The Zero Night

Начало книги

The man with the briefcase sat on a bench in the drowning rain.

When the wind gusted, Lake Superior punished him for his choice of location, rolling waves up and over the pier and drenching him with spray that was even colder than the downpour. In the twin glow of the lighthouses on either side of the ship canal, and beneath the ghostly light of the lift bridge, the muddy, wriggling surface of the water looked angry and alive.

However, the man on the bench seemed unaffected by the October storm. He sat motionless, his back straight, his fingers spread atop the leather briefcase on his lap. Coils of his curly blond hair clumped like loose springs on his forehead. He wore a navy-blue button-down shirt, a neon-yellow tie, and black slacks, all soaked to the skin. His eyes appeared to be closed. His tall, skinny body, sitting alone on the bench, was a silhouette framed against the horizon of the lake.

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