"James McCann - Kith3" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCann James)

KITH
Parrt Thrree
Pa t Th ee




“HOW ODD IS MAN’S ABOMINABLE ATTEMPT TO CREATE ARTIFICIAL
LIFE; HAVE WE LEARNED NOTHING FROM OUR OWN REBELLION
AGAINST HE WHO CREATED US?”
 The Kith – 1 –


CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE

JULY 2010

The Farcus Café was just one business within a strip mall of many. Years ago the old
gas pumps had been dug up and covered, making room for a hair stylist, dollar store,
bookshop and grocer. It still resided on an exit from Highway 1 but was now in the
town’s outskirts and not outside the town. It had turned from a desolate gas station to a
bustling meeting place for truckers when old Farcus had passed on and his tycoon son
had taken over. It was a business run on profit and no longer on guilt.
One hour ‘til close, Melanie thought as she looked up at the clock above the doorway.
The café was the last business to close, and was usually bustling right until Midnight. But
tonight things had calmed shortly after seven, which suited her just fine. It had given her
a chance to mop, dust and merchandise for the morning.
Sunday nights were never the busiest, nor the most interesting. Even the radio station
had taken to replaying hits from the 90s, such as Amanda Marshall’s “Let It Rain” which
was on now. Guitar and vocals, not much talent needed there. Certainly not as much as
the current style of computer generated songs. Anyone could train their voice, but few
could master the complexities of an electronic language.
Lost in the solitude of her own thoughtful meandering, hypnotised by the repetitive
task of cleaning the counter, it was no wonder she jumped when the door-chime sounded.
Melanie smiled, looked up to see a young man, and glanced at the clock. Twenty
minutes to close. Please don’t stay long, she hoped. This gentleman looked freaky,
Adam’s Family freaky, dressed in a morbid trench coat and wide collared shirt. He had
his hands tucked deep into his pockets and his head tilted so that his long, Midnight hair
fell over his face. In his icy blue gaze was the melancholy of a broken heart and in his
walk a deliberateness that displayed purpose. He strolled to the stool in front of where
she cleaned, met her gaze, smiled and sat. Melanie smiled back.
“Hi,” Melanie said and waited for him to answer. When he didn’t she asked, “Can I
get you a coffee?”
“No.” He stared at her as though trying to transfix her with his gaze. “Have we met?”
“I don’t think so,” Melanie said and looked at the security camera.
The stranger stared long past that moment and did not look away until after Melanie
asked, “Do you need directions? Or medication of some sort?”
“I’m sorry.” He put out his hand in a gesture that said, “Allow me to explain.” His
gaze wandered toward the window, at where his reflection would have been had it not