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

They'll think I'm a weenie.
Bringing in the cops over a matter like this would be foolish. But she tried to think of a friend she might ask to come over.
_Hello? I'm a little bit spooked about going upstairs here at the library, and I was wondering if you'd maybe like to come over and keep me company? Shouldn't take more than five minutes._
She did have a few friends who would be quick to respond if she called -- but none who lived in Donnerville. Most of them lived at least an hour away. She certainly couldn't ask any of them to drive out here on such a lame pretext.
And it really _is_ lame, she told herself. For one thing, this Master of Games character might be long gone. For another, he's probably harmless.
Maybe nothing but a twerpy kid. MOG, Master of Games. Sounds like the brainchild of a nerd who's spent too much time playing Dungeons and Dragons, or something.
Well, she thought, we'll soon find out.
For better or worse.
_Just in case of worse, I've got my trusty knife._
On her way out of the office, Jane rubbed the switchblade against her right thigh, trying to slip it into her pocket. Having no success, she looked down. She was wearing her denim skirt, not her culottes. The culottes had pockets, but the skirt didn't.
Her only pockets were on the front of her blouse. The white blouse, big enough to be comfortably loose, had a large pocket on each side of the chest. As she headed for the staircase, she unbuttoned the flap over the pocket on the right, lifted it, and dropped in the knife.
The plastic handle bumped against her breast. It turned sideways as it slid downward. From the tip of her breast, it fell to the bottom of the pocket. It hung there as if caught in a hammock, swaying back and forth as she walked.
Terrific, Jane thought. She'd forgotten how enormous these pockets were.
_The damn knife won't do me a lot of good if I have to spend five minutes fishing it out._
She was already at the fire door, so she went ahead and pushed it open. The lights in the stairwell were still on. The bulbs gave off enough light to illuminate the stair treads. Just fine for safety. But they were dim and yellowish.
Not exactly cheerful.
I really should get them changed, she told herself. Just buy some new ones myself. Might help the dismal atmosphere in here.
While I'm at it, have the stairs de-squeaked.
Every one of the old wooden stairs groaned or creaked or squawked as she climbed.
_This is a regular spookhouse. Why did I ever take this job in the first place?_
Cut it out, she told herself. The job's just fine.
_Right. It's the _building_ that sucks_.
As Jane arrived at the landing, halfway up, the swinging bottom of her pocket reminded her that she wanted to retrieve the knife.
_Get it now, while the getting's good. If you wait till you need it. . ._
I won't need it, she told herself.
Lord, I hope not.
Continuing to climb, she shoved her fingers down into the pocket. Her thumb didn't go in with them, but she didn't think she would need its help.
She worked her fingertips between the knife handle and the bottom of her pocket (felt like some sand down there -- where'd that come from?) and began to raise the knife. Having no grip on it, she could only bring it up by sliding it against the underside of her breast.
As she set her foot on the top stair, the door burst open and a man charged at her.
She yelped, flinched, reached for the banister.
The man gasped, "Whoa!"
As Jane grabbed the banister with her left hand, her right squeezed the knife in her pocket.
She felt the hard nub of its button sink down.
_Uh-oh!_
She dropped the knife as the blade sprang from its handle. It whipped up against her nipple while she stumbled backward and the man skidded to a halt and clamped a hand on her shoulder.
The hand stopped her, held her steady.
"I'm sorry," the stranger blurted. "Are you okay?"
Jane nodded. She tried to catch her breath. Her heart was thudding quick and hard. Her nipple tingled and burned. She looked down, half expecting to find the pocket of her blouse soaked with blood.
No blood.
But half an inch of shiny steel point jutted out from the side of her pocket.
The stranger looked at it, too. Then he met her eyes and said, "Are you sure you aren't hurt?"
"I'm all right."
"You didn't cut yourself, did you?"
_He's talking about my boob! Man!_
"It sort of felt like it, but I don't see any blood."
He still held Jane's shoulder.
She wanted to get away from him, wanted to hold her hurt, wanted to check the damage. "Were you on your way down?" she asked.
He nodded, but didn't take the hint. "I shouldn't have been in such a hurry. Afraid I didn't realize it'd gotten so late. You're the librarian, aren't you?"
"That's right."
"Coming up to shoo me out?"