"Gardner Dozois - Flash Point" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dozois Gardner)

years. The torrent of hippies and Jesus freaks had gradually run dry, the pluggers and the weeps had
been all over the state for a few seasons, and then, slowly, they'd stopped coming too. The new crop of
itinerant kids wereтАФhard. Every year they became more brutal and dangerous. They didn't seem to care
if they lived or died, and they hated everything indiscriminatelyтАФincluding themselves.

In Norridgewock, he delivered the stereo console to its owner, then went across town to pick up a
malfunctioning 75-hp Johnson outboard motor. From the motor's owner, he heard that a town boy had
beaten an elderly storekeeper to death that morning, when the storekeeper caught him shoplifting. The
boy was in custody, and it was the scandal of the year for Norridgewock. Jacobs had noticed it before,
but discounted it: the local kids were getting mean too, meaner every year. Maybe it was self-defense.

Driving back, Jacobs noticed one of the gypsy jeeps slewed up onto the road embankment. It was
empty. He slowed, and stared at the jeep thoughtfully, but he did not stop.

A fire-rescue truck nearly ran him down as he entered Skowhegan. It came screaming out of
nowhere and swerved onto Water Street, its blue blinker flashing, siren screeching in metallic rage,
suddenly right on top of him. Jacobs wrenched his truck over to the curb, and it swept by like a demon,
nearly scraping him. It left a frightened silence behind it, after it had vanished urgently from sight. Jacobs
pulled back into traffic and continued driving. Just before the turnoff to his house, a dog ran out into the
road. Jacobs had slowed down for the turn anyway, and he saw the dog in plenty of time to stop. He did
not stop. At the last possible second, he yanked himself out of a waking dream, and swerved just enough
to miss the dog. He had wanted to hit it; he'd liked the idea of running it down. There were too many
dogs in the country anyway, he told himself, in a feeble attempt at justification. "Big, ugly hound," he
muttered, and was appalled by how alien his voice soundedтАФhard, bitterly hard, as if it were a rock
speaking. Jacobs noticed that his hands were shaking.

Dinner that night was a fair success. Carol had turned out not to be particularly overjoyed that her
husband had invited a horde of people over without bothering to consult her, but Jacobs placated her a
little by volunteering to cook dinner. It turned out "sufficient," as Everett put it. Everybody ate, and
nobody died. Toward the end, Carol had to remind them to leave some for Dave Lucas, who had not
arrived yet. The company did a lot to restore Jacobs' nerves, and, feeling better, he wrestled with
curiosity throughout the meal. Curiosity won, as it usually did with him: in the end, and against his better
judgment.

As the guests began to trickle into the parlor, Jacobs took Sussmann aside and asked him if he'd
learned anything new about the abandoned car.

Sussmann seemed uneasy and preoccupied. "Whatever it was happened to them seems to've
happened again this afternoon. Maybe a couple of times. There was another abandoned car found about
four o'clock, up near Athens. And there was one late yesterday night, out at Livermore Falls. And a
tractor-trailer on Route Ninety-five this morning, between Waterville and Benton Station."

"How'd you pry that out of Riddick?"

"Didn't." Sussmann smiled wanly. "Heard about that Athens one from the driver of the tow truck that
hauled it backтАФthat one bumped into a signpost, hard enough to break its radiator. Ben, Riddick can't
keep me in the dark. I've got more stringers than he has."

"What d'you think it is?"