JК
Desperation :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 39 из 422But the chair was there, and it slammed into her midsection again, doubling her forward anddrawing a harsh retching noise from her.
“Drop it Mary, drop it!” the cop yelled.
But she wouldn’t. As the cop pulled the desk back again (Why doesn’t he just charge her. Ralph thought. I)oesn’t he know the, damned gun is empty.), shells spilling off the top and rolling everywhere, she reversed it so she could grip the twin barrels. Then she leaned for-ward and brought the stock down over the top of the desk like a club. The cop tried to drop his right shoulder, but the burled walnut stock of the gun caught him on the collarbone just the same. He grunted. Ralph had no idea if it was a grunt of surprise, pain, or simple exasperation, but the sound drew a scream of approval from across the room, where David was still standing with his hands wrapped around the bars of the cell he was in. His face was pale and sweaty, his eyes blazing. The old man with the white hair had joined him.
The cop pulled the desk back once more—the blow to his shoulder did not noticeably impair his ability to do this—and slammed it forward again, hitting the woman with the chair and driving her into the bars. She uttered another harsh cry.
“Put it down!” the cop yelled. It was a funny kind of yell, and for a moment Ralph found himself hoping that the bastard was hurt after all. Then he realized the cop was laughing.
“Put it down or I’ll beat you to a pulp, I really will The dark-haired woman—Mary—raised the gun again, but this time with no conviction.
One side of her shirt had pulled out of her jeans, and Ralph could see bright red marks on the white skin of her waist and belly. He knew that, were she to take the shirt off, he would see the chair—back’s silhouette tattooed all the way up to the cups of her bra.
She held the gun in the air for a moment, the inlaid stock wavering, then threw it aside. It clattered across to the cell where David and the white-haired man were. David looked down at it.
“Don’t touch it, son,” the white-haired man said. “it’s empty, just leave it alone.”
The cop glanced at David and the white-haired man. Then, smiling brilliantly, he looked at the woman with her back to the drunk-tank bars. He pulled the desk away from her, went around it, and kicked at the chair. It voy-aged across the hardwood on its squeaky casters and thumped to a stop against the empty cell next to Ralph and Ellie. The cop put an arm around the dark-haired woman’s shoulders. He looked at her almost tenderly. She responded with the blackest glance Ralph had ever seen in his life.
“Can you walk.” the cop asked her.
“Drop it Mary, drop it!” the cop yelled.
But she wouldn’t. As the cop pulled the desk back again (Why doesn’t he just charge her. Ralph thought. I)oesn’t he know the, damned gun is empty.), shells spilling off the top and rolling everywhere, she reversed it so she could grip the twin barrels. Then she leaned for-ward and brought the stock down over the top of the desk like a club. The cop tried to drop his right shoulder, but the burled walnut stock of the gun caught him on the collarbone just the same. He grunted. Ralph had no idea if it was a grunt of surprise, pain, or simple exasperation, but the sound drew a scream of approval from across the room, where David was still standing with his hands wrapped around the bars of the cell he was in. His face was pale and sweaty, his eyes blazing. The old man with the white hair had joined him.
The cop pulled the desk back once more—the blow to his shoulder did not noticeably impair his ability to do this—and slammed it forward again, hitting the woman with the chair and driving her into the bars. She uttered another harsh cry.
“Put it down!” the cop yelled. It was a funny kind of yell, and for a moment Ralph found himself hoping that the bastard was hurt after all. Then he realized the cop was laughing.
“Put it down or I’ll beat you to a pulp, I really will The dark-haired woman—Mary—raised the gun again, but this time with no conviction.
One side of her shirt had pulled out of her jeans, and Ralph could see bright red marks on the white skin of her waist and belly. He knew that, were she to take the shirt off, he would see the chair—back’s silhouette tattooed all the way up to the cups of her bra.
She held the gun in the air for a moment, the inlaid stock wavering, then threw it aside. It clattered across to the cell where David and the white-haired man were. David looked down at it.
“Don’t touch it, son,” the white-haired man said. “it’s empty, just leave it alone.”
The cop glanced at David and the white-haired man. Then, smiling brilliantly, he looked at the woman with her back to the drunk-tank bars. He pulled the desk away from her, went around it, and kicked at the chair. It voy-aged across the hardwood on its squeaky casters and thumped to a stop against the empty cell next to Ralph and Ellie. The cop put an arm around the dark-haired woman’s shoulders. He looked at her almost tenderly. She responded with the blackest glance Ralph had ever seen in his life.
“Can you walk.” the cop asked her.