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

your throat and leave a note." An eyebrow up and down. "Fifty looks pretty good."
She left.
The door swung shut.
The door opened again, her head poked in and she said, "By the way, I'm not his sister."
Left again.
He stood there, one hand brushing through his hair, the other moving from his cheek where she had kissed him, to
the kitchen door, to the lounge door, to the door to his office. When he realized what he was doing, he froze, cast
about for his composure and, when he found it, yanked it on so hard he shuddered. This was nuts. He had wrestled
drunks, once worn a gun that would blow a barn door in a man, driven a vehicle that damn near flew, had a couple of
fights with drunks who wouldn't be wrestled, had seen dozens, maybe hundreds of women with low-cut dresses and
figures to match. Had been kissed. Hadn't been a virgin for over twenty years. Had seen a king-size raven in the middle
of the night. It was nuts.
He hurried out and ignored the smirk on Brandt's face, dropped the flap behind him and hesitated, not sure what to
do next. Julia and Davies were talking, Ken danced with Ceil while Trish ate standing up, and a glance through the
spider plants showed him no one else had come in. It was still snowing.
Friday night.
Six customers.
A grumbling outside.
A spiraling reflection in the glass wall.
He hurried up to the entrance and looked out, just in rime to see a county sander growl its way west, covering the
blacktop, caution lights whirling, its cab dimly lighted.
Thank you, he called to it; thank you.
The sander passed, and passed on, swirls of dry snow in its wake, lifting in a haze and settling again despite the
wind.
He waited to see a car, just to be sure.
Instead, he saw a man.




He stood just behind the reach of the streetlamp, directly across from the restaurant door. In the trees. Impossible to
say how tall or heavy he was. He just stood there in shallow shadow, vaguely defined, seeming almost transparent.
Neil couldn't tell if he was wearing a hat, but it looked like it; he couldn't tell if he was wearing an overcoat, but it
looked like it, or a duster, and it was black, ruffling like a sail when the wind blew, the hem slapping low around his
shins. The snow on his shoulders and arms glittered.
Not fairy dust.
A dream.
He didn't move.
He just stood there.
Neil couldn't see his face.
Curt, he decided; Bally Holgate was squat and bearded. This one, just standing there, was built more like Curt.
He made to open the door, and changed his mind. By the time he got over there, the kid would be long gone,
nothing left but mocking laughter or some idiot trick, a booby trap, maybe a diversion while his brother set some
havoc in motion somewhere else. The question is, then, whether to give him the satisfaction, or ignore him. Make him
stand there like a jackass, freeze his balls off.
He grinned and turned away.
No contest.
An afterthought took him behind the display counter, where he dialed down the restaurant lights, reached in and
snatched out a chocolate bar he stripped as he headed for the lounge. Ate in large bites. Tossed the wrapper into an
ashtray and barely noticed that Davies was dancing with Trish again.