Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 4-6: Blood Brother, In the Blood, Little Girls Lost. J. Kerley A.

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “I can do that.”

      She bounced from the couch, went to the kitchen area, yelling at me over her shoulder. “Bathroom’s first door down the hall if you want to wash up and gargle. I’d advise both.”

      I headed to the bathroom, shoulder-tight, with all the usual fixtures. I turned the hotwater faucet, let it run. A mirrored medicine cabinet was over the sink. My eyes were veined from upchucking, my hair in disarray. There were several disturbing flecks sticking to my chin.

      I filled the sink with hot water, palming soap into it, slapping the froth on my face. I emptied the sink, did the same bit with cold water, sans the soap, my rinse cycle. I fought the impulse for a ten-count, then, under cover of running water, opened her medicine cabinet, scanning. All typical stuff, over-the-counter analgesics and nostrums, a couple of prescriptions I recognized as a stomach-acid reducer and an allergy relief med.

      Two hard knocks hit the door a foot from my ear. “Ryder!”

      I whipped the cabinet closed. The magnetic latch clicked, sounding as loud as a pistol shot. I saw my grimace in the mirror.

      “Uh, what … Alice?”

      “There’s nothing interesting in the medicine cabinet. But there’s a new toothbrush in the closet. You can have it if you promise to buy me a replacement.”

      My heart pounding with childish guilt, I turned off the water and started to respond, but her footsteps were moving away. I gratefully accepted the brush, using toothpaste and mouthwash in deluge quantities.

      When I emerged, much refreshed, she was in the kitchen area. The last few feet of the hall was bookshelves, books of all sorts. I looked closer and noted the two bottom shelves, ten running feet altogether, were devoted to meteorology. I slid one out: The Physics of Climate Change. It seemed the sort of text one studied in college, maybe even post-grad. I slipped it back, pulled another. A biography of someone named Carl-Gustav Rosby.

      “Who’s Rosby?” I asked.

      She turned and saw me with the book. Her neck colored. “He, uh, was a pioneer of high-atmosphere meteorology.” She walked over, hiding embarrassment behind a sip of wine. “I really like reading about weather. I know it seems weird.”

      I took a bottle of Sam Adams from her hand and nodded toward the shelves. “Makes perfect sense to me. I fish and kayak in the Gulf. The last surprise I want is high surf or lightning. I’m a Doppler devotee. Did you know that Mobile is the rainiest city in the country?”

      “Followed by Pensacola, New Orleans, and West Palm Beach.” She looked at me as if trying to make a decision. “Would you like to see my station? My weather station?”

      “Lead on.”

      I followed her down the hall to the back room. There was a desk and a Mac Pro computer connected to a large flat-panel display. More books on shelves. Two big snake plants on the floor and ivy leaves tumbling from a wall sconce cum planter.

      She pointed to the Mac. “I’ve got a sensor station on the roof. The physical readings happen up there, wireless info bursted to the computer every two seconds. Air temp, wind speed and direction, solar radiation, relative humidity, barometric pressure, precipitation. Plus I’ve got my weather program and input networked to eighty-two remote stations across the country, sites run by amateur meteorologists through related software. I helped create the net. I could tell you what it’s doing in Paducah, Dubuque, Ypsilanti …”

      I crossed my arms and posed a challenge. “How about Fort Wayne, Indiana?”

      “Why Fort Wayne?”

      “An old friend lives there. Can you do it?”

      She sat and commenced a furious ticking of keystrokes, conjuring charts, graphs, numbers, a maelstrom of American weatherness. Her interest was infectious, and I leaned over her shoulder and watched the screen, unable to ignore the scent of perfume from her hair, something warm and sunny.

      “Here we go. The station in Fort Wayne is operated by a Duanine Eby, I don’t know if that’s a him or her, but it’s raining – a tenth of an inch so far – baro pressure is 1016.36 millibars and rising over the past two hours. Wind is northwest at present, shifted from north-northwest this morning, holding steady. Let’s check a bit south, Indianapolis. Wind is west, baro’s higher, so Fort Wayne’s about to catch the edge of a southerly high pushing up from the Gulf, now centered around Memphis. In two hours the rain will disappear, the wind will pick up for a couple hours, then presto, your friend in Fort Wayne will be in a new system. Blue sky, nothing but blue sky …”

      “Alice?”

      “What?”

      “This is great.”

      She looked over her shoulder, skeptical. “You really think so? You enjoy meteorology that much?”

      “I enjoy your enjoyment.”

      The embarrassment again, manifesting in a pause and a cleared throat. “I’ve loved the weather since sixth grade. My father took me to the Jersey shore, Cape May. I watched storms forming, clouds merge, darken. Curtains of rain connected the clouds and the ocean. It took my breath away. I got books on weather from the library and built a hygrometer made from three of my dad’s hairs, a dime, and a plastic milk carton. I kept daily accounts in a notebook called Alice’s Weather Observations. Every night at dinner I’d solemnly forecast the next day’s weather.”

      I laughed at the sight of a young Alice Folger holding forth at the table.

      “What did your parents think about all this?”

      “I was an only child. I could do no wrong.”

      I saw a photo at the far side of the desk, a big, lantern-jawed officer in dress blues, his arm around a solid woman in a white gown, sweet eyes in a plain face. They were in their middle-to-late thirties, I judged, and resembled a pair of happy potatoes.

      “These are your parents?”

      A pause, as though she had to switch gears. “On their wedding day in 1963. Myrtle and Johnny at Niagara Falls.”

      “Your dad was a cop.”

      She looked at the photo. “It seems like everyone I grew up with was or became a cop. Every male, at least. A lot of women, too. Mainly support work.”

      “You have siblings? Oh, you said you were an only child. I guess you were expected to carry the blue banner forward, right?”

      Two long beats passed. “My choice. Mine alone.”

      “Sure.”

      “It’s all I ever wanted to do as far back as I remember.”

      In the span of a minute something had changed. It was small, a shadow in the corner of the room, weightless, but detracting from the overall light. She turned from the wall, pushed a smile to her face.

      “Hey, you look like you’re feeling better.”

      I held up the beer. “What the doctor ordered. Listen, I’ll be heading on back to the hotel. I’m studying the Ridgecliff files. СКАЧАТЬ