JК
Ыоуве Been Warned :: Patterson James
Страница: 7 из 138There’s not a lot of happiness along the sidewalks at this early hour. What I see is fatigue, angst, and a tremendous amount of boredom.
Of course, that’s what makes for good photographs. I mean, when’s the last time a smile won the Pulitzer?
Still, after the morning I’ve had, I decide to keep the camera tucked away in my shoulder bag. I’m feeling a little preoccupied. I’d say my head is in the clouds, except there aren’t any today. It’s a beautiful blue-skied morning in the middle of May, the kind of day that makes people happy to be alive.
So I take a deep breath and berate myself. Snap out of it, Kristin! And for a while, I do.
Right up until I turn the corner onto Madison.
And scream.
Not just a little one either.
I scream at the top of my lungs.
Chapter 5
OMIGOD. Omigod.
The police cars, the ambulances, the twirling beams of blue and red light.
This can’t be happening. It isn’t possible… But there it is anyway. Plus an awful smell in the air – like something burning!
The crowd gathered in front of the same hotel and the gurneys being wheeled out the entrance.
Can’t be! Cannot!
But it is.
My dream…it’s happening!
Everything just as I saw it. Every person too – the pin-striped businessman, the bike messenger, the mother with her stroller – all watching the murder scene.
And that smell – that’s new – but what is it?
I close my eyes, squeezing them tight as if to reboot my brain. Am I really seeing this?
Yes. I am seeing this, every insane detail.
My eyes blink open, and I’m still standing on the corner of 68th and Madison, in front of the Fálcon Hotel. The Fálcon, of all places.
I want to run away. I know I should bolt while the bolting’s good. Instead, I reach for my camera.
Don’t think, just shoot.
But I am thinking.
As my finger clicks madly away, I’m thinking that this is impossible, that it can’t be real, and the more I think this, the more I know I have to keep shooting.
I need proof.
The same powerful undertow as the one in my dream grabs hold of me as I inch closer to the entrance of the Fálcon. I look up at the windows of the surrounding brownstones and see the woman in curlers taking a bite out of her bagel.
Click, click, click.
My heart is pounding, pounding, pounding, as if there’s a big bass drum inside my chest.
I look at my hands. Then at my arms.
Of course, that’s what makes for good photographs. I mean, when’s the last time a smile won the Pulitzer?
Still, after the morning I’ve had, I decide to keep the camera tucked away in my shoulder bag. I’m feeling a little preoccupied. I’d say my head is in the clouds, except there aren’t any today. It’s a beautiful blue-skied morning in the middle of May, the kind of day that makes people happy to be alive.
So I take a deep breath and berate myself. Snap out of it, Kristin! And for a while, I do.
Right up until I turn the corner onto Madison.
And scream.
Not just a little one either.
I scream at the top of my lungs.
Chapter 5
OMIGOD. Omigod.
The police cars, the ambulances, the twirling beams of blue and red light.
This can’t be happening. It isn’t possible… But there it is anyway. Plus an awful smell in the air – like something burning!
The crowd gathered in front of the same hotel and the gurneys being wheeled out the entrance.
Can’t be! Cannot!
But it is.
My dream…it’s happening!
Everything just as I saw it. Every person too – the pin-striped businessman, the bike messenger, the mother with her stroller – all watching the murder scene.
And that smell – that’s new – but what is it?
I close my eyes, squeezing them tight as if to reboot my brain. Am I really seeing this?
Yes. I am seeing this, every insane detail.
My eyes blink open, and I’m still standing on the corner of 68th and Madison, in front of the Fálcon Hotel. The Fálcon, of all places.
I want to run away. I know I should bolt while the bolting’s good. Instead, I reach for my camera.
Don’t think, just shoot.
But I am thinking.
As my finger clicks madly away, I’m thinking that this is impossible, that it can’t be real, and the more I think this, the more I know I have to keep shooting.
I need proof.
The same powerful undertow as the one in my dream grabs hold of me as I inch closer to the entrance of the Fálcon. I look up at the windows of the surrounding brownstones and see the woman in curlers taking a bite out of her bagel.
Click, click, click.
My heart is pounding, pounding, pounding, as if there’s a big bass drum inside my chest.
I look at my hands. Then at my arms.