Антон Смирнов – Secret of Lina Green (страница 1)

Антон Смирнов

Secret of Lina Green

Глава

Smirnov Anton

The Mystery of Lina Green

To my mother, wife and daughters

Prologue

Year 2002

"Hurry, he's running in a westerly direction.

"He's running too fast!" Where did he go?

Two police officers chased a man who was deftly escaping from the chase.

"Damn, where is he?"

The mysterious stranger, however, managed to run into the library and hid there. He heard the police passing by, but the librarian, who was standing nearby, did not give him away. To which the stranger nodded to him as a sign of gratitude.

"I need to hide one thing. As soon as there is an opportunity, I will return for it. Will you help me?

The librarian led the man into one of the halls without any questions and said:

"There is a private collection in this hall, there are no visitors here. You can hide it here.

The man took out a package, carefully unfolded it and took out a book.

"For safety, I don't need to know where you'll put your item. With that, he left the room.

The disappearance of Marcus Peters

1976 year

"Get in the car, Marcus.

"Catherine, I'm so glad to see you!"

"Shall we ride?"

"Of course, I don't mind!"

"What the hell?!" Someone blinks their headlights.

"Marcus, I'm afraid!"

"It's okay, Catherine, turn up the gas!"

"Oh my God, they're going to push us out of the way... God, Marcus...

Nowadays. The year is 2024.

My name is James Havebrook, and that's my story. At certain moments, my life was very unsuccessful. Now I am a famous writer with a huge check in my pocket for a tidy sum. Every publishing house in the country wanted to get a contract with me, but until recently I was a big loser with a lot of problems and instability in life.

It all started in the summer of 2023 in New York. I worked as a journalist in the literary magazine "New Life". The magazine was based on reviews of new books, films, and on top of that, it published stories by promising beginning authors. This magazine also contained my stories, but I hardly came close to writing a masterpiece. In addition, my inspiration left me, and my articles were published less and less often, and my conflicts with the editor only intensified. Finally, we agreed that I needed a full-fledged vacation, by the end of which I would have to provide the editor-in-chief with something masterpiece. It seems to me that he saw talent in me and understood that this was only a temporary crisis that needed to be survived and inspired.

"James, I know you're capable, and you can write a good story. However, at the moment you are at a dead end...

"Are you firing me?" Robert, you can't do that to me! I was one of the best. Yes, I had a creative crisis, but don't give up on me!

"Listen, Havebrook, don't interrupt me. I'm not firing you, I'm just giving you time to understand yourself, gain strength, inspiration, and rest. And as soon as you bring me a story that I will read in one breath, we will continue to work further...

— That is, this is a sabbatical?

"Let's assume so!"

"Thank you, Robert... Can I go?

"Yes, go and think it over." If anything, you know my phone number.

Robert Wilson was the editor-in-chief of New Life magazine and a very understanding man. He once taught a journalism course at my university, and I was his student. He always saw potential in me and therefore, after completing my training, he gladly hired me to work for him. And at first we worked fruitfully, I was even invited to work in other magazines, but I was devoted to my mentor. He was a handsome man who wrote dozens of stories and novels. One of his first was awarded various awards, and this indicated that he was very successful in his field. Now he is over sixty, he has his own family, but he did not have his own children, so many students were like children to him. Robert Wilson, despite his age, was still popular with both women and young students. Perhaps it was all about his charisma and strong mental abilities, because it seemed that this man knew about everything in the world.

Finding myself free from work in the middle of the day, I didn't want to go home, so I decided to take a walk. Wandering aimlessly through the streets, I saw a bar and decided to stop by for a couple of glasses of whiskey – it was my favorite alcoholic beverage. The clock showed 21:00, and alcohol had already hit my head, so I decided to go home to sleep and think about what to do next in the morning. As I walked in the direction of the house, I thought of Lisa.

"How is she?" What does our relationship lead to? And is there love between us?

As it turned out, I asked myself these questions for a reason. As soon as I crossed the threshold of the house, I saw her reproachful gaze, filled with anger.

"Where are you hanging out?"

"I was in the bar, I was fired today," I lied.

"It's not surprising, you're a loser!" And that's what you're all about!

"Thank you for your encouragement, that's what I need right now," I grinned.

"We should break up. I wanted to tell you even earlier, but today we have reached the limit in our relationship. I'm leaving, and there's no need to try to stop me...

"All right," I replied indifferently.

Tears flooded her eyes, but she took her things and proudly stepped over the threshold of my house, and I never saw her again. Probably, it is for the best. Lisa was an ordinary doll, falling only on money and prestige, which was at a certain point in my life, so to speak, at the beginning of my career.

I need to unwind, take a break from the frantic rhythm of the big city, be alone with my thoughts, breathe fresh air, take a break from people and transport. I have to go to a small town, a provincial one, where all of the above factors are combined. And, by the way, I know such a town: as a child, I often visited there, but over time I outgrew this town, but still the desire to return to it after a while was palpable.

Lingfield is a provincial town near New York City, with a population of about 5000 people. Quiet and peaceful, it seemed that nothing ever happened here. The city itself is surrounded by a forest consisting mainly of Weymouth pine. The people here were kind and suspicious of outsiders—a kind of community in which everyone was connected and familiar with each other in one way or another. James Havebrook could hardly be called an outsider, because he spent a lot of time here as a child. His father is from Lingfield, so young James often came here for holidays to visit his grandparents.

I packed my bags in a hurry, got into my Range Rover and hit the road. The road was supposed to take no more than three hours. Cities, high-rises and bridges flew by, but at the moment I was not particularly interested in the beauty of big cities: I wanted to be in a cozy house on the shore of the lake, which once belonged to my relatives, and now it has long been empty. It's hard to imagine such comfort in New York, where there are people and cars around, and everyone is constantly busy and in a hurry. And besides, New York is a city of tourists, so you can relax in this city only in bars and with a lot of alcohol, so that when you return home, you would sleep like a dead man, not hearing anything and not thinking about anything.

Here in Lingfield, on the shore of the lake, is my grandmother's house. My father grew up in this house, and it was a pleasure to be there again, to soak up the scents of the fresh pine forest, to walk along the beach and feed the birds, to escape from the reality of the big city and just merge with nature, where in the morning the birds sing, you can hear the dogs howling, and there is no fuss.

I got there quite unnoticed and parked my car near a small diner, which I decided to look into after the road. When I was a schoolboy, my grandfather and I often came here, ate pancakes for breakfast, and at lunchtime I adored their burgers with chips. At that time, they seemed to me the most delicious of all that there is in this world. My grandparents died more than five years ago, and I never found the strength to come here: without them, I felt completely uncomfortable here, I loved them very much.

On the threshold of the diner, I was met by a nice waitress, she looked no more than twenty. She had blond hair and graceful curves that were accentuated by her uniform. She smiled and offered to sit down at a table near the window, and I gladly agreed.

"What shall I treat you with?"

"Coffee and a couple of sandwiches first," I ordered.

"We have excellent lasagna," the waitress suggested. "My name is Marcy.

"Thank you, Marcy," I smiled back. "Carry your lasagna."

"Are you passing through our house or visiting us?"

"Hurry up to visit, I decided to change the scenery and live in your wonderful town.

"Great, I think we'll be friends, because most of the town comes to our diner. How can I contact you?

— James Havebrook. My grandparents lived here, and I used to be here. Perhaps you and I have seen each other once, and I would not mind if you suddenly want to join me and give me a tour of Lingfield.

Marcy was embarrassed and ran off to fulfill my order.

A couple of minutes later, she brought me coffee and sandwiches: but we had to wait for lasagna.