"Staggs, Earl - The Missing Sniper" - читать интересную книгу автора (Staggs Earl)

Whatever spurred Dillon through the crowd so aggressively filtered back to Adam as images, flashing in his mind like clips from a movie.

.....a stream...trees overhead...two people walking...tall man, gray hair...a towheaded boy...talking, laughing...something in their hands...sticks?...no, fishing rods...the boy, under water now...clawing at the water but not moving...

The images faded as quickly as they came. Adam concentrated, trying to get more, but nothing came. It was the second time strong emotions from Dillon had triggered images. On the phone the day before and now here. It was also the second time he'd seen someone swimming under water.

Thirty minutes later, they had collected Adam's suitcase, had left the airport behind, and were cruising along Interstate 95. Adam had to squint to look out the car window. He'd forgotten how much brighter the sun was in Florida.

They chatted for a while, mostly about the weather. Adam studied Dillon Corbin as they talked. The sheriff seemed friendly enough but also quite tense. His fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly and a muscle in his jaw twitched when he wasn't talking. His face seemed drawn and darkness under his eyes spoke of restless sleep or little at all. Adam finally turned the conversation to his reason for being there. "Tell me, Dillon, why would someone want to kill Senator Thornton?"

Dillon snorted. "I could give you a couple dozen reasons. Political enemies, business rivals, people he's run roughshod over. Then there are the husbands of the women he's gone after, or the ones who've gone after him. But those things go with the territory if you're Willy Thornton."

"So he's a tough man to go up against and a ladies man too."

"That's for sure. He's cracked a few heads in his day and left a few broken hearts along the road. But the voters still love him."

"Any of his enemies serious enough to be considered suspects?"

"Some, but...," Dillon paused and leaned to his window, craning to see if he could pass the truck he'd just driven up behind. Obviously not. He gave the steering wheel a slap. "...we've checked them all out. A few were in the crowd running for their lives when the shooting started. The others all have solid verification of their whereabouts at the time."

"Have there been any more attempts on his life?"

"None so far, but it could happen anytime, anywhere if we don't catch him first."

Dillon saw his chance and veered the car into the next lane to pass the truck. Adam waited until they were settled back in the right lane to ask, "Is he still making public appearances?"

"Oh, yeah," Dillon said with a roll of his eyes. "He's out there bigger and bolder than ever, almost daring someone to take another potshot at him. When he spoke in Tallahassee last week he actually had a target painted on his shirt. Can you believe it? The media love it, though. They're covering his campaign like bees on a hive, just waiting for the sniper to try again."

"What about threats? Letters? Phone calls?"

"Phone calls. About every other day. Very short. All they say is he'll never live to see election day." Dillon turned to look out his window. When he turned back to Adam, he raised his shoulders in a shrug. His handsome but tired-looking young face held a look of frustration and futility. "I'm sorry, Adam, but we can't give you much to go on. We've tried everything, but keep coming up empty."

They rode in silence for another ten minutes before Dillon pulled into the parking lot of the Mendes County Sheriff's Department building.

Adam followed him into a one-story brick building nestled beneath oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. Just inside, a round-faced, heavy-set woman with black hair pulled straight back greeted them. She slid a glass window back and tossed a "Hey, Dillon," but her eyes were on the visitor from up north. Adam always felt awkward when they stared, and they always seemed disappointed that he looked normal. Once, in a silly moment, he'd considered wearing a Merlin the Magician robe and a pointed hat to fit the image people held of psychics.

After Adam pinned on a visitor's badge, Dillon led the way through a security door into a large area filled with cubicles. Half the cubicles were occupied by men and women in uniform. Heads turned for a first look at Merlin.

Dillon led the way to an office in the far left corner. "I thought you'd want to go through our file on the shooting," he said back over his shoulder as they entered the office. "I have it all ready for you."

"Good idea," Adam replied as he looked around. He recognized the office as the one from which Dillon had called the day before. The top of the desk held the usual: telephone, stapler, little pink message slips, and, in the middle, a stack of file folders nearly a foot high.

Dillon nodded at the highback leather chair behind the desk. "Make yourself comfortable and take all the time you need. I have some things to do, but if you need me just pick up the phone and tell Doris. She'll find me."

Adam looked at the large pile of reading material on the desk. "I'll need that coffee you promised me."

"How do you take it?"

"Black and hot."