9 mm round of ammo a bullet for
the sort of blaster that Malachi Cribble had denied owning.
At that moment, Ryan's attention was caught by something else in the room. A
section of the wall, behind the beds, was swinging silently backward on oiled
bulges, revealing Gribble himself, holding an old Luger automatic in his right
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hand.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dean had persuaded Doc to go out with him from the safety of the house,
leaving quietly an hour after supper was finished, to creep across the night
coolness of the desert toward the camp fires of the Slaves of Sin.
"Are you certain that young Master Lauren and Mistress Wroth have given their
permission for this shadowy enterprise, my dear boy?"
"Sure, Doc."
"What precisely is the point of this nocturnal expedition, if I may make so
bold as to ask?"
The boy had stopped and grinned at him, as they paused by the fence that
separated the old orchard from the pasture. "Sometimes you speak even odder
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than other times, Doc. Point is to go and take a look-see, see?"
"I suppose so."
"We can loop around the arroyo to the north. Bring us close to where they are
without them spotting us."
"Unless the flagellants have taken the elementary precautions of placing
sentries."
"Yeah. I mean, no. Triple crazies like that need both hands to find their
assholes, Doc."
"If you say so, my gilded bird of youth." Doc sighed. "If you say so."
THE WILDERNESS SEETHED with nocturnal life.
Dean led the way, moving at a fast crouch, followed by Doc, stumbling over the
uneven terrain, knees creaking like muffled pistol shots.
An unidentifiable mutie snake, twenty feet long, its skin black as jet with
streaks of silver, slithered away from them, looping up and over the brim of
the narrow draw, hissing in anger.
A pair of coyotes suddenly appeared ahead of them, eyes glinting in the
moonlight like burned rubies. Dean halted, waving his Browning Hi-Power at the
scavengers. For several long beats of the heart the animals didn't move,
crouching, bellies down, tails stiff. Their slightly open jaws dripped threads
of pearly saliva into the dry sand.
"Move," the boy whispered, and the coyotes spun and loped off toward the
north.
Doc ducked as a hunting owl swooped low over his head, its great skull face as
white as parchment, claws raking at the air just above him.
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"By the Three Kennedys!" He wiped perspiration from his temples with the
swallow's-eye kerchief. Dean had persuaded him to leave the silver-headed cane
behind at the house, but the commemoration Le Mat was snugly bolstered at his
waist, the hammer set over the single shotgun round.
"Keep it down," the eleven-year-old ordered. "Can't be more than three hundred
yards from their camp." He sniffed at the night air. "Taste their fires."
Doc tasted the air, nodding as he identified the familiar scent of burning
wood.
In the early days of his marriage, he and his young wife, Emily, had taken
pleasure in going camping, an activity that most of their friends in 1890s
Omaha regarded as being suspiciously bohemian.
The smell of the fires brought back those happy times: the small two-person
tent, its ridge throwing sharp shadows across the box canyon where they'd
pitched it; a pot of fresh coffee brewed over the flames; their empty plates
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waiting to be washed in the nearby stream; the curved meerschaum pipe that Doc
had favored in those far-off days, sending out plumes of smoke, keeping the
invasive midges at bay.
And he remembered Emily, her formal hiking clothes disarrayed, the collar of
the silk blouse open, revealing the beginnings of the soft swell of her
breasts, the roll of hair, unpinned, tumbling about her shoulders, the ankle
boots unlaced, her skirt pulled up to her knees as she relaxed.
"Doc?"
He saw the tenderness in her eyes and the pouting smile, half teasing him,
both of them knowing that the evening was nearly done, soon they'd be snug in
their tent, bundled together, gently exploring each other's bodies.
"Doc? Come on."
"What is that?"
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"Quiet." Dean grabbed him by the arm, his fingers digging in hard. "You
dropped off into a dream, Doc."
"My sincere apologies, Dean. I shall do better and concentrate more. I promise
you that."
THE OLD MAN FOLLOWED the boy as he crawled the last few yards, cautiously
sticking his head above the top of the arroyo.
"Shit!"
Doc joined him, moving more slowly, looking out the camp of the group of
religious crazies, now less than fifty yards away from them.
"My sweet Lord," he breathed. "It's like something from the fevered
imagination of Bosch, the inner circles of hell! How can they& " [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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