"Larry Niven - Dry Run" - читать интересную книгу автора (Niven Larry)

He should have said, "Oh?"
Instead, he stopped with the word on his lips. He had suddenly realized that it didn't matter. It hadn't mattered since the accident, though he hadn't realized it until now.
"I killed Harvey," he said.
She glanced across at him, with distaste. She didn't believe him.
"He's in the trunk of my car. That's why I was in such a hurry tonight."
"That's ridiculous. You like Harvey."
"It was a sort of dry ran. I was planning to kill you."
"I don't understand."
"I had it all planned out," he said. "There's a red tide down at the beach. Maybe you knew."
"No." She was beginning to believe him, he thought.
"At night it's lovely. The breakers glow like blue fire. In the daytime it stinks, and the water's filthy. I could bury a body anywhere on the beach, and nobody would notice the smell. But I had to know I could go through with it. Wouldn't I be seven kinds of idiot if I murdered you and then froze up?"
"Yes," she said, very coldly.
"So I went up to the house and shot Harvey. It was sort of a dry run. If it had worked, you would have been next. The gun in the pillow, the drive to the beach--"
"What an idiotic idea. Didn't it occur to you that they'd search harder for a missing woman than a missing dog?"
"Well--"
"And why Harvey? Why not pick up a dog at the pound? Suppose they were searching for my body on the beach and found Harvey's instead. They'd trace me right to you! Then they'd know they were on the right track!"
"I--"
"I suppose you planned to use the same gun on us both?"
"Yes, I did, as a--"
"And how long do you think a red tide lasts, anymway?"
"The ocean always stinks. There's always a breeze, too."
"Remember the seal that washed up last year? It probably weighed less than seventy pounds. Remember the smelI? Think how much worse--"
"All right, all right! It was a stupid plan!"
The angry silence was very, very familiar. It didn't help Simpson to know that his wife was probably right. It never had.
They turned toward the beach. Janet asked, "Why would you want to kill me?"
"The alimony's bleeding me white."
"That's all?"
"No. Personal reasons."
She laughed. He had wondered before: was her laughter always scornful, or did it only sound that way? "My God, Murray! Surely you can tell me, your intended victim!" She sobered suddenly. "Never mind. I don't want to know why. Do you still plan to kill me?"
"No. Not after that."
"The accident."
"Of course. I don't have the nerve. Suppose I did it, and then froze up? My car's in a police lot with a dog's body in the trunk. Well, that won't get me killed. But suppose it was you?"
"Thafs almost funny," said Janet.
"Want a real laugh? I may never drive the freeway again, either. I was so sure I was dying..."
"I think I'd better tell someone else about this conversation, just in case."
"Go ahead then," said Simpson. And he had an odd thought: this was his last chance to go through with it. Before she told someone.
And then, an odder thought. Her tone: too light. She still didn't believe him. He was beginning to doubt it himself. Had he really intended to kill Janet?
She'd hurt him badly. She'd hurt him by leaving him: she, the only woman for Murray Simpson. She might as well have taken his testicles along. And he wanted to hurt her, badly.
They had reached the house. Janet pulled into the garage and shut off the ignition. "Do you always leave the door open?"
"Sometimes I forget."
Very uncomfortably, Janet asked, "Shall I come in and make you some coffee?"
"No. No thanks." Simpson opened the door and got out.
And felt it end.
Deep peace. Massless body, without sensation. The darkness of the blind.
Simpson said, "What happened?"
"You didn't kill her," said the voice without character.
"No, of course not. Am I dead again?"
"You are dead, still."
"How?"
"Loss of blood through a ruptured spleen, symptoms masked by shock. Your most recent memories were a dry run. Simpson, you did not kill your wife."