Читать книгу Frankenstein: The Complete 5-Book Collection - Dean Koontz - Страница 87

WHEN BULLETS WEREN’T FLYING, Carson could take a more thoughtful look at Harker’s apartment. Signs of a dysfunctional personality were at once evident.

Although every piece of furniture was a different style from the others, in clashing colors and uncomplementary patterns, this might mean nothing more than that Harker had no taste.

Although his living room had considerably more contents than did Allwine’s – where there had been nothing but a black-vinyl chair – it was underfurnished to the point of starkness. Minimalism, of course, is a style preferred by many people who are perfectly sane.

The absence of any artwork whatsoever on the walls, the lack of bibelots and mementoes, the disinterest in beautifying the space in any way reminded her too much of how Allwine had lived.

At least one inspirational poster or cute cookie jar would have been welcome.

Instead, here came Dwight Frye out of the kitchen, looking as greasy as ever but, as never before, contrite. “If you’re gonna rip me a new one, don’t bother. I’ve already done it.”

Michael said, “That’s one of the most moving apologies I’ve ever heard.”

“I knew him like a brother,” Frye said, “but I didn’t know him at all.”

Carson said, “He had a passion for modern dance.”

Frye looked baffled, and Michael said approvingly, “Carson, you might get the hang of this yet.”

“For real he went out that kitchen window?” Frye asked.

“For real,” Carson said.

“But the fall would’ve killed him.”

“Didn’t,” Michael said.

“He didn’t have a damn parachute, did he?”

Carson shrugged. “We’re amazed, too.”

“One of you fired two rounds from a twelve-gauge,” Frye noted, indicating the pellet holes in the wall.

“That would be me,” said Carson. “Totally justified. He shot at us first.”

Frye was puzzled. “How could you not take him down at such close range?”

“Didn’t entirely miss.”

“I see some blood,” Frye said, “but not a lot. Still and all, even gettin’ winged by a twelve-gauge – that’s got to sting. How could he just keep on keepin’ on?”

“Moxie?” Michael suggested.

“I’ve drunk my share of Moxies, but I don’t expect to laugh off a shotgun.”

A CSI tech stepped out of the bedroom. “O’Connor, Maddison, you gotta see this. We just found where he really lived.”