"Simon Hawke - Wizard 7 - The Wizard of Camelot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

bed, we found the heartbreaking note that he had left. I have since tried to
forget that note, and though the years have blurred the memory, so that I can
no
longer recall his exact words, the substance of his last message to the world
is
with me still, and there is no forgetting it.

He was not, apparently, a well-educated man, and that was reflected in the
poor
syntax of his suicide note, for in effect, it was exactly that. His tone was
simple and despondent, deeply woeful, and in a mad sort of way, it even
sounded
reasonable. He began by addressing us, the police, his executioners. He
started
off with an apology. He stated that it was not his intention to hurt anyone,
a
remark that was diabolically incongruous with the corpses on the bed, and
that
he hoped no policemen or innocent bystanders had been harmed by any of his
bullets.

"I will try my level best," he wroteтАФor words to that effectтАФ"to avoid
hitting
anyone," and he went on to say that if, by accident, someone was killed or
wounded, that he did not mean it and was truly, deeply sorry.

I listened as Royceton read the words out loud to me and I recall how stunned
and mystified I felt at the crippled logic the sniper's twisted mind
displayed.
Here, he had murdered his entire family, and as he had written the note,
possibly with their freshly slain bodies on the bed behind him, he stated his
sincere intention to avoid hurting anyone and apologized profusely in the
event
he had. It seemed, however; that he did not consider what he'd done to them
to
be an act of murder; but an act of mercy, of release from a life that had
become
unbearable.

I stared at their bodies as Royceton continued to read from the note, and
even
tough-as-nails Royceton, hardened, seasoned veteran of two decades of street
combat, could not stop his voice from breaking. There lay the sniper's wife
and
his two young daughters, about the same age as my own. He gave their names. I
still recall them. Suzanne, his wife, and daughters Barbara and Irene. He
wrote
about their desperate plight, so similar to that of all too many others. They
were cold and hungry, and he could find no work that would allow him to
provide