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

He made a confused gesture. Something he couldn't answer? Or wouldn't? Maybe I really didn't
want to know.
My bottom desk drawer was the only one with a lock. It was the safest place I could think of to
store such a bizarre and momentous tape recording. When I opened the drawer a half-full bottle of
rye rolled with a clunk from one side to the other. I have never craved a drink so intensely as I
did at that moment. My hand was shaking as I closed the drawer, but I don't think Angelina saw.
I refuse to speculate upon what the former Jesse Carmody might have seen.
It was my call to make. It didn't take me long to make my decision. I could spend the rest of
the afternoon tracking down the county judge and trying to convince him I had enough probable
cause for a search warrant for Englethorpe's ranch. Or I could go get the bastard right then.
This crime's aftermath was too bizarre to keep it a secret for long, and if Englethorpe heard a
rumor of Jesse's reappearance, he'd bolt. Maybe later I could make a case for hot pursuit.
Angelina loaded the heavy artillery while Kyle called George, out patrolling in our one official
vehicle, and told him where to meet us. But not why. Broadcasting that over the police band
would be like issuing an invitation. I told Jesse I wanted him to wait for us at the station, and
that I was going to lock the front door. "I really don't think anyone else should see you yet. I
hope you understand."
He nodded. "My parents?"
My stomach twisted. "It's not going to be easy on them, but I know they'll want to talk to you."
Oh God, what would I tell Tamara?
Our DWI was still snoring. Just before I went out the door, Jesse cocked that broken skull as if
listening to something I couldn't hear, then spoke. "There are others. They will be waiting for
you." A chill chased me out of the station.
The three of us crowded into my pickup. Kyle folded himself onto the floorboard; Angelina and I
tried our best to look nonchalant as I drove slowly out of town. The ambulance chasers must have
been engaged elsewhere; no one followed us.
George caught up with us as we turned onto the unpaved county road that ended at Englethorpe's
place. I stopped for a moment to let Angelina transfer to the patrol car so she could explain
things to George. I hoped he would believe her; I expected to have a hard enough time just
managing Kyle.
We pulled to a stop at Englethorpe's gate and shut off the engines. I listened. The silence was
broken only by the strident monotone of cicadas and the distant squawking of a scrub jay. To the
northeast creamy white clouds were bubbling up into a potential thunderhead. Our blistered land
was desperate for rain; I felt like a traitor as I wished the storm away. It would make finding
and preserving evidence more difficult.
Englethorpe's ranch looked unkempt, but the drought had had that effect on even the best-
maintained spreads this year. The hayfield was unmowed and the late-season feed corn unharvested.
The lodged stalks rustled against one another in the occasional puff of air. It sounded like
Jesse.
The house sat only a hundred feet from the gate; a barn and a loafing shed stood further away
from the road. The curtains on the house were drawn and I couldn't see any lights inside. There
was an old hulk up on blocks in the driveway and a battered red pickup parked behind it. An
ancient Farmall tractor was parked in the loafing shed. The gate in front of us was closed with a
heavy chain and sturdy padlock.



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