Вера Ефимова – Soulmate (страница 7)
practice on Fabian, so there might be deviations, which I am certainly prepared for.
In thirty minutes or so, I saw Fabian making his bad and heading to the bathroom. I needed to figure out our next move, which would lead us to the designated area, which happened to be my apartment in Washington. For this matter, all the possible outputs must be predicted and avoided, the leading path paved. My thoughts have been interrupted by Fabian Hawthorne’s inquisitive voice.
“What’s for breakfast?” he asked unobtrusively.
“A truculent desire of vindicative justification,” I responded, almost automatically. He looked at me uncomprehendingly, as if I said something that needed professional treatment. “Just kidding, I’ll order two plates of lasagna with chicken tenders and coffee.”
“I hate coffee.”
“Orange juice, so be it.” I responded with an unencumbered facial expression, heading to the door. Fabian was looking at the floor and dawdling, as if he wanted to add something else.
“You’ve been acting bizarre all morning,” he said, with a note of concern. How lovely.
“I just woke up; don’t expect much,” I replied, trying to keep my annoyed face away from his, as I was, alike Fabian, haggardly tired from our elongated trip and eager to get to the target point. Again, I hate when things deviate from the way they’re supposed to be. “Don’t you want to go get ready for our mutual breakfast?”
“You’re talking like a 19th-century English aristocrat who is trying to make a particular impression.” Well, that’s quite a compliment. Nobody has ever told me that.
“If you want to use the benefits of civilization, you’ve got to behave in a civil manner.”
“Wow,” he said, perplexed. “I don’t find anything to say.”
“Well then,” I waited a little pause. “I guess our little morning chat is over.”
Someone knocked at the door—it was food. I welcomed the maid in with her tabletop on little wheels, which gave off a fragrant smell of freshly cooked eggs and chicken; the most awakening one was coffee; it never fails to spruce up my pallid old mornings.
Fabian didn’t look much excited, like we weren’t starving for the last twenty-four hours. In fact, he only looks mistrustful and sad. I know I can’t blame him for anything; I’m only an intermediary for him, who is going to fix his poor, malignant life. He’s been a victim for too long; he’s been praying enough. The best thing for him now is to be oblivious, not thinking about his fa-
“The Major Hawthorne’s son, Fabian Hawthorne, has been gone for three days now. The police department claims that search will continue outside of California, encompassing the nearest areas, which are Bynum, Anniston, and Los Angeles. If you have any information about Fabian Hawthorne, please contact the police station. And now a word to a local citizen of Anniston, California.”
“I think I saw that kid near the antique store a couple of days ago or so. He was running past it with another boy that day.”
“Do you think it was a person who helped him run away from the police? Or the person whose influence he was under?”
“Yeah, I don’t know.“
I turned the news channel off. “That hobo,” I muttered. The number of troubles keeps rising. The next stop is Washington.
“That kid of Hawthorne’s is wild,” the maid said, unexpectedly. “So stupid to turn away from your own family, especially if it’s your old man who’s in charge of the police department,” she added.
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