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Circus of the Damned :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 99 из 210I wasn't sympathetic.
The knife wound was already red. It would be a hell of a bruise tomorrow.
The zombie stood on top of its grave, staring at me. There was life in the eyes; someone was home. The trick was, was it the right someone?
"Are you Andrew Doughal?" I asked.
He licked his lips and said, "I am." It was a rough voice. A voice for ordering people about. I wasn't impressed. It was my blood that gave him the voice. The dead really are mute, really do forget who and what they are, until they taste fresh blood. Homer was right; makes you wonder what else was true in the Iliad.
I put pressure on the knife wound with my other hand and stepped back, off the grave. "He'll answer your questions now," I said. "But keep them simple. He's been mostly dead all day."
The lawyers didn't smile. I guess I didn't blame them. I waved them forward. They hung back. Squeamish lawyers? Surely not.
Mrs. Doughal poked her lawyer in the arm. "Get on with it. This is costing a fortune."
I started to say we don't charge by the minute, but for all I knew Bert had arranged for the longer the corpse was up, the more expensive it was. That actually was a good idea. Andrew Doughal was fine tonight. He answered questions in his cultured, articulate voice. If you ignored the way his skin glistened in the moonlight, he looked alive. But give it a few days, or weeks. He'd rot; they all rotted. If Bert had figured out a way to make clients put the dead back in their graves before pieces started to fall off, so much the better.
There were few things as sad as the family bringing dear old mom back to the cemetery with expensive perfume covering up the smell of decay. The worst was the client who had bathed her husband before bringing him back. She had to bring most of his flesh in a plastic garbage sack. The meat had just slid off the bone in the warm water.
Larry moved back, stumbling over a flowerpot. I caught him, and he fell against me, still unsteady.
He smiled. "Thanks. . for everything." He stared at me, our faces inches apart. A trickle of sweat oozed down his face in the cold October night.
"You got a coat?"
"In my car."
"Get it and put it on. You'll catch your death sweating in this cold."
His smile flashed into a grin. "Anything you say, boss." His eyes were bigger than they should have been, a lot of white showing. "You pulled me back from the edge. I won't forget."
"Gratitude is great, kid, but go get your coat. You can't work if you're home sick with the flu.
The knife wound was already red. It would be a hell of a bruise tomorrow.
The zombie stood on top of its grave, staring at me. There was life in the eyes; someone was home. The trick was, was it the right someone?
"Are you Andrew Doughal?" I asked.
He licked his lips and said, "I am." It was a rough voice. A voice for ordering people about. I wasn't impressed. It was my blood that gave him the voice. The dead really are mute, really do forget who and what they are, until they taste fresh blood. Homer was right; makes you wonder what else was true in the Iliad.
I put pressure on the knife wound with my other hand and stepped back, off the grave. "He'll answer your questions now," I said. "But keep them simple. He's been mostly dead all day."
The lawyers didn't smile. I guess I didn't blame them. I waved them forward. They hung back. Squeamish lawyers? Surely not.
Mrs. Doughal poked her lawyer in the arm. "Get on with it. This is costing a fortune."
I started to say we don't charge by the minute, but for all I knew Bert had arranged for the longer the corpse was up, the more expensive it was. That actually was a good idea. Andrew Doughal was fine tonight. He answered questions in his cultured, articulate voice. If you ignored the way his skin glistened in the moonlight, he looked alive. But give it a few days, or weeks. He'd rot; they all rotted. If Bert had figured out a way to make clients put the dead back in their graves before pieces started to fall off, so much the better.
There were few things as sad as the family bringing dear old mom back to the cemetery with expensive perfume covering up the smell of decay. The worst was the client who had bathed her husband before bringing him back. She had to bring most of his flesh in a plastic garbage sack. The meat had just slid off the bone in the warm water.
Larry moved back, stumbling over a flowerpot. I caught him, and he fell against me, still unsteady.
He smiled. "Thanks. . for everything." He stared at me, our faces inches apart. A trickle of sweat oozed down his face in the cold October night.
"You got a coat?"
"In my car."
"Get it and put it on. You'll catch your death sweating in this cold."
His smile flashed into a grin. "Anything you say, boss." His eyes were bigger than they should have been, a lot of white showing. "You pulled me back from the edge. I won't forget."
"Gratitude is great, kid, but go get your coat. You can't work if you're home sick with the flu.