JК
Desperation :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 4 из 422”
Butof course he knew: he was slowing down. From his cut-em-off-at-the-pass eighty—five or ninety he had dropped to fifty. Frowning, not wanting to catch up and not knowing why, Peter slowed even more himself. The speedometer of Deirdre’s car dropped down toward forty.
“Peter.” Mary sounded alarmed. “Peter, I don’t like this.”
“It’s all right,” he said, but was it. He stared at the cop—car, now tooling slowly up the westbound lane to his left, and wondered. He tried to get a look at the person behind the wheel and couldn’t. The cruiser’s rear window was caked with desert dust.
Its taillights, also caked with dust, flickered briefly as the car slowed even more. Now it was doing barely thirty. A tumbleweed bounced into the road, and the cruiser’s radial tires crushed it under. It came out the back looking—to Peter Jackson like a nestle of broken fingers. All at—once he was frightened, very close to terror, in fact, and he hadn’t the slightest idea why.
Because Nevada ’s full of intense people, Marielle said so and Gary agreed, and this is how intense people act. In—a word, weird.
Of course that was bullshit, this really wasn’t weird, not very weird, anyhow, although—The cop-car taillights flickered some more. Peter pressed his own brake in response, not even thinking about what he was doing for a second, then looking at the speedometer and seeing he was down to twenty-five.
“What does he want, Pete.” By now, that was pretty obvious. “To be behind us again.
“Why.”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t he just pull over on the shoulder and let us go past, if that’s what he wants.”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“What are you going to—”
“Go by, of course.” And then, for no reason at all, he added: “After all, we didn’t nail the goddam cat to the speed-limit sign.”
He pushed down on the accelerator and immediately began to catch up with the dusty cruiser, which was now floating along at no more than twenty.
Mary grabbed the shoulder of his blue workshirt hard enough for him to feel the pressure of her short fingernails. “No, don’t.”
“Mare, there’s not a lot else I can do.”
And the conversation was already obsolete, because he was going by even as he spoke. Deirdre’s Acura drew alongside the dusty white Caprice, then passed it. Peter looked through two pieces of glass and saw very little. A big shape, a man-shape, that was about all.
Butof course he knew: he was slowing down. From his cut-em-off-at-the-pass eighty—five or ninety he had dropped to fifty. Frowning, not wanting to catch up and not knowing why, Peter slowed even more himself. The speedometer of Deirdre’s car dropped down toward forty.
“Peter.” Mary sounded alarmed. “Peter, I don’t like this.”
“It’s all right,” he said, but was it. He stared at the cop—car, now tooling slowly up the westbound lane to his left, and wondered. He tried to get a look at the person behind the wheel and couldn’t. The cruiser’s rear window was caked with desert dust.
Its taillights, also caked with dust, flickered briefly as the car slowed even more. Now it was doing barely thirty. A tumbleweed bounced into the road, and the cruiser’s radial tires crushed it under. It came out the back looking—to Peter Jackson like a nestle of broken fingers. All at—once he was frightened, very close to terror, in fact, and he hadn’t the slightest idea why.
Because Nevada ’s full of intense people, Marielle said so and Gary agreed, and this is how intense people act. In—a word, weird.
Of course that was bullshit, this really wasn’t weird, not very weird, anyhow, although—The cop-car taillights flickered some more. Peter pressed his own brake in response, not even thinking about what he was doing for a second, then looking at the speedometer and seeing he was down to twenty-five.
“What does he want, Pete.” By now, that was pretty obvious. “To be behind us again.
“Why.”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t he just pull over on the shoulder and let us go past, if that’s what he wants.”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“What are you going to—”
“Go by, of course.” And then, for no reason at all, he added: “After all, we didn’t nail the goddam cat to the speed-limit sign.”
He pushed down on the accelerator and immediately began to catch up with the dusty cruiser, which was now floating along at no more than twenty.
Mary grabbed the shoulder of his blue workshirt hard enough for him to feel the pressure of her short fingernails. “No, don’t.”
“Mare, there’s not a lot else I can do.”
And the conversation was already obsolete, because he was going by even as he spoke. Deirdre’s Acura drew alongside the dusty white Caprice, then passed it. Peter looked through two pieces of glass and saw very little. A big shape, a man-shape, that was about all.