Pokrewne

Start
Bill Crider [Sheriff Dan Rhod Winning Can Be Murder (epub) id
Backshot David Sherman; Dan Cragg
Brown Dan Kod Leonarda daVinci
Dichterbij.Dan.Je.Denkt.Mari.Ju
B Dan Zabojczy urok blondynki
Czerwony kapitan Dan Dominik
Bluescreen Dan Wells
Dywizja Cassini Ken MacLeod
Balogh Mary Bedwynowie 002 Niezapomniane lato
[heft] Perry Rhodan 2517 Die Prototyp Armee

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.To the right of this lighthouse structure was an L-shaped courtyard of perhaps fifteen motel units; and to the left of it, at the very crest of the hill, was the old house, the house where George Orson’s parents once lived.Not exactly a mansion but formidable out here on the open prairie, a big old Victorian two-story home with all the trappings of a haunted house: a turret and wraparound porch, dormers and corbeled chimneys, a gable roof and scalloped shingles.No other houses in sight, barely any other sign of civilization, barely anything but the enormous Nebraska sky bending over them.For a moment Lucy had the notion that this was a joke, a corny roadside attraction or amusement park.They had pulled up in the summer twilight, and there was the forlorn lighthouse tower of the motel with the old house silhouetted behind it, ridiculously creepy.Lucy thought that there may as well have been a full moon and a hoot owl in a bare tree, and George Orson let out a breath.“So here we are,” George Orson said.He must have known how it would look to her.“This is it?” Lucy said, and she couldn’t keep the incredulousness out of her voice.“Wait,” she said.“George? This is where we’re going to live?”“For the time being,” George Orson said.He glanced at her ruefully, as if she disappointed him a little.“Only for the time being, honey,” he said, and she noticed that there were some tumbleweeds stuck in the dead hedges on one side of the motel courtyard.Tumbleweeds! She had never seen such a thing before, except in movies about ghost towns of the Old West, and it was hard not to be a little freaked out.“How long has it been closed?” she said.“I hope it’s not full of mice or—”“No, no,” George Orson said.“There’s a cleaning woman coming out fairly regularly, so I’m sure it’s not too bad.It’s not abandoned or anything.”She could feel his eyes following her as she got out and walked around the front of the car and up toward the red door of the Lighthouse.Above the door it said: OFFICE.And there was another unlit tube of neon, which said:NO VACANCY.It had once been a fairly popular motel.That’s what George Orson had told her as they were driving through Indiana or Iowa or one of those states.It wasn’t exactly a resort, he’d said, but a pretty fancy place—“Back when there was a lake,” he’d said, and she hadn’t quite understood what he meant.She’d said: “It sounds romantic.” This was before she’d seen it.She’d had an image of one of those seaside sort of places that you read about in novels, where shy British people went and fell in love and had epiphanies.“No, no,” George Orson said.“Not exactly.” He had been trying to warn her.“I wouldn’t call it romantic.Not at this point,” he said.He explained that the lake—it was a reservoir, actually—had started to dry up because of the drought, all the greedy farmers, he said, they just keep watering and watering their government-subsidized crops, and before anyone knew it, the lake was a tenth of what it had once been.“Then all of the tourist stuff began to dry up as well, naturally,” George Orson said.“It’s hard to do any fishing or water-skiing or swimming on a dry lake bed.”He had explained it well enough, but it wasn’t until she looked down from the top of the hill that she understood.He was serious.There wasn’t a lake anymore.There was nothing but a bare valley—a crater that had once held water.A path led down to the “beach,” and there was a wooden dock extending out into an expanse of sand and high yellow prairie grass, various scrubby plants that she imagined would eventually turn into tumbleweeds.The remains of an old buoy lay on its side in the windblown dirt.She could see what had once been the other side of the lake, the opposite shore rising up about five miles or so away across the empty basin.Lucy turned back to watch as George Orson opened the trunk of the car and extracted the largest of their suitcases.“Lucy?” he said, trying to make his voice cheerful and solicitous.“Shall we?”She watched as he walked past the tower of the Lighthouse office and up the cement stairs that led to the old house.3By the time the first rush of recklessness had begun to burn off, Miles was already nearing the arctic circle.He had been driving across Canada for days and days by that point, sleeping for a while in the car and then waking to go on again, heading northward along what highways he could find, a cluster of maps origami-ed on the passenger seat beside him [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]