White River Burning полностью

As Gurney ended the call, a chicken in the pen by the asparagus patch let out a startling squawk. It was a sound that still struck him with the visceral impact of an alarm, even though he’d learned during his year of chicken tending that the sounds they made rarely had any decipherable purpose. Utterances that resembled cries of distress never seemed to coincide with the presence of threats of any kind.

Still, he ambled over to the pen to assure himself that all was well.

The big Rhode Island Red was standing in that perfect chicken pose, presenting the classic profile featured in country-craft art. It reminded him that he needed to sweep out the coop, change the water, and refill the feeder.

While Madeleine always seemed pleased by the variety of her roles in life, Gurney’s reaction to his diverse responsibilities was less positive. A therapist had long ago advised him to actively be everything he was—a husband to his wife, a father to his son, a son to his parents, a fellow worker to his workmates, a friend to his friends. He insisted that balance and peace in one’s life depended on participating in each part of that life. Gurney had no argument with the logic of this. As a guiding principle it felt true and right. But he recoiled from the practice of it. For all its horrors and perils, his detective work was the only part of his life that came naturally to him. Being a husband, a father, a son, a friend—all of these required a special effort, perhaps even a special kind of courage, that tracking down murderers did not.

Of course, he knew in his heart that being a man meant more than being a cop, and leading a good life often meant swimming against the current of one’s inclinations. He also felt the nudging of an axiom his therapist was fond of repeating: The only time a man can do the right thing is right now. So, embracing a sense of duty and purpose, he got the utility broom from the mudroom and headed for the chicken coop.

With an energizing sense of accomplishment from having dealt with the dirt, the water, and the feed, he decided to go on to another maintenance task that needed doing—the mowing of the broad path that encircled the high pasture. That activity did promise certain distinct pleasures—the bursts of fragrance rising from the patches of wild mint, the view from the top of the pasture out over the unspoiled green hills, the sweet air, the cerulean sky.

At the end of the pasture path he came to the trail above the pond that led to his excavation. Although the shaded grass there was slower growing, he decided to mow it as well, proceeding under the canopy of cherry trees until he arrived at the excavation itself. He stopped there, picturing the artifacts he’d uncovered and pondering Thrasher’s strange comment on the teeth. Something told him it would be best to put it out of his mind and finish the mowing job. But that idea was replaced by another—to spend a few minutes digging down a few additional inches along the foundation, just to see if anything of interest might turn up.

His tractor with the mini-backhoe attachment was still up by the house, but there was a spade by the excavation. He went down the little ladder and began prying shovelfuls of soil away from the base of the stone wall that Thrasher had been probing. Working his way along it, finding nothing but more soil and suspecting that he was becoming a trifle obsessive, he decided to return to his mowing. Then, as he turned over a final shovelful, he noted something solid. He took it at first to be just a hardened lump of reddish-brown clay, but when he picked it up and worked it in his hands he discovered embedded in the clay a rusted piece of iron, thick and curved. As he dislodged more of the caked soil, he saw that it was a circle of iron, perhaps three inches in diameter, with a thick chain link attached to the side of it.

While he realized that it could have a variety of uses, one in particular was obvious. It looked very much like some form of shackle—like half of a primitive set of handcuffs.

The westbound drive to White River consisted of a gradual descent from modest mountains and sloping meadows through rolling hills and broad valleys into a region of shabby strip malls. The final symbol of the area’s economic depression was the abandoned White River stone quarry, made famous by the sensational news coverage of an explosion that killed six passing motorists, bankrupted the company, and led to the unnerving discovery that someone had made off with more than a hundred sticks of dynamite.