"Simmons,.Wm.Mark.-.3.-.Habeas.Corpses.v1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Simmons William Mark)

What if the fuses were all blown and there weren't enough replacements?
And on the heels of that thought came a sudden shock to my toes. "Shit!"
"What is it?" Deirdre called down from the open door above.
"Someone," I said slowly, carefully, nursing my bruised toes, "didn't put their dumbbells away when they were done working out!"
"I put them away."
"I beg to differ."
"I like it when you beg."
"Don't taunt him, dear . . ." It sounded like Lupщ was suddenly standing behind Deirdre. " . . . that's my job."
With the reestablishment of territorial boundaries the upstairs door was closed.
Now it was really nice and dark.
And quiet.
Deirdre liked to crank up her boom box while she was working out so I had spent the past month stapling insulation, nailing sheetrock, and hanging a thicker, tighter cellar door so I could study to the strains of Wolfgang Mozart while she strained to the sound of Iron Maiden.
I carefully gimped my way across the floor, mindful that dumbbells came in pairs and that I had toes that were still unbroken. At least with the door closed I could cuss at the top of my lungs if I stumbled over any additional workout gear.
Where was I? Oh yeah: the icy fear was just starting to sink in that once I got to the fuse box I would find all of the fuses blown and I was pretty sure we didn't have enough spares to get everything back up and running.
Dead flashlight and shortage of replacement fuses: could it get any worse?
I bruised my shins on Deirdre's tanning bed.
I'd asked her once why she needed a man-made cocoon lined with UV lights when Louisiana provided plenty of natural sun exposure ten months out of the year. Aside from some mumbo jumbo about the difference between UV-A and UV-B wavelengths, I think she pretty much dodged the question. What's wrong with a blanket or a lawn chair? I mean, it's not like The Neighbors or I would be popping out in the middle of the day to gawk . . .
I climbed up on top of the closed lid of the bed to get to the fuse box and realized another complication: how could I tell which fuses to replace with what in the dark? A blown fuse does not make the same "tinkling" sound as a blown light bulb. And as for matching the correct amperagesЧI slapped the metal box in frustration but pulled my punch: the crapparatus was so old that it wouldn't take much to turn it into so much scrap.
As I prepared to climb back down, I caught the side of the box to balance myself and felt the circuit handle in the down or off position. That was oddЧnot that it mattered now, of course.
Unless . . .
I pushed the handle back up.
A lone thirty-watt bulb stuttered to life back toward the bottom of the steps. Distant cheers from the first floor and the backyard confirmed that I had solved the power problem.
"You don't look so tough," said an unfamiliar voice from behind me. "I bet you'll scream like a little girl before I'm done."

Chapter Three
I spun and dropped off the tanning table, landing in a Karate Kid combat pose. Mr. Miyagi would've been proud.
"Correction," the voice said. "I should've said 'scream and dance like a little girl . . .'" The voice belonged to a sinewy caricature of a human being. He wore peg-legged jeans over cowboy boots and a denim jacket with the sleeves torn off to form a raggedy vest. He was whippet-thin, all muscle and sinew and made Iggy Pop look like the Michelin Man. His head was shaved; the only hair aside from his eyebrows was a razor-trimmed moustache and goatee framing his fang-filled mouth. He wasn't just a vampire, which was badass enough, but he was cultivating the whole "other vampires think I'm a badass" vibe. I would be out of my league tangling with his baby sister.
I could scream and I could dance but I would be dead before anyone upstairs would have a clue that the enemy was under the doorstep.
"How did you get in here?" I wasn't just affecting a cool disinterest; I was coldly pissed off. Somebody had to invite him in; vampires couldn't cross a private threshold uninvited. The implications of that were as disturbing as his actual presence.
He smiled. It was like opening a tin of frozen sardines. "The owner invited me in."
"I'm the owner, baldy, and I'm dis-inviting you right now!"
He shook his head in an almost lazy fashion. "I speak of the original owner. You may have a way with some of the dead like those hapless fools next door, but not all of the corpses you will encounter will turn out to be such fawning sycophants."
Fawning syncophants? Great. I have met my arch-nemesis and his name is Lexicon Luthor. "So, the original owner . . ."
"A Madame LeClaire. Buried under the weeping willow by the front gate in 1869. She misses her headstone."
"Didn't know she was there. No headstone when I bought the place."
"Should have done the research. I did. Found out she was unhappy with the present tenants. Guess she doesn't approve of the Three's Company living arrangements. Very traditional, Madame LeClaire is."
"A nineteenth-century ghost told you all this?"
He shrugged. "I hired a medium."
Crap! An eloquent biker-vampire-assassin who did research. In-depth research. When the predators are stronger and faster than you are, you hope to gain a little edge by being smarter. This one, however, could not only outrun and outfight me but probably would kick my ass at the undead science fair, as well. "You've gone to a great deal of trouble."
"The contract on you is worth a great deal of money," he said. Like he had to justify the extra trouble and expense of tracking me down to kill me. "Not to mention the street cred."
Yeah, he looked like the type who valued street cred over practical considerations. I wondered if he appreciated where an overinflated reputation had gotten me.
"You realize, of course," I said slowly, "that what we have here is a Mexican standoff."
"Really?" He grinned. "I don't see it that way at all."
"I know that I'm no match for you," I continued, "but, as you so colorfully phrased it, I can scream like a little girl before you kill me. And you are definitely no match for the people upstairs or the security team on the property. If you don't stand down, we both die." Of course I would have to scream real loud now that I had soundproofed the cellar.
"Stand down," he mused. "I like that. So military. Probably something to do with your service records. I did a lot of research before I came here and that's the one part of my file on you that's incomplete. Why are some of your military records under a Pentagon seal?"
"Come back next week and I'll tell you."
He shook his head. "The money or the mysteryЧdecisions, decisions." He pulled a wireless detonator out of his pocket. "I think I'll take the money." He flipped a switch and a flash lit up the basement windows followed by a loud "bang!"
He tossed the detonator aside. "That got their attention. The next one will get them moving. In three. Two. One." A second "bang," farther away this time and the accompanying flash was dimmer.
"Now," he announced, "while your security team is running about outside, seeking the source of the mysterious explosions . . ." Another, more distant "bang" sounded. " . . . we can conclude our business without untimely interruptions." He reached down and pulled a combat knife out of his left boot. I patted the empty shoulder holster under my shirt as he held it up. Yeah, I wouldn't need to carry a gun inside my own house: I didn't need to go to bed or to the john or to the dinner table armed. Apparently trips to the cellar were a different matter.
The vampire brandished the weapon, turning it back and forth so we could both admire how the silvered blade gleamed under the General Electric Soft White.