John Lutz - Scorcher
Здесь есть возможность читать онлайн «John Lutz - Scorcher» весь текст электронной книги совершенно бесплатно (целиком полную версию без сокращений). В некоторых случаях можно слушать аудио, скачать через торрент в формате fb2 и присутствует краткое содержание. Жанр: Триллер, на английском языке. Описание произведения, (предисловие) а так же отзывы посетителей доступны на портале библиотеки ЛибКат.
- Название:Scorcher
- Автор:
- Жанр:
- Год:неизвестен
- ISBN:нет данных
- Рейтинг книги:5 / 5. Голосов: 1
-
Избранное:Добавить в избранное
- Отзывы:
-
Ваша оценка:
- 100
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
Scorcher: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация
Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «Scorcher»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.
Scorcher — читать онлайн бесплатно полную книгу (весь текст) целиком
Ниже представлен текст книги, разбитый по страницам. Система сохранения места последней прочитанной страницы, позволяет с удобством читать онлайн бесплатно книгу «Scorcher», без необходимости каждый раз заново искать на чём Вы остановились. Поставьте закладку, и сможете в любой момент перейти на страницу, на которой закончили чтение.
Интервал:
Закладка:
Carver slowed the car when he saw a neon mermaid with a tail that flitted jerkily back and forth in rhythmic spasms of light. Beneath the dizzying, blinking white neon was lettered in blue: MERMAID MOTEL, SLEEP, EAT, CHEAP. Brief but to the point.
He pulled the Olds onto the canted shoulder, braked to a halt, and let traffic swish past while he looked over the motel.
It was small, no more than thirty rooms built in a low U-shape around a swimming pool. The construction looked like cinder block painted dull tan. A dark brown or black iron railing ran along the catwalk fronting the upper rooms. The doors were all the same color as the railing. No one was in the swimming pool. The water appeared greenish and coated with algae. There was a metal sign on the chain link fence surrounding the pool, probably informing guests that the pool was out of order, no swimming. The pool looked like a great place to meet alligators.
Like many of the surrounding businesses, the motel was seedy-looking and had an air of resigned despair about it. This was a stretch of the Orange Blossom Trail outside Orlando that was lined with bars, used-car lots, service stations, topless joints, and a few porn bookstores and massage parlors. Not the central Florida the Tourist Bureau bragged about. Maybe Desoto was right in speculating that Paul Kave was running short of money.
Carver U-turned, then parked in the gravel lot of a closed service station and climbed out of the Olds. Hot, humid air enveloped him, holding the smell of rot and of grease and oil that had seeped below the gravel. A cat, or perhaps a large rat, skittered off the lot into the dark brush, running hunkered low. Or was it something he’d imagined? Carver dragged his bare arm across his perspiring forehead.
He walked up the road several hundred feet to the motel, skirted the office, and located room 100. It was an end room on the lower of the motel’s two levels. He made his way down a corridor, past an ice machine, and beyond a hulking trash dumpster overflowing with cardboard and reeking of overripe garbage. After testing the ground with his cane, he edged off the pavement and behind some bushes growing parallel to the back wall of the motel.
It was dark there; he clenched his eyes shut and then opened them, trying to adjust his sight well enough not to trip over anything or turn an ankle. Night vision wasn’t his strong suit. He moved tentatively, feeling ahead with the cane like a blind man, because the ground was soft beneath the grass, as if it had just been watered. The sweet garbage stench of the dumpster faded as he limped the length of the motel. About half the rooms had lights burning in them.
Opposite the rear of room 100, he found a shadowed area and stood leaning against the trunk of a palm tree. Above him the long fronds rattled softly in the hot night breeze, like clacking dice about to be loosed from a gambler’s hand.
Lights were on in Paul Kave’s room. The drapes were drawn over the rear sliding glass doors but there was a gap in them, widening toward the bottom. Carver remembered his uneasy vision of someone peering through a similar gap in his motel room in Pompano Beach. Nervous speculation. If Paul Kave saw him looking into the room, Paul would freeze for a moment, wondering if it were his nerves, his guilt and fear, causing him to see things that weren’t there. In that vital moment of inaction, he’d be a target. And Carver would need a portion of that suspended time to be sure the room’s occupant was actually Paul Kave. The thought of killing the wrong man made his stomach twist in on itself.
