JК
Desperation :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 30 из 422It would probably pass, and in the meantime, David did not quote verses at him on the subject of gambling, cursing, or avoiding the razor on weekends, and that was good enough forRalph. He loved the kid, after all, and love stretched to cover a multitude of oddities. He had an idea that was one of the things love was for.
Ralph had been opening his mouth to ask David if he wanted to play Twenty Questions—there had been nothing much to look at since leaving Ely that morning and he was bored out of his mind—when he felt the Wayfarer’s steering suddenly go mushy in his hands and heard the highway-drone of the tires suddenly become a flapping sound.
“Dad.” David asked. He sounded concerned but not—panicked. That was good.
“Everything okay.”
“Hold on,” he had said, and began pumping the brakes. “This could be a little rough.”
Now, standing at the bars and watching the dazed woman who might be their only hope of surviving this—nightmare, he thought: I really had no idea of what rough was, did I.
It hurt his head to scream, but he screamed anyway, unaware of how much he sounded like his own son: “Shoot him, lady, shoot him!”
What Mary Jackson recalled, what caused her to reach for the shotgun even though she had never actually held a gun—rifle or pistol—in her entire life, was the memory of the big cop mixing the words I’m going to kill you into the Miranda warning.
And he meant it. Oh God yes.
She swung around with the gun. The big blond CO—was standing in the doorway, looking at her with his bright gray empty eyes.
“Shoot him, lady, shoot him!” a man screamed. He was in the cell to Mary’s right, standing next to a woman with an eye so black that the bruise had sent tendrils down her cheek, like ink injected beneath the skin. The man looked even worse; the left side of his face appeared to be covered with caked, half-dried blood.
The cop ran at her, his boots rattling on the hardwood floor. Mary stepped back, away from him and toward the big empty cell at the rear of the room, pulling back both of the shotgun’s hammers with the side of her thumb as she retreated. Then she raised it to her shoulder. She had no intention of warning hint I-fe had just killed her husband in cold blood, and she had no intention of warning him.
Ralph had pumped the brakes and held the wheel with his elbows locked, letting it work back and forth a little in his hands but not too much. He could feel the RV trying to yaw.
The secret to handling a high-speed blow-out in an RV, he’d been told, was to let it yaw—a little, anyway. Although—bad news, folks—this didn’t feel like just one blowout.
Ralph had been opening his mouth to ask David if he wanted to play Twenty Questions—there had been nothing much to look at since leaving Ely that morning and he was bored out of his mind—when he felt the Wayfarer’s steering suddenly go mushy in his hands and heard the highway-drone of the tires suddenly become a flapping sound.
“Dad.” David asked. He sounded concerned but not—panicked. That was good.
“Everything okay.”
“Hold on,” he had said, and began pumping the brakes. “This could be a little rough.”
Now, standing at the bars and watching the dazed woman who might be their only hope of surviving this—nightmare, he thought: I really had no idea of what rough was, did I.
It hurt his head to scream, but he screamed anyway, unaware of how much he sounded like his own son: “Shoot him, lady, shoot him!”
What Mary Jackson recalled, what caused her to reach for the shotgun even though she had never actually held a gun—rifle or pistol—in her entire life, was the memory of the big cop mixing the words I’m going to kill you into the Miranda warning.
And he meant it. Oh God yes.
She swung around with the gun. The big blond CO—was standing in the doorway, looking at her with his bright gray empty eyes.
“Shoot him, lady, shoot him!” a man screamed. He was in the cell to Mary’s right, standing next to a woman with an eye so black that the bruise had sent tendrils down her cheek, like ink injected beneath the skin. The man looked even worse; the left side of his face appeared to be covered with caked, half-dried blood.
The cop ran at her, his boots rattling on the hardwood floor. Mary stepped back, away from him and toward the big empty cell at the rear of the room, pulling back both of the shotgun’s hammers with the side of her thumb as she retreated. Then she raised it to her shoulder. She had no intention of warning hint I-fe had just killed her husband in cold blood, and she had no intention of warning him.
Ralph had pumped the brakes and held the wheel with his elbows locked, letting it work back and forth a little in his hands but not too much. He could feel the RV trying to yaw.
The secret to handling a high-speed blow-out in an RV, he’d been told, was to let it yaw—a little, anyway. Although—bad news, folks—this didn’t feel like just one blowout.