Dean Koontz 2-Book Thriller Collection: Innocence, The City. Dean Koontz

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       Twelve

      I STOOD IN THE SHADOWS SHORT OF DICKENS, she in the lamplight, and I saw that her fingernails were painted black and that tattooed on the backs of her hands were curled blue lizards with forked red tongues.

      “That wasn’t a threat, when I said you’ll have a cruel death,” she clarified. “It’s just the truth. You don’t want to be around me.”

      “Who was the one person who could help you?” I asked.

      “It doesn’t matter. That’s another place, another time. I can’t bring it back by talking about it. The past is dead.”

      “If it were dead, it wouldn’t smell so sweet.”

      “It isn’t sweet to me,” she said.

      “I think it is. When you said ‘another place, another time,’ the words softened you.”

      “Imagine whatever you want. There’s nothing soft here. I’m all bone and carapace and quills.”

      I smiled, but of course she couldn’t see my face. Sometimes it is my smile that most terrifies them. “What’s your name?”

      “You don’t need to know.”

      “No, I don’t. I’d just like to know.”

      The thread-thin red striations brightened in her black-black eyes. “What’s your name again, lost boy?”

      “Addison, like I said.”

      “Addison what?”

      “My mother’s last name was Goodheart.”

      “Did she have one?”

      “She was a thief and maybe worse. She wanted to be kind, kinder than she knew how to be. But I loved her.”

      “What was your father’s name?”

      “She never told me.”

      “My mother died in childbirth,” she said, and I thought that in a sense my mother had died from childbirth, eight years after the fact, but I said nothing.

      The girl looked toward the rococo ceiling, where the chandeliers hung dark, gazed up as if the rich moldings around the deep coffers and the sky scene of golden clouds within each coffer were visible to her by some spectrum of light invisible.

      When she looked toward me again, she said, “What are you doing in the library after midnight?”

      “I came to read. And just to be here in the grandness of it.”

      She studied me for a long moment, though I presented hardly more than a silhouette. Then she said, “Gwyneth.”

      “What’s your last name, Gwyneth?”

      “I don’t use one.”

      “But you have one.”

      As I waited for her reply, I decided that all the Goth was more than fashion, that it might not be fashion at all, that it might be armor.

      When at last she spoke, she didn’t give me her surname, but instead said, “You saw me running from him, but I never saw you.”

      “I’m unusually discreet.”

      She looked at the set of Dickens novels on the shelves to her right. She slid her fingers along the leather bindings, the titles glowing in lamplight. “Are these valuable?”

      “Not really. They’re a matched set, published in the 1970s.”

      “They’re wonderfully made.”

      “The leather’s been hand-tooled. The lettering is gilded.”

      “People make so many beautiful things.”

      “Some people.”

      When she turned her attention to me again, she said, “How did you know where to find me, in there with the Lebow children?”

      “I saw you leaving the reading room when he was in the street looking for you. I figured you must have studied the blueprints in the basement archives. So did I.”

      “Why did you study them?” she asked.

      “I thought the bones of the structure might be as beautiful as the finished building. And they are. Why did you study them?”

      For maybe half a minute, she considered her reply, or perhaps she considered whether to answer or not. “I like to know places. All over the city. Better than anyone knows them. People have lost their history, the what and how and why of things. They know so little of the places where they live.”

      “You don’t stay here every night. I would have seen you before.”

      “I don’t stay here at all. I visit now and then.”

      “Where do you live?”

      “Here and there. All over. I like to move around.”

      Seeing СКАЧАТЬ