The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗

sandwiches at an uncomfortable wrought-iron table on a crowded patio. Overhead, seagulls

swooped and sailed, their cries mingling with the crash of the surf a few yards away.

Surprisingly, there was plenty to talk about without once veering off into murder or

demonology, but eventually we circled back to what was on both our minds.

“What did you think of Oliver?” Guy asked. He drew his pipe out, then put it away

again. Apparently he was still adjusting to the fact that California was not a smoker-friendly

state.

“He’s an interesting guy. But I think he knows more than he’s letting on. He avoided

answering what significance the sign of Gremory might have at a crime scene.”

“He didn’t avoid it,” Guy objected. “He pointed out that it’s impossible to follow the

reasoning of a disturbed intellect.”

“Not so. Profilers do that very thing. If the sigil has symbolic or ritual significance, then

that’s an important clue to the killer.”

“Oliver doesn’t believe that’s the case.”

“Maybe he’s wrong. He dismissed the idea of group involvement, and I know that’s

wrong. I didn’t imagine my run-in with Betty and Veronica.”

“Who?”

“Sorry. Betty and the Perone girl. Someone painted an inverted pentagram on my

threshold. It wasn’t Angus, ipso facto, other people are involved.”

He didn’t reply. I studied his brown profile as he stared out at the beach. The sea

breeze stirred the long silver tendrils on his forehead back from his face. His silence, his

stillness seemed to shut me out – and I realized I didn’t like that.

“You said you spoke to this former student. Whatever he told you led you to infer that

others were involved.” Casually, I added, “Granted, whatever he said also led you to believe

that the problem had been resolved.”

Once again, I had Guy’s full attention. His face mirrored exasperation. “The point of

visiting Oliver was that he’s the expert in this field. If he says there’s no cult involved, there’s

no cult.”

I noticed Guy seemed touchy every time I brought up the subject of this mysterious

former student. “Garibaldi didn’t say that. He said he had never heard of Blade Sable. I think

he was lying.”

“Lying? Why should he lie?”

“Maybe he wanted to know a bit more about me before he revealed trade secrets.” I

paused. “Or maybe he’s involved.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Well, you’ve got to admit that for one who professes to be above any form of religion,

he’s got an awful lot of expensive religious artifacts lying around.”

Testily, he answered, “The fact that he’s reached a point in his own intellectual and

spiritual development where he no longer requires the opiate of religion doesn’t nullify a

lifetime spent in exploring and studying these mythologies.”

What was with me? I couldn’t seem to resist needling Guy. By his expression he was

thinking the same thing. I said, trying to appease, “I agree. I’m not seriously suggesting he’s

involved, just that I think he didn’t spill all he knows.”

The waitress arrived with the bill, forestalling an answer. I reached for it, but Guy was

faster.

“Hey, this one’s on me,” I protested.

“I’ve got it.” When I opened my mouth to argue, he repeated, “I’ve got it .”

“Well…thanks, then.”

He nodded curtly, our earlier rapport gone.

Too bad, because I liked Guy, even if I didn’t totally trust him – although apparently I

trusted him enough to coerce him into helping me help Angus.

I sensed he had allegiances to people who might not be as sympathetic to my aims.

Garibaldi was one such person; another was this former student whom Guy had originally

suspected of being involved in harassing Angus. Apparently Guy didn’t entirely trust me

either, since he wasn’t sharing that person’s name – or maybe he was demonstrating loyalty

to an old friend. Loyalty wasn’t a bad trait in a friend or a lover.

The problem was, I had made a bad mistake once – a nearly fatal mistake – and not

that long ago. I didn’t intend to repeat history.

We walked back to the parking lot, folded ourselves into the red Miata, still without

speaking. Guy started to pull out of the parking lot, then braked.

“D’you want to take a walk on the beach before we head back?”

I hesitated, thought, why not? “Sure.”

We parked along the highway and walked the steep, curved path to Abalone Cove.

As it was off-season, we had the beach to ourselves except for a pair of seals sunning

themselves on rocks. Several yards out in the slate blue water, wet-suited surfers sat on their

boards waiting for the next wave. Gulls squawked overhead, hanging motionless in the salty

air.

Guy nodded out at the sun-dazzled ocean. “They’re seeing more white sharks along this

stretch of coast.”

“Great whites?”

“Juveniles and sub-adults mostly.”

“Juveniles and sub-adults can do a lot of damage.”

“True.”

With his hair pulled back and the loose sleeves of his shirt, Guy had the look of a

buccaneer. I admitted to myself that trust or no, I was increasingly attracted to him – but

then, let’s face it, I’ve got a thing for pirates.

“You’re not seeing anyone?” I asked, against my better judgment.

He replied, as though stating it for the record, “I’m not involved in a serious

monogamous relationship.”

I was, but it was apparently a solo effort.

I stopped to dump the sand out of my shoe, gripping the hand Guy offered as I balanced

there on one foot. The muscles bunched in his forearm as he steadied me, his fingers locking

with mine. He didn’t immediately let go when I straightened. We stood there for a moment

holding hands; I tried to remember the last time I’d held a guy’s hand.

“It’s funny,” he said. “But the older I get, the more I value the conversation that takes

place between the hot sex, as opposed to the hot sex itself.”

I grinned. “You are getting old.”

He laughed and let me go.

We walked and talked a while longer, both of us deliberately avoiding any subject that

might disturb our newly-recovered amity. Guy spoke about studying and living in Great

Britain, and I talked about the thrilling adventures of running a local bookstore.