JК
Desperation :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 10 из 422”
The cop turned and walked toward the back of the Acura without bothering to seeif Peter was going to obey. Peter did obey, walking on legs that still felt as if—they were relaying their sensory input by some form of telecommunications.
The cop stopped beside the trunk. When Peter joined him, he pointed with one big finger.
Peter followed it and saw there was no license plate on the back of Deirdre’ s car—just a marginally cleaner rectangle where it had been.
“Ah, shit!” Peter said, and his irritation and dismay were real enough, but so was the relief beneath them. All this had had a point after all. Thank God. He turned toward the front of the car and wasn’t exactly surprised to see the driver’s door was now closed-.
Mary had closed it. He had been so far into this… event. . occurrence this whatever it was… that he hadn’t even heard the thump.
“Mare! Hey, Mare!”
She poked her sunburned, strained face out of his window and looked back at him.
“Our damned license plate fell off!” he called, almost laughing.
“What.”
“No, it didn’t,” the Desperation cop said. He squatted again—that calm, slow, lithe movement—and reached—beneath the bumper. He fumbled there, on the other side of the place where the plate went, for a moment or two, his gray eyes gazing off toward the horizon. Pete was. invaded by an eerie sense of familiarity: he and his wife had been pulled over by the Marlboro Man.
“Ah!” the cop said. He stood up again. The hand he had—been investigating with was clenched into a loose fist. He held it out to Peter and opened it. Lying on his palm (and looking very small in that vast pinkness) was a road-dirty piece of screw. it was bright in only one place, where it had been sheared off.
Peter looked at it. then up at the cop. “I don’t get it.”
“Did you stop in Fallon.”
“No—”
There was a creak as Mary’s door opened, a clunk as she shut it behind her, then the scuff of her sneakers on the sandy shoulder as she walked toward the back of the car.
“Sure we did,” she said. She looked at the fragment of metal in the big hand (Deirdre’s registration and Peter’s driver’s license were still in the cop’s other one), then up at the cop’s face. She didn’t seem scared now—not as scared, anyway—and Peter was glad. He was already calling himself nine kinds of paranoid idiot, but you had to admit that this particular close encounter of the cop kind had had its (do you really think that’s wise) peculiar aspects.
“Pit-stop, Peter, don’t you remember.
The cop turned and walked toward the back of the Acura without bothering to seeif Peter was going to obey. Peter did obey, walking on legs that still felt as if—they were relaying their sensory input by some form of telecommunications.
The cop stopped beside the trunk. When Peter joined him, he pointed with one big finger.
Peter followed it and saw there was no license plate on the back of Deirdre’ s car—just a marginally cleaner rectangle where it had been.
“Ah, shit!” Peter said, and his irritation and dismay were real enough, but so was the relief beneath them. All this had had a point after all. Thank God. He turned toward the front of the car and wasn’t exactly surprised to see the driver’s door was now closed-.
Mary had closed it. He had been so far into this… event. . occurrence this whatever it was… that he hadn’t even heard the thump.
“Mare! Hey, Mare!”
She poked her sunburned, strained face out of his window and looked back at him.
“Our damned license plate fell off!” he called, almost laughing.
“What.”
“No, it didn’t,” the Desperation cop said. He squatted again—that calm, slow, lithe movement—and reached—beneath the bumper. He fumbled there, on the other side of the place where the plate went, for a moment or two, his gray eyes gazing off toward the horizon. Pete was. invaded by an eerie sense of familiarity: he and his wife had been pulled over by the Marlboro Man.
“Ah!” the cop said. He stood up again. The hand he had—been investigating with was clenched into a loose fist. He held it out to Peter and opened it. Lying on his palm (and looking very small in that vast pinkness) was a road-dirty piece of screw. it was bright in only one place, where it had been sheared off.
Peter looked at it. then up at the cop. “I don’t get it.”
“Did you stop in Fallon.”
“No—”
There was a creak as Mary’s door opened, a clunk as she shut it behind her, then the scuff of her sneakers on the sandy shoulder as she walked toward the back of the car.
“Sure we did,” she said. She looked at the fragment of metal in the big hand (Deirdre’s registration and Peter’s driver’s license were still in the cop’s other one), then up at the cop’s face. She didn’t seem scared now—not as scared, anyway—and Peter was glad. He was already calling himself nine kinds of paranoid idiot, but you had to admit that this particular close encounter of the cop kind had had its (do you really think that’s wise) peculiar aspects.
“Pit-stop, Peter, don’t you remember.