Last Gasp полностью

"You will not know me," Boris Stanovnik said in his deep Russian voice, taking her hand. "You were a little child, with golden hair and, er --what are they called?" He tapped his cheeks and nose.

"Freckles," Cheryl smiled. "I still have them in summer, but not the golden hair unfortunately. Yes, I do remember you. I was tiny and you were a giant," she said, at her most artful.

Boris chuckled. "And children never forget giants, eh?"

Cheryl shook her head, smiling, liking this man at once. He was how she imagined a fairy-tale Russian peasant to be, honest as the day, lacking all sophistry and guile. It pleased her immensely that her father had found a friendly soul in a desert of indifference.

It was still quite early, a few minutes after nine-thirty, and she could see that Theo was in the mood to chat for hours yet. Feeling tired, and happy to let them talk, she rose and excused herself, at which the Russian lumbered to his feet and gallantly kissed her hand. She was charmed, knowing the gesture to be one of genuine courtesy and not mere flashy display.

On her way to the elevator, thinking, Oh, Gordon, what a helluva lot you've got to learn! she passed the board in the lobby and words in colored plexiglass seemed to spring out at her . . . Global . . . Toxic . . . Ozone . . . Hazards . . . Carbon Dioxide . . . Problem . . . Waste . . .

It was all there, screaming to be heard. After all, the people at the conference were the concerned ones, the responsible ones. They would have listened, she was convinced, if only Theo had been given the chance to speak. Why had that damned committee turned him down? It baffled her and also made her feel uneasy. Was there a political slant to it? Were they frightened that what Theo had to say was too alarmist? Or was she being too dramatic herself, imagining boogeymen where none existed? Maybe the truth was that the committee's attitude was typified by the official with his round shoulders and meek eyes and closed mind.

As the doors slid open and she stepped inside, Cheryl was struck by a vision of the stinking red algae bloom churning up from under the stern of the Melville.

That, surely to God, was proof that what her father feared was fact and not fantasy: a glimpse of the coming horror he had seen in his mind's eye.

The doors were halfway closed when a man slipped through. He was tall, broad-shouldered, burned dark by tropical sun, and wearing a white suit. Preoccupied, Cheryl didn't think it odd when he didn't inquire which floor she wanted, but pressed the one button that happened to be her floor, too.

"I don't fancy yours," Nick said.

"I don't fancy either one."

"Come on, Gav, don't be like that. The one with the big bumpers hasn't taken her eyes off you all night. The little redhead will suit me fine. How about it?"

Chase drained the last few drops of pilsner beer, grimaced--no wonder they drank more wine than beer on the Continent--and set the glass down. He wiped his mouth and said, "Not tonight, Josephine. But go right ahead. You can take your pick. Only please don't come crashing in at two in the morning, will you?"

"Great!" Nick said without enthusiasm. He scratched his beard viciously. "If I'd known you were the Virgin Mary I'd have asked Lord Longford to come instead, Thanks a bunch."

"See you at breakfast," Chase said, sliding down from the barstool.

"You're not really going?"

"Looks like it." At the foliage-shrouded entrance to the bar he turned and saw Nick semaphoring with his eyebrows to the two young girls, one of whom, he had to admit, was rather attractive. The one with the big bumpers, in fact. As he went out he saw her gazing after him, and for just one instant regretted his premature departure. No, he couldn't. Not that he was morally whiter than white, not that at all. It was the thought that Angie herself might be having an affair (harmless flirtation?) that stopped him cold. The worm of suspicion had burrowed deep inside him and he couldn't kill the little bastard. It tainted everything, rotted the flesh of the apple.

He walked across the lobby, belching warm beer fumes, and just made it to the elevator as the doors were closing. The woman inside, feathered hat swaying above a face like a weathered prune, regarded him with distinct hostility as he tried to contain a rippling belch, failed, and didn't get his handkerchief out in time either. The reverberation seemed to rock the elevator.

The feathered prune got out at the second floor, much to Chase's relief. He carried on to the third and walked along the densely carpeted corridor, trying not to think about what Angie was doing, and by default thinking about it. The strident cry stopped him in his tracks, and he stood, caught in midstride, his mouth instantly dry.

"You heard me--get out, you bastard!"

A woman's voice, very angry, frayed at the edges with fear.

The corridor seemed to have swallowed up the sound and in the silence Chase wasn't sure he'd actually heard anything.