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- Ричард Морган
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"
About
?
"
"
About
us
.
"
I
nearly
laughed
out
loud
,
but
there
was
just
enough
underlying
pain
to
stop
the
reflex
in
my
throat
.
The
urge
to
touch
her
had
not
stopped
.
Over
the
last
day
it
had
ebbed
and
flowed
in
waves
,
but
it
had
never
wholly
gone
.
When
I
looked
at
the
curve
of
her
hips
and
thighs
on
the
window
shelf
,
I
could
feel
the
way
she
had
writhed
back
against
me
so
clearly
it
was
almost
virtual
.
My
palm
recalled
the
weight
and
shape
of
her
breast
as
if
holding
it
had
been
this
sleeve
’
s
life
’
s
work
.
As
I
looked
at
her
,
my
fingers
wanted
to
trace
the
geometry
of
her
face
.
There
was
no
room
in
me
for
guilt
,
no
room
for
anything
but
this
feeling
.
"
Envoys
don
’
t
feel
guilt
,
"
I
said
shortly
.
"
I
’
m
serious
.
It
’
s
likely
,
no
it
’
s
almost
certain
in
fact
that
Kawahara
had
Ryker
set
up
because
he
was
heating
up
the
Mary
Lou
Hinchley
case
too
much
.
Do
you
remember
anything
about
her
employment
records
?
"
Ortega
thought
about
it
for
a
moment
,
then
shrugged
.
"
She
ran
away
from
home
to
be
with
the
boyfriend
.
Mostly
unregistered
stuff
,
anything
to
bring
the
rent
in
.
Boyfriend
was
a
piece
of
shit
,
got
a
record
goes
back
to
age
fifteen
.
He
dealt
a
little
Stiff
,
crashed
a
few
easy
datastacks
,
mostly
lived
off
his
women
.
"
"
Would
he
have
let
her
work
the
Meat
Rack
?
Or
the
cabins
?
"
"
Oh
,
yeah
.
"
Ortega
nodded
,
face
stony
.
"
Soon
as
spit
.
"
"
If
someone
was
recruiting
for
a
snuff
house
,
Catholics
would
be
the
ideal
candidates
,
wouldn
’
t
they
?
They
’
re
not
going
to
tell
any
tales
after
the
event
,
after
all
.
By
reasons
of
conscience
.
"
"
Snuff
.
"
If
Ortega
’
s
face
had
been
stony
before
,
it
was
weathered
granite
now
.
"
Most
of
the
snuff
victims
around
here
just
get
a
bolt
through
the
stack
when
it
’
s
over
.
They
don
’
t
tell
any
tales
.
"
