Dean R Koontz Moonlight Bay 1 Fear nothing

Odnośniki

[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

By the time I put on the glasses and peered inside again, Pinn had
disappeared into the second basement room. That farther door stood
half open as well, and light blazed beyond.
"It's a concrete floor in there," I whispered. "My Nikes won't make a
sound, but your claws will tick. Stay."
I pressed open the door before me and eased into the basement.
Orson remained outside, at the foot of the stairs. Perhaps he was
obedient this time because I'd given him a logical reason to be.
Or perhaps, because of something he had smelled, he knew that
proceeding farther was ill-advised. Dogs have an olfactory sense
thousands of times sharper than ours, bringing them more data than all
human senses combined.
With the sunglasses, I was safe from the light, yet I could see more
than well enough to navigate the room. I avoided the open center,
staying close to the furnaces and the other equipment, where I could
duck into a niche and hope to hide if I heard Jesse Pinn returning.
Time and sweat had by now diminished the effectiveness of the sunscreen
on my face and hands, but I was counting on my layer of soot to protect
me. My hands appeared to be sheathed in black silk gloves, and I
assumed that my face was equally masked.
When I reached the inner door, I heard two distant voices, both male,
one belonging to Pinn. They were muffled, and I couldn't understand
what was being said.
I glanced at the outside door, where Orson peered in at me, one ear at
attention and the other at ease.
Beyond the inner door was a long, narrow, largely empty room.
Only a few of the overhead lights were aglow, suspended on chains
between exposed water pipes and heating ducts, but I didn't remove my
sunglasses.
At the end, this chamber proved to be part of an L-shaped and the next
length, which opened to the right, was longer space, and wider than the
first, although still dimly lighted. This second section was used as a
storeroom, and seeking the voices, I crept past boxes of supplies,
decorations for various holidays and celebrations, and file cabinets
full of church records. Everywhere shadows gathered like convocations
of robed and cowled monks, and I removed my sunglasses.
The voices grew louder as I proceeded, but the acoustics were terrible,
and I still couldn't discern any words. Although he was not shouting,
Pinn was angry, which I deduced from a low menace in his voice. The
other man sounded as though he was trying to placate the undertaker.
A complete life-size creche was arrayed across half the width of the
room: not merely Joseph and the Holy Virgin at a cradle with the Christ
child, but also the entire manger scene with wise men, camels, donkeys,
lambs, and heralding angels. The stable was made of lumber, and the
bales of hay were real; the people and animals were plaster over
chicken wire and lath, their clothes and features painted by a gifted
artist, protected by a waterproof lacquer that gave them a supernatural
glow even in this poor light. judging by the tools, paint, and other
supplies at the periphery of the collection, repairs were being made,
after which the creche would be put under drop cloths until next
Christmas.
Beginning to make out scattered words of Pinn's conversation with the
unknown man, I moved among the figures, some of which were taller than
I am. The scene was disorienting because none of the elements was
staged for display; none was in its proper relationship to the
others.
One of the wise men stood with his face in the bell of an angel's
raised trumpet, and Joseph appeared to be engaged in a conversation
with a camel. Baby Jesus lay unattended in His cradle, which stood on
a bale of hay to one side. Mary sat with a beatific smile and an
adoring gaze, but the object of her attention, rather than being her
holy child, was a galvanized bucket. Another wise man seemed to be
looking up a camel's butt.
I wended through this disorganized creche, and near the end of it, I
used a lute-playing angel for cover. I was in shadows, but peering
past the curve of a half-furled wing, I saw Jesse Pinn in the light
about twenty feet away, hectoring another man near the stairs that led
up to the main floor of the church.
"You've been warned," Pinn said, raising his voice until it was almost
a snarl. "How many times have You been warned?"
At first I could not see the other man, who was blocked by Pinn. He
spoke quietly, evenly, and I could not hear what he said.
The undertaker reacted in disgust and began to pace agitatedly, combing
one hand through his disarranged hair.
Now I saw that the second man was Father Tom Eliot, rector of St.
Bernadette's.
"You fool, You stupid shit," Pinn said furiously, bitterly. "You
prattling, God-gushing moron."
Father Tom was five feet eight, plump, with the expressive and rubbery
face of a natural-born comedian. Although I wasn't a member of his-or
any-church, I'd spoken with him on several occasions, and he seemed to
be a singularly good-natured man with a self-deprecating sense of humor
and an almost childlike enthusiasm for life. I had no trouble [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

zanotowane.pl

doc.pisz.pl

pdf.pisz.pl

angamoss.xlx.pl