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The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the grime slicker, turns the streetlights into smeared watercolors on wet asphalt, makes the neon signs bleed their colors into the gutters where they belong.Victor Lane sat in his office on Hollywood Boulevard, third floor, front window fogged with cigarette smoke and the kind of exhaustion that sleep doesn't fix. His desk was a disaster of unpaid bills, half-empty whiskey glasses, and case files he had started and abandoned with equal enthusiasm. The door opened without knocking. A woman stood in the doorway, wearing a black raincoat that cost...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 9 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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THE CONTAGIONI. The door was in the basement of a building that didn't have a basement. Jack Morretti had been hired to find a missing woman—Margaret Linney, thirty-two, worked at an insurance company on Fifth Avenue, lived in an apartment on the Upper West Side. She'd stopped coming home three weeks ago. Her husband, a mild-mannered actuary named Linney, had called Jack because the police had told him to...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 4 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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THE LAST LIGHT OF NEW CARTHAGEI found Grandfather's diary in the cellar on a Tuesday in October, 1872. The house was cold—the coal fire had been banked too early, as it always is when one lives alone—and the smell of damp stone and forgotten things rose to meet me as I descended the narrow stairs with a candle in my hand. There, behind a stack of water-stained furniture covers, in a tin box whose lock had rusted solid, was...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 7 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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The Patient from BelowThe asylum had been closed for twenty years before the Sleep came, but the children of Boston knew it by reputation the way children know about forbidden places: through whispers and warnings and the peculiar silence that falls over a room when someone mentions the Holloway Asylum in a voice that suggests they have been told not to speak of it at all. Theo Ashworth had never been inside. He was...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 11 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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The Anvil of PiAct One: The Discovery The rain in Derbyshire had a way of getting into your bones that no wool sweater could keep out. Thomas Whitmore knew this better than most. At fifty-two, his joints ached with the damp, and the doctor had suggested London. London, where the fog was so thick you could spread it on bread. But Thomas had refused. There was work to be done here, in the dales, in the old铅...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 5 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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The Last Dance at the HaloThe jazz on the radio was playing "Body and Soul," but Diana Sterling was not listening to the music. She was listening to the silence between the notes—the spaces where Charles Whitmore's thoughts lived, and which he seemed reluctant to share. They were driving up the Long Island Expressway in a car that cost more than Diana's father had earned in his entire teaching career at Harvard. The car...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 3 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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The Patient from BelowThe voice started on a Tuesday, in the basement of Dr. Edward Blackwood's clinic in the town of Arkham, Massachusetts. Eddie was fifteen, brilliant and troubled in equal measure, and he had spent the last three years sitting on his father's examination table while his father examined other people's minds. His father was sitting in his armchair, conducting what should have been a routine session...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 14 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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THE PATIENT FROM BELOWDr. Arthur Voss could not remember how he had arrived at the hospital. This was not, strictly speaking, true. He remembered driving through Vienna on a February evening in 1896, the gas lamps casting amber pools on the wet cobblestones, the carriages bouncing over puddles that reflected the windows of the cafés where men sat drinking brandy and talking about the future of the Balkans. He...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 5 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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The Mirror at BlackthorneThe rain in London does not fall so much as it accumulates, layer by attenuated layer, until the city is nothing more than a watercolor painting left out in a storm. Reginald Ashworth had lived through eleven London rains by November 1891, but this one was different—not in its intensity or its duration, but in the particular way it blurred the boundaries between the east and the west, making...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 5 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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