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

"Wise up, stupid," Lyle growled. "Christmas is a week away."

"Technicality," Marley said breezily. He rattled his chains again. "I'm here to give you a chance to repent before you fry, Lyle."

"I ain't ashamed of anything," Lyle said sullenly.

"You never were a quick study," Marley muttered, shaking his head. "Look, enough small talk, Lyle, take my hand and we're outta here."

Marley thrust a pale hand through the bars but Lyle hesitated.

"Aren't you going to open the cell?"

"No need toЧit'll be just like in Terminator 2. C'mon, let's go."

Lyle took his handЧit was somewhat cold and dry to the touchЧand oozed through the bars. The cells and the corridor and the prison itself promptly disappeared and he found himself floating with Marley in a sea of gray.

"Down there," Marley said. "Look familiar?" "I can't see a thing," Lyle grunted, and then a moment later, of course he could. They were floating over Evanston, Illinois, just north of Chicago. He could make out whitecaps on Lake Michigan off the Northwestern campus and then a little farther south, the home on Seward Street, close by the elevated tracks, where he'd been born and raised. It was a big brick-and-stone house with a huge backyard and an apple tree with a swing suspended from a lower limb. Blackberry bushes almost hid the fence separating the house from Mrs. Krumpkin's small bungalow on the right and the Flohr house on the left.

He used to play with the Flohr brothers, but they had the disadvantage of being bigger than he was which meant there was no way he could bully them. Instead, he'd hung out with the young van Dyke boy down the block who was usually too scared to say no to the various misadventures Lyle suggested.

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Lyle had even managed it so it was Mark van Dyke who got sent to juvenile hall instead of himself after they had burglarized a poster shop.

There was a little wisp of smoke coming from the chimney of his house, almost lost in the blowing snow of an early winter. Lyle shivered, then realized in his present condition he really felt neither cold nor warmth.

"We ought to look inside," Marley said. "That's the way the scenario usually goes."

They drifted down toward the rooftop and Lyle closed his eyes as they sank through the asphalt shingles and plywood into the house below. When he opened them again, he was in a large living room that smelted of roast turkey and mincemeat and was fragrant with the odor of pine needles from the Christmas tree in the comer. The top of the tree nearly brushed the ceiling, while the bottom was swathed in an old sheet on which were piles of presents. The tree was decorated with shiny glass ornaments and chains of paper links made from brightly colored drawing paper. Lyle remembered with pride that the paper chains had been his work.

The family was sitting around the dining table finishing the meal before trooping into the living room for the distribution of the presents. His father, heavy-set and florid, with a thick head of black hair just beginning to silver at the temples. His mother, matronly and pink cheeked, with a checkered apron wrapped around her middle.

And finally, his two brothers. David, his father's favorite, at sixteen barrel chested with the build of a high school wrestler, which he was. Later, he would go to college, earn an MBA and become a VP with Bechtel. He would many and have three kids and live happily ever after, like first sons were supposed to. He would also fall out of touch with Lyle shortly after he married. In fact, Lyle reflected bitterly, David

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Frank M. Robinson

would tell him never to show his face around his house, ever.

Nice bro, Lyle thought, aggrievedЧwhat'd he ever do to him?

Bob was much the same story. A degree in drama from Northwestern, and now a documentary film producer. The only contact he'd had with Lyle after leaving home was an offer to make a film of his life to be shown in high schools as a warning to students who might be headed for a life of crime.

"Okay, Marley, I've seen them," Lyle grumbled. "A bunch of losers. What happens now?"

"Come off it, Lyle, they were all winners. Shows you genetics has a sense of humor." Marley pointed with a bony finger. "The boy at the end of the table. Don't you know him?"