"Mallory, Michael - Ghost Writer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mallory Michael)

"You'll get your next book, goddammit," Lockridge spat, "but I need this one for myself. It's too good an idea to give away. I want a book of my own, something under my own name again. Do I have to say please?" The last word tasted like bile.

Starkweather sighed and shook his head. "Jim, Jim, Jim . . . when are you going to accept the fact that your career is over? Do you know what I was thinking just before you arrived? I was musing how I had spent fifteen miserable years mucking around in television, and hating every minute of it. But now I am a best-selling author and I love it. I love the attention, the interviews, the fan mail, the book tours, I love talking about my books -"

"My books, dammit!"

Starkweather smirked as he refilled his glass. "Since I'm in a generous mood, I'll say our books. But you are missing my point." He took a long sip of the bourbon. "What I love most of all is not having to face the drudgery of writing all those pages myself. That's what my little Jimmy-boy is for, and that is all he will ever be for. Now be a good boy and get the hell - "

Before Starkweather could finish the sentence Lockridge lunged forward and shoved the older man as hard as he could, sending him sprawling on the floor. In a flash Lockridge was on top of him, trying to grasp his throat, but Starkweather managed to roll out from under him, scramble to his feet and run for it. He got as far as the living room when Lockridge lunged again and grabbed him around the shins. Helpless, Starkweather toppled over like a sawn tree, slamming his temple loudly against the corner of the marble coffee table on the way down. He slumped onto the floor, limp and groaning.

"Jesus," Lockridge muttered, climbing off of him, looking for blood, but finding none. Starkweather was still dazed, rolling back and forth and moaning. A red lump was starting to form on his left temple.

Lockridge knew there was only one thing to do. He had to finish it.

Lifting the limp figure onto his shoulder like a sack of dog food, Lockridge struggled up the house's main staircase. At the top, he let Starkweather drop onto the floor and then hefted him upright again. With a powerful shove, he pitched him face-first down the stairs. Almost no noise, Lockridge thought absently as Starkweather's body cartwheeled down the steps, not at all like the movies, where it always sounds like a drum solo. At the bottom, however, the crumpled figure of Starkweather was still moving. "Damn!" Lockridge cried, racing down to drag the man back up the steps.

It took two more stair-length tumbles before Burton Starkweather stopped moaning, stopped moving, stopped breathing. Lockridge then took his handkerchief and carefully wiped the banister, the coffee table, the entryway table, every place he might have touched, then mopped up the spilled drink before gathering up his manuscript and the disks and slipping out of the house. The street outside was deserted, and Jim Lockridge made his way down the steep, winding drive unseen.

Two days later, the news was everywhere. All the local stations carried it, rerunning the same quote from the police spokesman that Burton Starkweather's death was at present being ruled a tragic accident. The next issue of People Magazine had a banner across the cover reading: "Death of a Storyteller." If only they knew the truth, Lockridge thought, as he threw the rag into the trash.

After erasing all his Starkweather disks and deleting any remaining files, Lockridge similarly cleared his mind of all thoughts of a one-time parasite named Burton Starkweather. He began to immerse himself in his new book, working as never before, sitting at the computer eight, nine, sometimes ten hours a day. Pages and chapters were accruing at a rate that even he could not believe.

Rising early on a Saturday after a solid week of exhausting work, Lockridge had every intention of taking the day off. He could feel he was getting too tired, thinking about his work too much. Why else would he have been so convinced that he heard the sound of typing in the middle of the night? Unfortunately for his pledge, the solution to a troublesome problem of character motivation came to him while in the shower, and after toweling and quickly dressing, he raced to his computer and booted up. The comforting beeps and tones warmed him, and soon he mouse-clicked into his directory. Looking at the files, Lockridge blinked and muttered, "What's that?"

One file was titled "confessio.wpd." He did not remember creating it, nor could he say what was in it. "I have been working too hard," he told himself. Opening the file, Lockridge's mouth gaped as he read:

March 19, 2000

To Whom It May Concern at the Police Department:

I cannot stand it anymore. My conscience is preying upon me. I, James Lockridge, confess to being responsible for the seemingly accidental death of Burton Starkweather.

"Jesus!" Lockridge cried, his fingers fumbling all over the keyboard as he struggled to close the document. With shaking hand, he entered the delete command and the file disappeared. This was proof he had been overexerting himself. Maybe he had even fallen asleep at the computer and had let his subconscious take over for a while. But now a new terror struck him: what if he had planted, either subconsciously or unconsciously, a similar confession in the text of his novel?

Lockridge spent the rest of the day sifting through page after page, looking for anything that could be read as a product of subconscious guilt. He found none, but could he really be sure? He started through it again. Sometime after nine that evening he realized that he had not eaten anything the entire day, so he headed out for Belaggio's Coffee Shop.

Whether the food was good or bad, Lockridge could not have said. He ate mechanically while pretending to read a newspaper, but all the while he was thinking of the mysterious file. Had he gotten up out of bed and typed it out in his sleep? Maybe he should see a doctor. Sure, he thought, grimly, I'll see a doctor and tell him that the man I murdered is haunting me!

Returning home, Lockridge went over to his work desk to shut down the computer. He knew that any more work that night was impossible. He was about to switch off when he saw something that caused a ball of ice to form in the pit of his stomach: it was a new, unknown directory, one he had never created.

A directory titled "confess."

His pulse pounding in his head, Lockridge forced himself to open it. The directory was filled with dozens of files, maybe even a hundred, each one named "confessio." "Can't be, can't be, can't be . . . " Lockridge chanted. He started to open one of the files. He didn't want to, but it was as though something was guiding his hand. With terror-widened eyes he read:

Hi, Jimmy-boy.

I've been busy while you were out.

With a cry, Lockridge leapt up from his desk and ran from the computer. He was halfway to his bedroom when the sound of someone pounding on his front door froze him.