He drew the gun from beneath his shirt and limped toward the small pool of light outside the gapped drapes.
He’d considered simply knocking on the door of room 100, but Paul would be put on guard, perhaps even try to escape out the back. And the shot would make noise; other guests and the management would be alerted. Better this way, Carver decided. He could squeeze off a couple of well-aimed rounds and quickly disappear back into the night, like the fleeting dark animal he’d glimpsed near where he’d parked his car. He could then make his way to the Olds without being seen. By the time the alarm and confusion subsided at the Mermaid Motel, he’d be miles down the highway. A sound and simple plan. The kind that worked.
He could see faint shadowed movement inside the room. Paul Kave pacing. Trying to walk away his fear so he could remain cooped up and temporarily safe while his instincts screamed for him to run, cried for distance. Or did someone with Paul’s warped and murderous mentality think that way? Possibly he felt safe most of the time. Secure. Carver hoped so.
A cloud glided sedately across the moon, fading the earth to black and then returning it to less than total darkness. As if that were some sort of signal, cicadas began their ratchety shrieking in the surrounding fields. There was something desperate in their high-pitched, ongoing scream.
Outside the glass doors, Carver braced himself with the cane, extended his stiff leg awkwardly out to the side, and stooped down. He wouldn’t be able to stay in that position long, but while he was there he could hold the gun steady enough. He wouldn’t have much time to get off a volley of shots.
He held the automatic ready, aimed through the glass, his gaze fixed on the small portion of the room visible through the gap in the drapes. His mouth was dry and his nerves were singing. He waited for Paul Kave to cross that vulnerable, tiny slice of room 100. The lane to the land of the dead.
Carver controlled his breathing and remained motionless. He could sense that Paul was still moving around inside the room, pacing with restless energy, but not across the deadly area before the gunsight. Carver was one with his prey now, inside Paul’s head as only a dedicated hunter could be, as if his own nerve endings were picking up echoes of Paul’s deranged thoughts; as if he could influence him, urge him to that part of the room that meant death. You want to die, want to end it, I know you do.
The gun’s steel bulk grew heavier in Carver’s grip. He’d need a steady hand when the time came, so he rested the butt of the automatic against his good knee. He could raise it again in half a second and have Paul in his sights. End this thing for both of them.
After a while, Carver’s bent leg began to ache and his thigh muscles started to quiver. He’d have to stand up soon, he knew, or he might not be able to straighten his body after firing into the room. He also feared a muscle cramp that might hinder him in his getaway. He decided to give Paul until the count of thirty before averting the gun’s aim and standing up.
No, make it the count of fifty.
At twenty, a figure finally appeared inside room 100. Carver’s heart bucked and raced.
It was Paul Kave, looking thinner than Carver imagined, and frightened and young. So young. His blond hair was mussed into greasy spikes. Was that a shadow beneath his nose, or was he trying vainly to grow a mustache? A naive attempt at disguise?
Carver had the automatic sighted in on target. He felt tension in his trigger finger. He controlled it so he wouldn’t pull up on the gun and spoil his aim.
There was a faint sizzling sound, off to his right.
He jerked his head in that direction and saw a short, paunchy man in bermuda shorts and a white sleeveless undershirt, standing outside the glass doors two or three rooms down. The man had stepped out to smoke a cigar, and he was holding a burning match to its tip and causing the flame to dance and flare brightly as he puffed his cheeks in and out like a bellows. He was facing Carver. As soon as the match went out he’d notice him. He’d have to!
The man flicked the match away, removed the cigar from his mouth, and started to gaze at its glowing ember with a stogie smoker’s satisfaction. Then he spotted Carver, did a show-business double take, and said, “Hey!”
Читать дальшеИнтервал:
Закладка:
Похожие книги на «Scorcher»
Представляем Вашему вниманию похожие книги на «Scorcher» списком для выбора. Мы отобрали схожую по названию и смыслу литературу в надежде предоставить читателям больше вариантов отыскать новые, интересные, ещё непрочитанные произведения.
Обсуждение, отзывы о книге «Scorcher» и просто собственные мнения читателей. Оставьте ваши комментарии, напишите, что Вы думаете о произведении, его смысле или главных героях. Укажите что конкретно понравилось, а что нет, и почему Вы так считаете.