"Carrie Richardson - A Dying Breed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Richardson Carrie)

of the shoulder joints. I shivered. Entirely too realistic for my taste.
"Don't you recognize me, Sheriff?" There was a plaintive note to the dry rasp this time.
Recognize it? "I'm sorry, I don't." How could I put this? "There isn't, uh, much left of your
face. Who are you?" This conversation was growing more unbelievable by the minute.
"I am -- I was -- Jesse Carmody, Mrs. Webster."
Oh, my God. Suddenly I did believe, and with no more evidence than that -- because no one, no
one would have the supremely bad taste to make such a joke about Jesse. Certainly not to me.
Jesse had been my daughter's boyfriend throughout high shcool. They had met when Tamara had
offered to tutor him in math in the ninth grade. Many a night I'd sat in my kitchen with this
young man, drinking coffee and listening to his plans for the future. He was going to work hard,
save his money, go to college, make something of himself. The recitation of those bright hopes
for the future always drew to a close with Jesse and Tamara sharing promises of eternal loyalty,
and those special smiles kids in love give one another -- while I smiled a totally different kind
into my coffee.
Some nights Tamara still cried herself to sleep in my arms.
He'd been missing for six months now, and we had all just hoped he had run away to the city.
That wasn't Jesse's style, but his father was a drinker with a hot temper and had admitted to
having a yelling fight with the boy the night he disappeared. I'd never suspected Hector Carmody
of harming Jesse, though; until now, there had never even been any reason to suspect foul play.
So Jesse was dead, and what sat before me was all that remained of his promise and his dreams. A
great sadness filled me. And a great pity, too -- for it must be lonely indeed to be dead, and
rotted, and to walk again among the living. Impulsively I reached out to touch his hand. The
knuckles were cold and dry under my fingers. "I'm so sorry, Jesse. Who did this to you?"
He gave us the name: Robert Englethorpe, a local rancher. The quiet, pleasant, loner type that
no one ever suspects of wickedness -- until it's too late. I swore. The son-of-a-bitch was a
deacon in my church.
Jesse waited for me to fish out a tape for our decrepit recorder, then gave us the details. He'd
gone for a long walk after the fight with his dad. Englethorpe had passed him on the road, then
turned around to offer him a ride. When Jesse told him of the fight, Englethorpe offered to let


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Jesse stay at his ranch until his dad cooled down. Jesse had accepted the offer of help from a
neighbor without hesitation.
The specifics of torture and violation were even more chilling when recited in that passionless
whisper. Angelina wept silently over her notepad. She had never served on a big-city police
force, had never had her nose rubbed in this sort of sickness, as I had. I had left Houston when
I couldn't stand it anymore, and moved to a sleepy country town. But no place is immune, and a
sleepy surface can simply camoflage the virulence underneath. I felt very old, very tired,
listening to Jesse.
In the end, Englethorpe had beaten his victim to death with an axe handle, then sodomized him
with the same instrument. Somehow it made it worse that Jesse knew every degradation Englethorpe
had inflicted on his body, even after his death. "He hurt me so bad, Mrs. Webster, I was grateful
when he finally killed me." How could a mere whisper convey that much pain?
I had to know. "Jesse, how it is that you are here?"
He seemed to struggle for words. "A dispensation, they said. For a little time, they said. For
justice." The way he said the word justice made my neck hair stand up.
"Who said, Jesse?"