"Roberts, Nora - Divine Evil(1)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

uniform like Bud Hewitt, but snug jeans and a cotton shirt rolled up to the
elbows. His hair was jet black and curled over his ears and the collar of his
shirt. His face was long and lean, and now the moonlight accented the
fascinating shadows under his cheekbones and made her seventeen-year-old heart
flutter. In SallyТs opinion, he had the sexiest blue eyesЧdark and deep and a
little broody.
"Are you going to call in the FBI?Ф she asked him.
"WeТll take it under advisement.Ф God, to be seventeen again, he thought, then
immediately: Unh-uh, no thanks. "Thanks for your help. The next time you want to
make out, go some place else."
Sally blushed prettily. The night wind ruffled her hair around her guileless
face. "We were only talking, Sheriff."
And heifers jump over the moon. "Whatever. You go on home now."
He watched them walk away, among the headstones and markers, over plots of soft,
sunken dirt and clumps of wild grass. Hip to hip, they were already talking in
excited whispers. Sally let out a squeal and giggle, and glanced over her
shoulder once to get a last look at Cam. Kids, he thought with a shake of his
head as the wind flapped a loose shingle of the roof of the old church. DidnТt
know a damn thing about ambience.
"IТm going to want some pictures of this, Bud. Tonight. And weТd best rope it
off and post a sign or two. Come morning, everyone in town will have heard about
it."
"CanТt see grave robbers in Emmitsboro." Bud squinted his eyes and tried to look
official. The graveyard was a pretty creepy place, but on the other hand, this
was the most excitement theyТd had since Billy Reardon had hot-wired his
fatherТs pickup and gone joyriding around the county with that big-breasted
Gladhill girl and a six-pack of Miller. "Vandals more like. Bunch of kids with a
sick sense of humor."
"More than likely," Cam murmured, but he crouched by the grave again as Bud
walked to the cruiser to get the camera. It didnТt feel like vandals. Where was
the graffiti, the senseless destruction?
The grave had been neatlyЧsystematically, he thoughtЧdug up. The surrounding
headstones hadnТt been disturbed. It was only this one small grave that had been
touched.
And where the hell was the dirt? There were no piles of it around the hole. That
meant it had been carted away. What in GodТs name would anyone want with a
couple of wheelbarrow loads of dirt from an old grave?
The owl hooted again, then spread his wings and glided over the churchyard. Cam
shuddered as the shadow passed over his back.
The next morning being Saturday, Cam drove into town and parked outside of
MarthaТs, a diner and longstanding gathering place in Emmitsboro. It had become
his habit, since returning to his hometown as sheriff, to wile away a Saturday
morning there, over pancakes and coffee.
Work rarely interfered with the ritual. Most Saturdays he could linger from
eight to ten with a second or third cup of coffee. He could chat with the
waitresses and the regulars, listen to Loretta Lynn or Randy Travis on the tinny
jukebox in the corner, scan the headlines on the Herald Mail, and dig into the
sports section. There was the comforting scent of sausage and bacon frying, the
clatter of dishes, the murmuring drone of old men at the counter talking
baseball and brooding over the economy.