Eclipse - Meyer Stephenie (бесплатные онлайн книги читаем полные версии TXT) 📗

“That’s not a question,” I finally whispered.

He looked down, his lashes casting long shadows across his cheekbones, and dropped his hands from my face to pick up my frozen left hand. He played with my fingers while he spoke.

“I was worrying about why you felt that way.”

I tried to swallow. “That’s not a question, either,” I whispered.

“Please, Bella?”

“The truth?” I asked, only mouthing the words.

“Of course. I can take it, whatever it is.”

I took a deep breath. “You’re going to laugh at me.”

His eyes flashed up to mine, shocked. “Laugh? I cannot imagine that.”

“You’ll see,” I muttered, and then I sighed. My face went from white to scarlet in a sudden blaze of chagrin. “Okay, fine! I’m sure this will sound like some big joke to you, but really! It’s just so . . . so . . . so embarrassing!” I confessed, and I hid my face against his chest again.

There was a brief pause.

“I’m not following you.”

I tilted my head back and glared at him, embarrassment making me lash out, belligerent.

“I’m not that girl, Edward. The one who gets married right out of high school like some small-town hick who got knocked up by her boyfriend! Do you know what people would think? Do you realize what century this is? People don’t just get married at eighteen! Not smart people, not responsible, mature people! I wasn’t going to be that girl! That’s not who I am. . . .” I trailed off, losing steam.

Edward’s face was impossible to read as he thought through my answer.

“That’s all?” he finally asked.

I blinked. “Isn’t that enough?”

“It’s not that you were . . . more eager for immortality itself than for just me?”

And then, though I’d predicted that he would laugh, I was suddenly the one having hysterics.

“Edward!” I gasped out between the paroxysms of giggles. “And here . . . I always . . . thought that . . . you were . . . so much . . . smarter than me!”

He took me in his arms, and I could feel that he was laughing with me.

“Edward,” I said, managing to speak more clearly with a little effort, “there’s no point to forever without you. I wouldn’t want one day without you.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” he said.

“Still . . . it doesn’t change anything.”

“It’s nice to understand, though. And I do understand your perspective, Bella, truly I do. But I’d like it very much if you’d try to consider mine.”

I’d sobered up by then, so I nodded and struggled to keep the frown off my face.

His liquid gold eyes turned hypnotic as they held mine.

“You see, Bella, I was always that boy. In my world, I was already a man. I wasn’t looking for love — no, I was far too eager to be a soldier for that; I thought of nothing but the idealized glory of the war that they were selling prospective draftees then — but if I had found . . .” He paused, cocking his head to the side. “I was going to say if I had found someone, but that won’t do. If I had found you, there isn’t a doubt in my mind how I would have proceeded. I was that boy, who would have — as soon as I discovered that you were what I was looking for — gotten down on one knee and endeavored to secure your hand. I would have wanted you for eternity, even when the word didn’t have quite the same connotations.”

He smiled his crooked smile at me.

I stared at him with my eyes frozen wide.

“Breathe, Bella,” he reminded me, smiling.

I breathed.

“Can you see my side, Bella, even a little bit?”

And for one second, I could. I saw myself in a long skirt and a high-necked lace blouse with my hair piled up on my head. I saw Edward looking dashing in a light suit with a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand, sitting beside me on a porch swing.

I shook my head and swallowed. I was just having Anne of Green Gables flashbacks.

“The thing is, Edward,” I said in a shaky voice, avoiding the question, “in my mind, marriage and eternity are not mutually exclusive or mutually inclusive concepts. And since we’re living in my world for the moment, maybe we should go with the times, if you know what I mean.”

“But on the other hand,” he countered, “you will soon be leaving time behind you altogether. So why should the transitory customs of one local culture affect the decision so much?”

I pursed my lips. “When in Rome?”

He laughed at me. “You don’t have to say yes or no today, Bella. It’s good to understand both sides, though, don’t you think?”

“So your condition . . . ?”

“Is still in effect. I do see your point, Bella, but if you want me to change you myself. . . .”

“Dum, dum, dah-dum,” I hummed under my breath. I was going for the wedding march, but it sort of sounded like a dirge.

Time continued to move too fast.

That night flew by dreamlessly, and then it was morning and graduation was staring me in the face. I had a pile of studying to do for my finals that I knew I wouldn’t get halfway through in the few days I had left.

When I came down for breakfast, Charlie was already gone. He’d left the paper on the table, and that reminded me that I had some shopping to do. I hoped the ad for the concert was still running; I needed the phone number to get the stupid tickets. It didn’t seem like much of a gift now that all the surprise was gone. Of course, trying to surprise Alice wasn’t the brightest plan to begin with.

