Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake (лучшие книги без регистрации txt) 📗
“The Lord’s always there to help you heal,” the roofer said.
The Lord had too many agents of healing, that was the problem. From Dr. Masutu to Rheinsfeldt to Father Rose, Jacob was bound for glory no matter what. God probably needed a developer to help house all those angels. Real estate followed the universal law of supply and demand. When the value went up, only the richest could buy.
“I’m getting better,” Jacob said to the roofer. His chest hurt and he was thirsty.
“Terrible thing, to lose a daughter like that.”
“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.” Jacob wondered if those words were actually in the Bible, or if they were like most religious uttering and simply repeated until they became meaningless, a hollow mantra, an oral admission of helplessness and resignation.
“That He does,” the man with the cigarette said. The wind rose and the American flag on the pole in front of town hall snapped to brisk attention. A woman came out of the drugstore carrying an orange-and-white-striped prescription bag. Jacob recognized her as also being a choir member. Her face was twisted as if it had been kicked by a horse. She nodded to Jacob and went to stand beside the man in the sling.
“We’re praying for you, Mr. Wells,” she said. “You and the missus.”
“It can’t hurt none,” Jacob said.
Nothing could hurt, not anymore. Not when his skin was new and his heart was encased in emotional scar tissue. Prayers and arrows could not penetrate. He looked at his bare wrist as if he had an appointment, then said good-bye and hurried away. He went past town hall, a brick building that bore a portrait of his father in the lobby. Next to town hall was the downtown fire station. He glanced at his reflection in the glass door and saw a hunched, sickly man.
Then the door swung open and the fire chief, Davidson, came out. Her belt was too tight and her stomach strained against the waistband of her pants. Her thick biceps were tight against her short shirt sleeves. Sweat darkened the blue shirt beneath her armpits.
“Mr. Wells, I’ve been trying to get hold of you,” she said.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of me myself.”
“The report came back from the SBI. I did the initial scene, and I didn’t see anything that set off alarms. But when there’s a fatality, we have to give it a closer look. The spalling and the depth of the charred remains suggested that it started near the sliding glass door by your computer.”
“My wife already told you that.”
“There was some question about why it spread so fast. The state lab did a gas analysis and didn’t find any trace of an accelerant. When a house gets eaten up in less than twenty minutes, you would expect to find some lighter fluid, gasoline, or something as simple as the impression of a matchstick.”
“You’re talking arson.”
Davidson gave a dutiful nod of the head. “That’s why we asked about any enemies, problems at work, that kind of thing. And of course there was the autopsy...”
Jacob turned away and looked at the skyline, the tarred tops of buildings, a transmission tower glinting silver on a distant hill. He couldn’t think of Mattie lying cold on a stainless steel table, black skin peeling and flaking like that of an overly toasted marshmallow, the sharp blades of strangers probing into her scalded organs. Easier to see her as four pounds of ash, dust, and bone bits resting in a ceramic urn in Renee’s apartment. She was part of the sky now, he tried to tell himself, up there in a Catholic heaven singing about mighty fortresses and worthy lambs.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wells. But we had to look at the lungs for signs of smoke inhalation.”
“I told you she was still alive when I reached her. And I couldn’t goddamned save her.”
“Not that we have any reason to suspect foul play, but the smoke damage confirmed she was still breathing when the fire started. Arson is sometimes used to hide a murder, but it doesn’t work very well. Murderers have this idea that their sin will be purified by fire or something.”
Jacob wanted to grab the stocky woman by her shoulders and shove her against the brick wall. His left eyelid twitched and his lips were tight against his teeth. He forced himself to breathe through his mouth, swallow deeply as directed by those television self-help gurus. The air was thick as smoke, the air was a hot snake sliding down his throat, the air was broken glass in his lungs.
Child murder was a different, poisonous atmosphere.
Davidson examined him with cool amphibian eyes. “My report’s going to say an accident caused by the wiring. Something shorted out in the wall socket, probably an electrical surge caused by the computer, and a fluke spark touched some papers near the desk. The papers apparently smoldered for several minutes before catching on. With the bookcase right there, and so much wood used in the construction, that would account for the rapid spread.”
“What about the smoke detectors?”
“Weak back-up batteries. The same surge that started the fire must have shut down their main power. I’d guess the batteries came with the original installation. Most people never think to check their detectors because they get so used to seeing the little red test lights always on.”
“So this means you finally believe us?”
“It’s not a case of believing or not believing,” Davidson said. “It’s about removing any shadow of a doubt. For all of us.”
“You think I was afraid somebody burned my house down? That maybe they were trying to kill me and got Mattie instead?”
“It’s a brutal planet, Mr. Wells. And there’s the inescapable coincidence that your house was insured for a million dollars. Your wife and child were insured for a million each in the event of accidental death. And you were insured for five million. It could have been an eight-million-dollar fire.”
Jacob peered into the bottomless grottoes of Davidson’s eyes. “But then nobody would have been around to collect.”
“Somebody would come out pretty flush no matter which way it turned out, don’t you think?”
“And it just happened to be us.” Jacob wiped the dry corners of his mouth. One of the large bay doors of the fire station groaned and revealed a gap of darkness at its bottom. The aluminum panels of the door lurched and lifted with a grating sound. The broadband radio on Davidson’s hip hissed static.
“My wife couldn’t have started the fire,” Jacob said. “She was in bed with me.”
“She was standing outside the house when the first responders arrived.”
“You don’t know Renee.” Neither did Jacob.
“I’m trained to look at the evidence, Mr. Wells. Nothing personal. But people do strange things for money. Anyway, it looks like she’s come out of this better than you have.”
Jacob looked down at his soiled shirt. One of the sleeve buttons was missing. The knees of his pants were scuffed and the toe boxes of his shoes were caked with dried mud. He wore no socks. He’d dressed better than this in his most decadent student days, when he would sometimes wake up on a strange couch with a throbbing head and memories as elusive as an opium dream.
“She didn’t do it,” he said.
“Take it easy. I’m trying to tell you what the lab results were. But from what I’ve seen and heard, her story just doesn’t hold together.”
“You’re going to have the police charge her with something?”
“I don’t have any evidence. But I’m not finished yet.”
The bay door was fully open now. The silver grill of the fire truck caught the late afternoon sunlight. Inside the station, a man in yellow rubber pants began unraveling a canvas-covered hose. The traffic on the street grew thicker as everyone cheated five o’clock in order to beat the evening rush. A car horn sounded, but Jacob kept his gaze on Davidson.
“She lost her child, and all you can think about is walking her through hell again,” Jacob said. “What kind of monster are you?”
