JК
Desperation :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 8 из 422”
At the same moment Peter looked in the compartment where he kept business cards and saw his license He couldn’t remember putting it in there—why in the name of God would he have. — but there it was. In the photo graph he looked not like an assistant professor of English at NYU but an unemployed petty laborer (and possible serial killer). Yet it was him, recognizably him, and he felt his spirits lift. They had their papers, God was in his heaven, all was right with the world.
Besides, he thought, handing the cop his license this isn’t Albania, you know. It may not be in our zone of per ception, but it’s definitely not Albania.
“Peter.”
He turned, took the envelope she was holding out and gave her a wink. She tried to smile an acknowledgement, but it didn’t work very well. Outside, a gust of wind threw sand against the side of the car. Tiny grains of it stung Peter’s face and he slitted his eyes against it. Suddenly he wanted to be at least two thousand miles from Nevada, in any direction.
He took Deirdre’s registration and held it out to the cop, but the cop was still looking at his license.
“I see you’re an organ donor,” the cop said, without looking up. “Do you really think that’s wise.”
Peter was nonplussed. “Well, I…
“is that the vehicle registration, sir.” the cop asked crisply. He was now looking at the canary-yellow sheet of paper.
“Yes.”
“Hand it to me, please.”
Peter handed it out the window. Now the cop, still squatting Indian-fashion in the sunlight, had Peter’s driver’s license in one hand and Deirdre’s registration in the other.
He looked back and forth between them for what seemed a very long time. Peter felt light pressure on his thigh and jumped a little before realizing it was Mary’s hand. He took it and felt her fingers wrap around his at once.
“Your sister.” the cop said finally. He looked up at them with his bright gray eyes.
“Yes—”
“Her name is Finney. Yours is Jackson.”
“Deirdre was married for a year, between high school and college,” Mary said. Her voice was firm, pleasant, unafraid. Peter would have believed it completely if not for the clutch of her fingers. “She kept her husband’s name. That’s all it is.”
“A year, hmmm. Between high school and college. Married. Tak!”
His head remained down over the documents. Peter could see the peak of his Smokey Bear hat ticking back and forth as he fell to examining them again.
Peter’s sense of relief was slipping away.
At the same moment Peter looked in the compartment where he kept business cards and saw his license He couldn’t remember putting it in there—why in the name of God would he have. — but there it was. In the photo graph he looked not like an assistant professor of English at NYU but an unemployed petty laborer (and possible serial killer). Yet it was him, recognizably him, and he felt his spirits lift. They had their papers, God was in his heaven, all was right with the world.
Besides, he thought, handing the cop his license this isn’t Albania, you know. It may not be in our zone of per ception, but it’s definitely not Albania.
“Peter.”
He turned, took the envelope she was holding out and gave her a wink. She tried to smile an acknowledgement, but it didn’t work very well. Outside, a gust of wind threw sand against the side of the car. Tiny grains of it stung Peter’s face and he slitted his eyes against it. Suddenly he wanted to be at least two thousand miles from Nevada, in any direction.
He took Deirdre’s registration and held it out to the cop, but the cop was still looking at his license.
“I see you’re an organ donor,” the cop said, without looking up. “Do you really think that’s wise.”
Peter was nonplussed. “Well, I…
“is that the vehicle registration, sir.” the cop asked crisply. He was now looking at the canary-yellow sheet of paper.
“Yes.”
“Hand it to me, please.”
Peter handed it out the window. Now the cop, still squatting Indian-fashion in the sunlight, had Peter’s driver’s license in one hand and Deirdre’s registration in the other.
He looked back and forth between them for what seemed a very long time. Peter felt light pressure on his thigh and jumped a little before realizing it was Mary’s hand. He took it and felt her fingers wrap around his at once.
“Your sister.” the cop said finally. He looked up at them with his bright gray eyes.
“Yes—”
“Her name is Finney. Yours is Jackson.”
“Deirdre was married for a year, between high school and college,” Mary said. Her voice was firm, pleasant, unafraid. Peter would have believed it completely if not for the clutch of her fingers. “She kept her husband’s name. That’s all it is.”
“A year, hmmm. Between high school and college. Married. Tak!”
His head remained down over the documents. Peter could see the peak of his Smokey Bear hat ticking back and forth as he fell to examining them again.
Peter’s sense of relief was slipping away.