JК
Ыоуве Been Warned :: Patterson James
Страница: 27 из 138What was I thinking?
Obviously I misheard the guyon the radio. I was under the shower, after all. Too much water in the ears.
That has to be it.
I reach for my camera. These won’t be my most inspired pictures, but they may be among my most satisfying. See, Kris, you’re not as crazy as you thought.
And after clicking away, I’ll go inside the hotel and ask the front desk what happenedyesterday. I’ll get the story, the scoop, the truth. Then I’ll put this whole bizarre thing behind me.
I lift the camera to my eye, my hand reaching to focus. I’m twisting the lens clockwise when I feel someone touch my shoulder.
I freeze.
Like a picture.
Click!
Then -crash!
The camera slips from my grasp, falling to the pavement.
Chapter 21
DAMN IT TO HELL! I stoop to pick up the Leica. Still in one piece, but the lens shattered on impact.
Then I spin around – and it’s his eyes I see first, the same intense stare as yesterday. It’s that detective, the thin older man who smells of aftershave and tobacco and has that look that says “I know you did something.”
He stands there, dressed in what appears to be the same dark gray suit, as I try to catch my breath. He says nothing – not even “Sorry I startled you.” Instead, he seems to be suppressing a smile. What, this is funny to you?
Suddenly, I don’t care how foolish I might look to him.
“Do you always sneak up and scare the hell out of people?” I ask him angrily. “You have some nerve.”
“I was hardly sneaking,” he says.
I watch as he pulls out a pack of Marlboros, shaking a cigarette loose. His hands are huge, knotted and gnarled. This guy works for a living.
“So, what brings you here?” he asks, lighting up, then inhaling deeply, enjoying it. “Or should I say, what brings you back here?”
It’s a simple question, certainly not unexpected given the circumstances. Still, I immediately get this vibe from him. He isn’t so much asking as he is interrogating.
“I’m on my way to work,” I answer. “This is the route I take every day. Most days.”
He exhales a thin stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “You want one?” he asks, extending the pack.
“No, thanks.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t smoke,” I say.
“You used to, though.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The way you’re looking at the cigarette,” he says.
Obviously I misheard the guyon the radio. I was under the shower, after all. Too much water in the ears.
That has to be it.
I reach for my camera. These won’t be my most inspired pictures, but they may be among my most satisfying. See, Kris, you’re not as crazy as you thought.
And after clicking away, I’ll go inside the hotel and ask the front desk what happenedyesterday. I’ll get the story, the scoop, the truth. Then I’ll put this whole bizarre thing behind me.
I lift the camera to my eye, my hand reaching to focus. I’m twisting the lens clockwise when I feel someone touch my shoulder.
I freeze.
Like a picture.
Click!
Then -crash!
The camera slips from my grasp, falling to the pavement.
Chapter 21
DAMN IT TO HELL! I stoop to pick up the Leica. Still in one piece, but the lens shattered on impact.
Then I spin around – and it’s his eyes I see first, the same intense stare as yesterday. It’s that detective, the thin older man who smells of aftershave and tobacco and has that look that says “I know you did something.”
He stands there, dressed in what appears to be the same dark gray suit, as I try to catch my breath. He says nothing – not even “Sorry I startled you.” Instead, he seems to be suppressing a smile. What, this is funny to you?
Suddenly, I don’t care how foolish I might look to him.
“Do you always sneak up and scare the hell out of people?” I ask him angrily. “You have some nerve.”
“I was hardly sneaking,” he says.
I watch as he pulls out a pack of Marlboros, shaking a cigarette loose. His hands are huge, knotted and gnarled. This guy works for a living.
“So, what brings you here?” he asks, lighting up, then inhaling deeply, enjoying it. “Or should I say, what brings you back here?”
It’s a simple question, certainly not unexpected given the circumstances. Still, I immediately get this vibe from him. He isn’t so much asking as he is interrogating.
“I’m on my way to work,” I answer. “This is the route I take every day. Most days.”
He exhales a thin stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “You want one?” he asks, extending the pack.
“No, thanks.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t smoke,” I say.
“You used to, though.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The way you’re looking at the cigarette,” he says.