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

So what do you want then? he asked as he decided to get some fresh air, told Julia he was going to get something
from the house; aside from winning the lottery, hitting it big in Atlantic City, tearing Julia's clothes off and making love
to her on the bar, what the hell more do you want? You're not starving, for god's sake, so what else is there?
He put on his denim jacket, and stood on the stoop, huffing at the cold bitter and dry, watching the road.
He didn't know.
A wink shy of forty, and he goddamn didn't know.
He couldn't leave, though.
He couldn't.
There was no place else to go.
He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them quickly. This wasn't the way to think, what in hell was the matter with him
tonight? He liked it here. Hell, he loved it here. People left him alone. He left them alone. His regular customers were all
the company he required, with the infrequent women who shared his bed for a while and moved on, it's pretty damn
boring here, Maclaren, no offense, and none was ever taken.
He liked it here.
He did.
what more do you want?
Headlights to the east, winking through the bare branches, flaring as they rounded the sharp curve, steady-ing,
slowing as they reached the sign. The car didn't stop. The driver couldn't see him, could only see that Maclaren's
wasn't exactly lit up with fireworks and huge crowds, and sped up, dragging the dark after him, leaving him alone.
No, he realized; no.
Not alone.
He frowned puzzlement and looked left toward the flagstone path that led to the cabins.
Not alone, but nothing there.
Quietly he stepped down to the gravel and waited, lis-tening, hearing nothing and knowing that any sound, any
sound at all, would carry easily when the air was as brittle as it was tonight, as cold and as still. His vision soon
ad-justed to the outline of the restaurant, the outlines of the trees in the glow of the feeble streetlamp, and there was
still nothing out of place. The parking lot was empty except for Havvick's long gray van, not a flicker of traffic on the
road, nothing moving in the woods, not even a breeze.
Not alone.
He stiffened suddenly and pulled his hands from his pockets, flexed his fingers.
The Holgates.
His chin lifted and his head turned slowly as if he were sniffing the air, searching for a spoor. He wouldn't put it
past those idiots to try something again. They were trouble, Curt and Bally, seeming to have nothing to do with their
lives but give him grief and grin inanely about it. Just out of their teens and time on their hands, waiting until spring,
when their army enlistments began. Most days he didn't even see them and never gave them a thought. But at least
once a week they came by, their chrome-burdened pickup belching oil-smoke exhaust, perforated muffler sounding like
something belonging on a dirt track. They'd give Ennin and Julia a hard time, all the while smiling and nodding and
flashing their money to prove they were genuine, that they had rights just like everyone else, that it was all just
good-old-boy fun and games, nothing to get all bent out of shape over. They would leave just before Neil lost his
temper in front of the others. Perfect timing every time.
They hated him.
Twice, one of his front windows had been smashed with bricks; once, someone had taken a shotgun to his sign,
blowing a hole through his name, blowing out all the lights and perforating the shields. By the time he had reached the
road from his house, the vandals were gone.
But he knew the sound of the pickup.
It hadn't been enough for the police, however, despite their sympathy. What he thought he had heard, at night, in
the middle of nowhere, had no credence in any court.
He forced himself to breathe easily, flexed his fingers again, and stepped down to the ground, easing his weight to
minimize the crunch of gravel beneath his soles. If they were out there, they could see him, and all they had to do was
wait. And if he stood here much longer, he'd freeze solid.