Low Midnight

Начало книги

CORMAC SAT quietly while the man across the desk from him talked.

“… model parolee, Mr. Bennett. I’m almost sorry to see you go.” Porter gave a pleasant, practiced smile. He didn’t mean anything by it. He was nondescript, a middle-aged bureaucrat with a plain suit and a tie someone else probably picked out for him. The office was equally nondescript, fifteen-year-old interior design washed out by fluorescent lights shining through frosted plastic. Cluttered desk, cluttered bookshelves, no view visible through a narrow window. Porter’s padded executive chair didn’t look much more comfortable than Cormac’s hard plastic one. How’d the guy come here to work every day without going crazy? Cormac was itching to leave and never look back.

He tried a tight-lipped smile in return, because it was expected. It was polite, pretending like he thought the joke was funny. He kept his hands in his lap and twirled a braided band of leather wrapped around his right wrist. One turn, two, three …

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