The Missing. Lisa McMann
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Название: The Missing
Автор: Lisa McMann
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Ужасы и Мистика
isbn: 9780007460502
isbn:
“No kidding,” Kendall says. She pushes the door open and comes face-to-face with Jacián Obregon.
He glares.
She glares back, but her stomach twists. “You fouled me,” she says.
He doesn’t speak for a moment. When he does, his voice is lower than she expects. “Stay out of my way, then, if you don’t want to get hurt.” He dismisses Kendall by the mere act of looking beyond her, to Marlena. “Come on, Lena,” he says sharply. He turns in the dirt and starts walking toward the parking area.
Marlena smiles an apology to Kendall and takes off after Jacián. “See you tomorrow,” she calls out.
Kendall waves halfheartedly at Marlena as Nico walks up. “He’s a jerk.”
Nico nods. “Yep. Pretty much.”
Kendall smiles and starts walking. “Let’s go. I’ve got chores and homework. Felt good to play again, though, didn’t it?”
“It was awesome. You get hurt at all?”
“No. I can take it. . . .” She trails off.
“What?”
Kendall looks over her shoulder as they cross the dirt road and cut the corner of a barley field. “Marlena said they moved here right before Tiffany disappeared, and that Eli’s dad suspected Jacián might have had something to do with it.”
“What? That’s crazy.”
“Is it? I mean, how would we know? He’s mean. Maybe he’s unstable.”
“Kendall.”
“Seriously, what if he has her all tied up in the woods. Or maybe he chopped her up into little pieces. . . .”
“Kendall, stop it. That’s ridiculous.”
She’s not convinced.
They walk until they reach the halfway point between their respective family farms—directly across the road from each other. For a moment they stand in the middle of the road facing each other and holding hands. Nico leans in and kisses her sweetly.
“Don’t work too hard,” Nico says.
“You either. Call me at eleven?”
“Always.”
Kendall smiles, and they part company, each down their long driveways.
At home Kendall throws her backpack onto the big oak kitchen table. “Hi, Mom,” she sings, and gives her mother a kiss on the cheek.
“How was your first day?” Mrs. Fletcher stands at the sink watering her herb garden. She’s tall and dark-haired like Kendall, wearing capri jeans and a red-checked short-sleeved shirt, knotted at her waist.
“Fine.”
“Was it hard without Tiffany there?”
“Yeah, a little. Everybody noticed but nobody said anything—pretty much what I figured.”
“How’s the OCD? Do you feel a little better now that you’re back into the school routine?”
Kendall breaks off a piece of a bran muffin and shoves it into her mouth. “Immensely. Shit, I’m starving.”
“Honey. Inside language, please.”
“Sorry. Man, I’m starving. Better?”
“Yes. What else is new? Did you meet Hector’s grand-kids?”
Kendall tilts her head. “You know about them?”
“They’ve been around for a couple months.”
“Why am I the last to know everything?”
“I didn’t know you didn’t know. The girl’s been sitting at their market stand all summer. Such a striking young woman.”
“Well, I’ve been on that damn tractor all summer, watching my leg muscles atrophy. I’m all wobbly.”
“Language, Kendall.”
“Sorry. Got used to farm talk again. Maybe you shouldn’t make me work so hard with all those swearers.”
Mrs. Fletcher looks like she’s trying not to grin. “I know. But the work is good for you. Builds character.”
Kendall rolls her eyes and pulls the milk jug from the refrigerator. Its label reads fresh as heck from hector farms. How could anybody not adore Hector Morales? She pours an impossibly large tumbler full and drinks it all. Slams it on the counter, empty. “Any mail?”
“Nothing from Juilliard.”
Kendall screws up her nose, disappointed. “Okay. Well, what needs to get done before I start practicing?”
“Dad’s checking the southwest field today to see how close we’re getting to harvest. He wants you out there to show you how he does that. Then dinner. Then homework. Then you can practice.”
“Big sigh, Mummy,” Kendall says. “I am so sick of potatoes, I could scream.”
“Another six weeks and it’ll all be pretty near over.”
Kendall starts jogging to the field, but the milk sloshes in her stomach and her thighs burn from the soccer scrimmage, so she slows down to a walk. Even out here, on her home turf, Kendall feels uneasy walking alone. She heads for the southwest field, looking nervously over her shoulder every thirty paces or so.
After a few minutes she hears her father’s familiar yell and catches up to him. “Hey, Daddy!”
“How’s my girl?” Mr. Fletcher air-hugs Kendall. His hands are filthy.
“Good, now that I’m with you,” she says, demure. “Whatcha got?”
“This here is what we call a potato,” Mr. Fletcher says. “Fascinating.”
They walk the field together a few rows apart, stopping now and then to check for ripeness, rot, and bugs. Kendall’s mind wanders, remembering earlier in the day, picking up random thoughts to obsess over.
“Machines are good,” Mr. Fletcher says, taking on a teaching tone, “but they don’t compare to the human eye, or the touch of a hand. That’s the real way to keep crops, to be one with them, to create potatoes that love you back.”
“Yeppers,” Kendall says, but she’s not paying attention. She’s picturing Jacián sneaking off to kidnap, murder, and chop poor innocent girls into pieces.
By the time she gets her homework done, it’s nine thirty p.m. and her legs ache, but she’s not done. She slips a DVD into СКАЧАТЬ