Читать книгу Bury This - Andrea Portes - Страница 21

TWO

“Twenty-five years from 1978 to 2003. Twenty-five years wherein, you name it. Computers. A personal computer. A laptop. An Internet. An email. A new thing, called Friendster. A newer new thing, called Myspace, burbling. A ‘social network,’ whatever that was. A phone in the car. A mobile phone the size of a brick. Now a cell phone. A cell phone that takes a picture. A cell phone that takes a picture and sends it to your friend . . . in London. Yes, folks, twenty-five years.”

Danek pauses.

“If twenty-five years can discover the Internet, the cell phone, this thing the iPod, can twenty-five years discover the secret of a girl murdered, abandoned, by the side of the road?”

He likes his introduction. He finds it provocative.

On the way out to Rose Heights, the furthest thing from his mind was any sort of emotional impact probable here. Danek was not an emotional person. And PS: He didn’t believe in Christ either. That was a fantasy. A fairy tale. Something cooked up to tame the masses. Poor-people solace. That all existed so the have-nots wouldn’t cut the throats of the haves. What a trick.

Yes, he went to Hope College and yes it was a Reformed Church school. But Danek was too smart for all that. Fine, believe in your fairy-tale magic. I’ll take my degree, GRE, my valedictorian address, my effusive letters of recommendation, my 4.0 average, and shuffle off to graduate school someplace with an actual fucking name. Cornell. Johns Hopkins. Maybe Princeton.

What will happen to all you people? Will you stay here? The thought alone filled him with dread. He shuddered to think, would not let himself think, about the myriad curses that would have to befall him to land him forever . . . here.

Maybe he would come back for Katy and put her in his big mansion back East. They would decorate the Christmas tree together and she would make eggnog and he’d drink and fuck the daylights out of her and she would never, ever think of Brad or Lars or anyone else from this piss-hole pot because he would own her. It would be a Tudor house. A wreath on the door. A dog. Maybe a Lab. Chocolate.

These were the thoughts circling, dizzy, through Danek’s brain as they pulled up to 2226 Rose Avenue, the home of Lt. Colonel Charles Krause and his kindly wife, Dotsy.