Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 4-6: Blood Brother, In the Blood, Little Girls Lost. J. Kerley A.
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Название: Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 4-6: Blood Brother, In the Blood, Little Girls Lost
Автор: J. Kerley A.
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Приключения: прочее
isbn: 9780007535170
isbn:
“Most people wouldn’t have heard anything but street sounds,” I said, my heart beginning to pound.
“Yep, the music was deep under things. Then the man told what he was hearing, and damn if he wasn’t hearing ever’thing I could. It come to me that maybe he was blind, too.”
Cold prickles danced across my spine. “He wasn’t blind, was he, Mr Parks?”
“Nope, though he was sure tuned up scary high for someone ain’t never had to live in the dark.”
“Did he frighten you?”
Mr Parks frowned, like doing a puzzle in his head. “He had a strange feeling pouring off him, like he had to do a job so important the need was pushing from his skin like heat. That’s as close as I can get with words. Did I feel like he wanted to hurt me? No. But something underneath his voice said I wouldn’t ever want him mad at me.”
“What did you do?”
“Once I could feel he didn’t mean no harm, I got interested in how high he was tuned. We started listening and smelling and talking about how much there was to hear and taste and smell, stuff most people never knew was going on, though it’s right there in their ears and noses and mouths. After we talked a bit I decided to come here to pass on his words. I thought maybe they were important in a way I couldn’t know.”
“What exactly did the man say, Mr Parks?” I asked.
The frown again. Trying to get it just right, Parks spoke slowly. “‘Tell Mr Ryder to consider George Bernard Shaw’s thoughts on sanity in the US.’”
I closed my eyes, suspicions confirmed: I heard Jeremy’s precise diction echoed in the old man’s words. Waltz was staring at me. His silent lips formed the question, Ridgecliff?
I could do nothing but nod, Yes. Waltz jumped toward the door. “Shaw, sanity, America. I’ll Google it and see what hits.”
I waved him back to the table. “Don’t bother, Shelly. I know the quote.”
“What is it?”
“An asylum for the sane would be empty in America.”
Mr Parks chuckled and snatched his hat from the table. He set it on his head at a jaunty angle.
“I picked up that the man seemed interested in you, Mr Ryder. You close wit’ him?”
“What made you think that?”
“He called you something nice, said you was –” Parks again paused to emulate my brother’s crystalline diction – “‘ever the hero on water or land’. Seems a nice thing to say, right?”
Waltz walked stiffly but quickly, his hand angling me into his office. Sweat sluiced from my armpits and I hoped it wasn’t soaking through my sport coat. Jeremy had sent the message just to prove he could. At least he hadn’t said anything to suggest our connection.
Waltz closed the door, shut the blinds. “We can send people to Washington Park. Maybe Ridgecliff’s still in the area.”
I waved the idea off. “He’s not close to the park any more, Shelly. Jeremy Ridgecliff doesn’t take those chances. Trust me on that.”
Waltz sat heavily, wiped his face with his hands. “Ridgecliff saw your picture in the Watcher, the only way he’d know you’re in New York. Why would he send you a message?”
“We developed a strange sort of rapport. He sees me as friend and enemy.”
“Friend?”
“Not in the usual sense. During our talks he was able to speak with me without being judged – that’s how you get under the hood: Make no judgments and let them talk.”
“And on the enemy side?”
“Part of him despises me for being able to open him up. He’d talk to me, then feel weak for opening up. These people hate being weak, Shelly. They need to feel strong and in total control.”
It wasn’t the whole truth, but close: My brother sought control in every direction, even over me. Being on the outside gave him more control than he’d had in fourteen years. It terrified me to consider how he would use that power.
Waltz said, “How long ago was it you interviewed him?”
“I talked to him a couple years back.”
I’d also talked to him nine weeks ago, which I neglected to mention. After postponing a visit for several weeks, I’d run out of excuses. Though dreading the lost day, I’d taken a Saturday to make the run to the Institute, hoping to spend two or three mollifying hours with my brother, get back to my real life for another few months.
We’d been together in his room, the guard just outside the door. Jeremy had seemed in a regressive state, remote, bitter, bristling with tension.
“Jeremy, what’s bothering you?”
“You, Carson. You enter this stinking hellhole whenever you want, leave whenever you want. I’m trapped in here.”
I looked around his room: the special harmless furniture, the Mylar mirror that distorted reflections, the walls and floor constructed of the rubbery material used in children’s playgrounds.
“Not the room, Carson!” he snapped. “I’M TRAPPED IN HERE!”
He slapped the side of his head. Then again, harder. He started punching his head and face as if they belonged to a hated rival, blood pouring from his ear and nose as I wrestled him to the floor, Jeremy screaming about needing to be free, me yelling for the guards.
It had taken six of them to put my brother in restraints. As I wiped sweat from my face and retreated from the room, he’d called to me.
“CARSON!”
Jeremy was on the floor, bound tight as a chrysalis. An injected tranquilizer was kicking in as I stepped back inside the room, now reeking of anger and hatred and despair.
“What, Jeremy?”
His eyes began to glaze, his tongue to thicken. “The moment the old dog stopped breathing, someone became safe, right?”
No one but Vangie knew of my relationship to Jeremy. The guards heard only disassociated rambling. Jeremy was speaking of our father’s death and how I had been kept safe, spared.
“Yes,” I whispered.
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