"Terry McGarry - Miasma" - читать интересную книгу автора (McGarry Terry)

she went gallivanting off to Turkey and Sri Lanka and Mozambique and every other disease- and
terrorist-ridden place, later on with men she barely knew. The worst part had been taking care of himself:
he was all she had left, no ill must befall him. With the crazy life she led—how could she go on after what
it had done to Father, his body twisted in the Cessna wreckage, sliced by metal, seared by fire—it was
crucial that Granger be the responsible one.

He had thought it would be easier when she was gone—from cancer, after all the risks she had taken.
But her death only proved to him that you couldn’t be too careful. It could come from anywhere, at any
time, even from your own blood cells or your own marrow.

The light outside was fading by the time he had fixed a macrobiotic dinner, eaten it slowly to avoid taxing
his digestive system, drunk two glasses of distilled water, and taken one aspirin from a new package that
he inspected for signs of tampering. The doorbell had made him jump time after time—he never
answered, not on Halloween, when anyone could be behind the mask seen through the peep-hole—but
at last the assault of children ebbed and the bell went quiet. Granger sank gratefully into his plush recliner
with the book in his lap and popped the footrest into place. This was his candy.

With a sense of formality and anticipation, he cracked the slick black binding; he liked to put his mark on
a book, insinuate his strength and his finger oils into the pages, make it part of him. He read the teaser,
the list of other books by the same author, the title, the copyright page, the half-title, the dedication; each
part of the book brought him closer to the opening descriptions, the first niggling suspi-cions, the titillation
of foreshadowing. He savored every step of fear as he went up the fictional stairs and approached that
landing, at his own pace, knowing he could always stop, knowing he could always go back, and reveling
in his courage when he didn’t.

Ten o’clock passed, and eleven. As faraway parties drew to a close or moved to bars, as street noises
grew fewer and televisions were turned off, the buzz of urban All Hallows’ Eve faded from his carpeted
cave. By twelve o’clock, the first murder had been committed by the evil children, and he jumped a little
as his refrigerator abruptly stopped hum-ming. By twelve-thirty, three baby-sitters lay mangled in the
suburbs, and all he could hear was a faint, rhythmic clicking as the numbers on his old clock radio flipped
over.

Even the room seemed darker. He looked up reluctantly. From wall to wall stretched a layer of heavy
smoke, unmov-ing in the still air. He rubbed his eyes. It was still there.

Fire! For a moment he sat, paralyzed, unable to remem-ber what to do in a real emergency. Then he
wrenched himself from the chair and grabbed a fire extinguisher. Where were the flames? There were no
flames. There was no smoke in the kitchen, or in the bedroom. None of the detectors had gone off. It
didn’t even smell like smoke.

He forced himself to walk through it to the front door. Both door and air felt cold, slimy; he unlocked the
three locks, took off the chain, and turned the knob.

There was no smoke in the hall. Only in his living room.

He turned slowly, the door ajar, tempted to run into the hall, wanting to scream. But the hall was long,
and dim, and silent, and the stairs at this hour were only marginally less terrifying than the elevator, and at
the bottom there was no doorman, just the glaring, bare lobby and the gleaming ebony streets beyond.
He came completely around and shut the door behind him.