"Charles L. Grant - Raven" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Charles L)

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ast sunset in early February, the worst time of the year. Too far from Christmas and too far from spring. Too cold. Too
quiet. The light, never strong, too soon gone. Trees without leaves, scarred bark, empty nests, fading into the dark;
weeds along the roadside, trembling stiffly, shedding burrs, flaring in passing headlights, and fading into the dark;
house lights and streedamps and traffic signals growing brighter, growing brittle, trying desperately, and failing, not to
fade into the dark.
No snow.
No wind.
The landscape grey and dead.
While the county road from the interstate, two lanes and narrow, climbed the hills and crawled pocket val-leys,
skirted pastures and ┬гrozen ponds, barely straighten-ing at each town several miles from its neighbor, barely lighted
when the woodland became a mottled wall on either shoulder reflecting the headlamps in grey bars and splotches, or
not at all; throwing shadows, pulling them back.
Throwing shadows.
Every so often, eyes gleaming above a branch, on a rock, in a ditch; every so often something dashing across the
blacktop, too far away for a name.
Climbing higher, leveling off, to a stretch without a curve for nearly half a mile. In its center, on the north side, a
streedamp litde more than a hooded bulb on a tall pole, woods behind it, blacktop below. There were other poles, three
of them, but they were useless and dark.
One light, and no stars bright enough to do more than prick weak holes in the night. Direcdy opposite, on the south
side, a crescent cleared and sloping downward from the verge to a creek. A large painted sign on chains be-tween two
tall logs cemented into the ground; hooded bulbs again, three, and MACLAREN'S FOOD AND LODGING, facing east.
In the middle of the crescent, a fine-gravel parking lot between the road and a log building one story high on a raised
stone foundation, low peaked roof, four large and long windows, its entrance in the center off a two-step concrete
stoop.
A light over the door.
Spotlights at the corners.
A man inside, looking out. From the road he was a shadow, he wasn't real, he wasn't there.
He grunted softly, shifted slightly, hands loose in his pockets, thumbs hanging out, head slightly bowed. Tall, but
without the weight that would have made strangers nervous. Fair-haired and lots of it, some of it combed, most of it
going its own way over his forehead and ears. His face marked the time he spent outdoors all year round, though the
lines there and the shading weren't part of a betrayalтАФ he was handsome now with the lines; when he was young he
had been pretty. Hooded eyes, like the bulbs outside, seldom showing ail their light.
Checkered flannel shirt, dark chinos, dark shoes that should have been boots, hiking or Western.
A slow inhalation, and a touch of a finger to the door's ripple-glass upper half. It nearly burned. He kept it there, just
to be sure, then pulled his hand away and rubbed the finger thoughtfully against his side.
It was odd out there tonight. He didn't know why. Nothing was out of place that he could see, no one lurking with
evil intent or otherwise, no strange cars drifting past. The round-rail fence that fronted the road hadn't changed, hadn't
fallen; the faint lights he had put in the corners of the eaves hadn't burned out; no slavering, virgin-hunting monsters
lurched out of the woods across the way. It was just. . . odd. Slightly uncomfortable, but without a warn-ing. He raised
an eyebrow at his imagination and grunted quietly to himself, mocking. This was a reaction people from the city
usually had. He had been here over a decade and ought to know better.
The night was just the night.
A half smile and he put his back to the door, counted the customers in the room. Grunted again; there weren't many.
Three high-back booths on either side of the en-trance, eight square tables set for four and large enough for half a
dozen; beyond the tables, broad wood railings ex-tending chest-high from either wall, transformed into walls
themselves by tall and spreading potted plants stretching upward, meeting closely spaced spider plants in clay pots
hanging down from the ceiling. Bare hardwood floors comfortably chipped and worn. Lights hidden in the ex-posed
rafters. In one of the booths, a couple holding hands, not eating very much; at one table, a family of four, and at
another, a family of three. They smiled, they spoke softly.