"EB - Mike Resnick + Martin H. Greenberg - Christmas GhostsUC - Compilation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenberg Martin H)

by Frank M. Robinson

Frank M. Robinson is entering his fifth decade as a major science fiction writer.

His nickname was "Scrooge" and even hi the eyes of his fellow prisoners, Lyle Jaffery had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. He'd been on death row for 365 days and this night was to be the last night of his life. At five-thirty in the morning, the priest would hear his final confession and walk with him down the short hall to the room where they would strap nun in a chair and attach electrodes to his shaved head and legs.

At five-thirty-five he would be a footnote in criminal history and there wasn't a man among the other inmates who didn't think that, at least in his case, justice would have been served.

Short, belligerent, and slyЧthe kind who never met your eyes when he talked to you, Lyle Jaffery was not a very likable man. He had a rap sheet that would have filled an entire volume of the Encyclopedia Bri-tannica, starting when, as a youngster, he had been given a Daisy repeating BB gun for Christmas and promptly drilled out the left eye of Mrs. Krumpkin's torn cat next door. He married early, became disenchanted with marriage shortly thereafter, and on another Christmas shot his overweight, nagging wife somewhere between the turkey and the pumpkin pie.

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It took investigators only a few hours to find the insurance policy he'd taken out on his former beloved two months before.

Lyle may not have been very smart, but he was very lucky and got off on a technicality. And he considered himself even luckier because he had found a profession. Ever since the gift of the Daisy, he had been overly fond of guns. As much as Lyle loved anything, he loved the smooth, operating qualities of a Beretta and the simple, functional brick form of the Uzi. He became very good at using both and there was no end to those who wanted to hire his talents.

But luck, like love, doesn't last forever. Eventually he was apprehended, convicted, and sentenced to life imprisonment. In the joint, Lyle was assigned to the machine shop where he turned out as fine a one-shot pistol as the guards had ever seen. They discovered it in his cell on still another Christmas when, in a frivolous argument over a pack of cigarettes, Lyle offed the most popular prisoner thereЧone Steven Marley, young scion of a wealthy family, who was serving a three-year stretch for tax fraud. He had more relatives than Madonna has bras and all of them remembered him at Christmas with boxes of goodies whose contents Steven liberally distributed among the other inmates. His absence was sorely missed.

It was a year later and all Lyle's appeals had failed and no "Save Lyle Jaffery" partisans bundled up in sweaters and watch caps had appeared outside the cold prison walls to wave their signs and shout for his freedom. Lyle huddled, half-asleep, on the end of his bunk reflecting bitterly on his life and feeling the first faint twinges of remorse. It was close to midnight and the cell block was deathly quiet.

Then Lyle jerked completely awake. Even though it was well-lit, the corridor and the cells were filling with a chill fog that had to be coming off the nearby river and the banks through which it flowed. Somewhere in the town a few miles away a church bell

MERRY CHRISTMAS, NO. 30267

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struck twelve while far down the corridor, Lyle suddenly heard a clanking sound and a low moaning. He shouted for a guard, but the fog muffled his voice and his cries didn't carry more than a few feet.

The clanking came closer and he shrank back against the concrete block wall, shivering beneath his blankets. Just outside his cell bars the wisps of fog swirled, then gradually coalesced into a roughly human figure of mist and dust that sparkled in the tight and solidified into the unmistakable features of Steven Marley, complete with pimply face, cowlick, and the usual apprehensive look in his eyes.

"How's it going, Scrooge," the apparition chirped in Marley's irritating high-pitched voice. "Pretty cold inside here, guess the appropriation never came through for the new heating plant, huh?"

Lyle was amazed by the resemblance to the Marley he remembered and almost embarrassed by the gaping hole in the chest right over the heart. He had been proud of it beforeЧa clean hitЧbut now he had second thoughts. Marley obviously hadn't come back to thank him for it.

Then he took another look. Draped around Mar-ley's neck and waist and trailing after him down the corridor was what looked tike a long iron chain tufted with spreadsheets and Rolodex cards and twined around an occasional laptop.

Lyle pointed. "What the hell's that?"

Marley gave the chain a slight shake.

"That's my penance, Lyle. Have to lug it around for Eternity. You remember, I cooked the books for Daddy's Savings and Loan. Cost the depositors millions." He shook his head. "If only I had known, I would have fixed it so Daddy took the fall." He tried to look fearsome, then gave it up, realizing he was too baby-faced to appear as anything more than petulant. "I'm not here to talk about me, Lyle. I'm here to talk about you." He looked faintly embarrassed. "I'm supposed to be the Ghost of Christmas Past."

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