I meant to flip right back to the entertainment section, but the thick black headline caught my attention. I felt a thrill of fear as I leaned closer to read the front-page story.

SEATTLE TERRORIZED BY SLAYINGS

It’s been less than a decade since the city of Seattle was the hunting ground for the most prolific serial killer in U.S. history. Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer, was convicted of the murders of 48 women.

And now a beleaguered Seattle must face the possibility that it could be harboring an even more horrifying monster at this very moment.

The police are not calling the recent rash of homicides and disappearances the work of a serial killer. Not yet, at least. They are reluctant to believe so much carnage could be the work of one individual. This killer — if, in fact, it is one person — would then be responsible for 39 linked homicides and disappearances within the last three months alone. In comparison, Ridgway’s 48-count murder spree was scattered over a 21-year period. If these deaths can be linked to one man, then this is the most violent rampage of serial murder in American history.

The police are leaning instead toward the theory that gang activity is involved. This theory is supported by the sheer number of victims, and by the fact that there seems to be no pattern in the choice of victims.

From Jack the Ripper to Ted Bundy, the targets of serial killings are usually connected by similarities in age, gender, race, or a combination of the three. The victims of this crime wave range in age from 15-year-old honor student Amanda Reed, to 67-year-old retired postman Omar Jenks. The linked deaths include a nearly even 18 women and 21 men. The victims are racially diverse: Caucasians, African Americans, Hispanics and Asians.

The selection appears random. The motive seems to be killing for no other reason than to kill.

So why even consider the idea of a serial killer?

There are enough similarities in the modus operandi to rule out unrelated crimes. Every victim discovered has been burned to the extent that dental records were necessary for identification. The use of some kind of accelerant, like gasoline or alcohol, seems to be indicated in the conflagrations; however, no traces of any accelerant have yet been found. All of the bodies have been carelessly dumped with no attempt at concealment.

More gruesome yet, most of the remains show evidence of brutal violence — bones crushed and snapped by some kind of tremendous pressure — which medical examiners believe occurred before the time of death, though these conclusions are difficult to be sure of, considering the state of the evidence.

Another similarity that points to the possibility of a serial: every crime is perfectly clean of evidence, aside from the remains themselves. Not a fingerprint, not a tire tread mark nor a foreign hair is left behind. There have been no sightings of any suspect in the disappearances.

Then there are the disappearances themselves — hardly low profile by any means. None of the victims are what could be viewed as easy targets. None are runaways or the homeless, who vanish so easily and are seldom reported missing. Victims have vanished from their homes, from a fourth-story apartment, from a health club, from a wedding reception. Perhaps the most astounding: 30-year-old amateur boxer Robert Walsh entered a movie theater with a date; a few minutes into the movie, the woman realized that he was not in his seat. His body was found only three hours later when fire fighters were called to the scene of a burning trash Dumpster, twenty miles away.

Another pattern is present in the slayings: all of the victims disappeared at night.

And the most alarming pattern? Acceleration. Six of the homicides were committed in the first month, 11 in the second. Twenty-two have occurred in the last 10 days alone. And the police are no closer to finding the responsible party than they were after the first charred body was discovered.

The evidence is conflicting, the pieces horrifying. A vicious new gang or a wildly active serial killer? Or something else the police haven’t yet conceived of?

Only one conclusion is indisputable: something hideous is stalking Seattle.

It took me three tries to read the last sentence, and I realized the problem was my shaking hands.

“Bella?”

Focused as I was, Edward’s voice, though quiet and not totally unexpected, made me gasp and whirl.

He was leaning in the doorway, his eyebrows pulled together. Then he was suddenly at my side, taking my hand.

“Did I startle you? I’m sorry. I did knock. . . .”

“No, no,” I said quickly. “Have you seen this?” I pointed to the paper.

A frown creased his forehead.

“I hadn’t seen today’s news yet. But I knew it was getting worse. We’re going to have to do something . . . quickly.”

I didn’t like that. I hated any of them taking chances, and whatever or whoever was in Seattle was truly beginning to frighten me. But the idea of the Volturi coming was just as scary.

“What does Alice say?”

“That’s the problem.” His frown hardened. “She can’t see anything . . . though we’ve made up our minds half a dozen times to check it out. She’s starting to lose confidence. She feels like she’s missing too much these days, that something’s wrong. That maybe her vision is slipping away.”