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

Something; he had to do something.
"Damn right it is," Ken declared, and swaggered to the window, posed with hands on his hips, legs apart.
"Bastard." He laughed. "Bastard has to shoot drunks, hasn't got the guts to shoot real people." He snorted.
"Bastard.". Rapped the glass with his knuckles. "Hey, stupid," he yelled. "Hey, you want to stop screwing around and
. . . you want to come in . . ."
Silence.
Ken snapped his fingers nervously. Nodding, shaking his head, nodding again. Right foot tapping.
"Ken, honey?" Trish said, a child's voice. "Ken, please don't stand there, please?"
"Sure, sweetheart," he said. Nodded quickly. "Sure."
Neil understood at once what had turned the young man's bravado. Despite what he had said before, all that glass,
all that open space, was too much exposure. A shoot-ing gallery. Come and get me, you big bully; only, the bully had
a weapon. Suppose the guy had more than a shotgun? Suppose he had a rifle, or some high-powered semiautomatic?
He took his time, however, moving over to the switches by the door, calmly announced he was turning off the lights,
and did it.
The outside leapt in.
The snow reduced to flurries.
It seemed much colder.
Too cold.
A moment, and his vision adjusted. He could see them all, twilight ghosts drifting toward the restaurant stairs, away
from the light, whatever white they wore glowing, everything else simply black.
"What about the cars?" Davies wanted to know. Com-posed, not demanding.
Neil beckoned to Julia, nudged her gently to join the rest. She didn't protest, didn't look around when he moved
over to the register and unlocked the cash drawer, and the false bottom beneath it. He took out the revolver lying
below; he didn't have to check because he knew it was loaded.
"The cars," Davies repeated, not two feet away.
Neil jumped, but kept his expression blank as he stuffed the gun into his waistband. The barrel was cold,
unyield-ing, and it didn't feel comforting at all.
"Mr. Ennin claims they weren't tampered with."
"He should know, 1 guess. He fixes mine all the time. The poor thing's a real clunker."
Davies was surprised. "You have a car?"
Neil's smile was sour. "Oh yeah. It's in a garage now in Deerfield, getting operated on." He laughed shortly as he
came around to the floor. "Willie's good, he's not a ge-nius."
There was no response, not even a polite laugh.
So what do you want? he demanded silently; you want me to go out there and find the son of a bitch, hogtie him
with my bare hands, bring him to justice?
He paused on the steps, looked up at Davies's back, and nodded.
Yep; that's exactly what they want.
"Mr. Maclaren?"
Willie sat at a table with Julia and Mandy; Davies joining Ceil and Ken at another. Trish stayed by the plants as if
they could afford her cover from the nightmare. The drapes were closed, the booths empty. He could barely see the
rifle's barrel against the wall behind the counter.
"Mr. Maclaren, I don't think I understand."
Neil remained by the steps, perched on the railing. "You got me too, Willie."
"How can he stop the cars?"
"Well, obviously, he's done something to them," Da-vies answered.
"He didn't," the cook insisted.
"He's right," Trish said. She pointed to the entrance. "I was closing the drapes, right? He couldn't have done
any-thing, or I would have seen him."
With a sigh Ken shook his head. "Honey, it's dark out there and the guy's wearing black, for Christ's sake. You
wouldn't see him until he jumped up and bit you." He laughedтАФwhat can you do, huh? all bed and no brains.