Аннотация
The Butcher's Theatre
Jonathan Kellerman
Spring
Yaakov Schlesinger could think only of food.
Idiot, he told himself. Immersed in such beauty and unable to take your mind off your belly.
Unclipping his flashlight from his belt, he beamed it briefly on the southern gate of the campus. Satisfied that the lock was in place, he hitched up his trousers and trudged forward in the darkness, determined to ignore the gnawing from within.
The Mount Scopus Road climbed suddenly, but it was a rise that he knew well-what was this, his two hundredth patrol?-and he remained sure-footed. Veering to the left, he walked toward the eastern ridge and looked out, with a pleasurable sense of vertigo, at nothingness: the unlit expanse of the Judean wilderness. In less than an hour dawn would break and sunlight would flood the dessert like honeyed porridge dripping thickly into an earthenware bowl ach, there it was again. Food.
Still, he rationalized, a bowl was ex...
Отзывы