"Laymon, Richard - InTheDark" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laymon Richard)

Again, he shook his head. "Not that I noticed."
She shook the envelope. "This isn't from _you_, is it?"
"Me? No. What is it?"
Jane hesitated. How much should she tell him? She'd known Don for a couple of months, and she didn't _really_ know much about him. Only that he'd been a part-time helper at the library for a year before her own arrival, he was going for a PhD in English literature at the university across town, that he was single and lived in an apartment a few blocks from the library. She also knew that he was agonizingly shy and apparently had no social life.
Maybe he's trying to start one up with me, she thought, by way of a mysterious message and a chunk of money.
"It's an anonymous letter," she said, and decided not to mention the fifty dollars.
His eyes widened. "From a secret admirer?"
"Not exactly."
His jaw dropped. "Not a threat, I hope!"
"No. Just a . . . strange sort of message. But you haven't seen anyone wandering around with an envelope like this, or acting in any way furtive near the circulation desk?"
"I certainly haven't." He eyed the envelope. "May I?"
"Thanks, but . . . I don't think so." Seeing the dejected look on his face, she added, "It's rather personal."
"Personal?" He suddenly blushed. "Oh. Well. Never mind. If I'd known it was personal . . ." He grimaced and shook his head. "I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it, Don. Really."
"I . . . may I have your permission to leave? I haven't quite finished picking up, yet, but . . . I'm not feeling especially well. My stomach." He pressed a hand against it.
"Sure. Go on ahead."
"Oh, thank you." He scurried around the end of the circulation desk, entered the office, reappeared moments later with his briefcase, gave Jane a cramped smile and a wave, and hurried for the library doors.
"Hope you feel better," she said.
Then he was gone.
Jane wondered if she'd had a hand in causing his sudden illness.
Not unlikely. After all, she was his boss _and_ a woman, on top of which she had almost (but not quite) accused him of perpetrating the anonymous letter. Plenty to give a person of Don's temperament a nasty case of upset nerves.
Describing the letter as "personal" had apparently been the final straw.
Shouldn't have told him that, she decided. The thing isn't what you'd normally call personal. Didn't ask my income, didn't get sexy.
It's not personal, it's just plain screwy.
She glanced at her watch. Five after nine. "We're closing up, now," she announced. "Time to hit the streets, folks."
When the last was gone, she locked the front doors and returned to the circulation desk. She knew that she ought to go upstairs, make sure nobody was lingering in the stacks, and turn off the lights. She wasn't eager to do it, though. Neither she nor Don enjoyed that particular task. Just too creepy up there when you went alone.
Too quiet. Too many shadows. Too many hiding places.
Just plain spooky.
But made a great deal worse because you knew about old Miss Favor, the librarian, Jane's predecessor. She'd died up there. Dropped dead from a bad heart. Dropped dead while she was alone, closing for the night. And there she'd remained until morning when a part-timer had opened the library and discovered her body. According to Don, a rat or two had "been at her." He knew the unlucky worker who'd stumbled onto Miss Favor. "Oh, she was totally freaked out. Totally. She hasn't set foot in this library ever since."
The upstairs stacks weren't so bad in the daytime. They weren't so bad at night, either, as long as a few people were up there searching the shelves or working at the study carrels. But they were usually deserted when you went up at closing time.
Through some sort of unspoken acknowledgement of their mutual fears, Jane and Don had fallen into the habit of accompanying each other on that special job. It helped. A lot.
But tonight, Jane would need to do it alone.
_Thanks a heap, Don._
Well, there was no hurry.
Back behind the circulation desk, she picked up the envelope. She removed the note and the fifty-dollar bill, and studied them both.
She had rarely seen any denominations higher than twenty dollars. The fifty seemed a bit alien. On one side was a portrait of President Grant, on the other a rendition of the U.S. Capitol. She supposed it was real.
She also supposed that she was meant to keep it. After all, the thing had come in an envelope with her name on it.
_Why would anyone want to give me fifty bucks?_
Was it supposed to be a gift? she wondered. Or maybe payment for some real or imagined services?
_Payment in advance?_
Cute, she thought. Maybe now he expects something from me. Figures I've taken the money, so I owe him.
_That's what he thinks._
She read the note again:


Dear Jane,
Come and play with me. For further instructions, look homeward, angel. You'll be glad you did.
Warmest Regards,
MOG
(Master of Games)