"Alan Dean Foster - Into the Out Of" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

embers which nearly set Warren Kennour's sheets on fire. He and Jeremy Davis and a couple of the
other boys were so drunk they could hardly stand. Vandorm chuckled.

“This secrecy's been pretty tough on Cecelia, BJ, but she hasn't complained. No sir, not a bit. She's
been supportive right down the line. It's just that tryin’ to get the tuition together to send Mike to that
private patriot's school is damn near about to break us. But I'll teach him myself before I see him play
football with a bunch of pickaninnies. Now I hear tell they got a couple of Vietnamese goin’ to school
there too. I tell you, BJ,” he said seriously, “somebody's got to start doin’ something to wake up the
people of this country or we ain't gonna be no better in twenty years than the dogs at the pound, just a
bunch of mongrels and mutts nobody respects anymore.”

BJ nodded enthusiastically. “You said a mouthful there, Luther. Hey, you want a beer? I got a six-pack
in the car.”

“That's mighty fine of you, BJ.” Luther never offered the other man a drink. For one thing, there was no
point in spending the money to keep the big dummy in suds when he couldn't remember from whence the
largess originated and, for another, BJ always seemed to have plenty of beer on hand. They headed back
toward the line of vehicles. A few were parked on the far side of the old fence, away from the others.

They were five yards from BJ's battered Chevy pickup when two men stepped out of the darkness into
the flickering light cast by the slowly dying blaze.
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“Luther Vandorm?” The man had a heavy five o'clock shadow and was clad in jeans, short-sleeved
shirt, and boots. His companion wore a suit. The speaker's eyes flicked to his left. “BJ Tree?”

Vandorm's gaze narrowed as he studied the intruders. He was more upset than concerned. Sure, cross
burning was illegal, but in rural Mississippi that still meant no more than a small fine and maybe a
tongue-lashing from some county judge.

“Who the fuck wants to know?” He didn't recognize either of them. They didn't look like Sheriff
Kingman's boys, who would look the other way so long as there was no damage to public property. Nor
did he care for the accent of the speaker. Not from around here, that was for sure.

The man removed a small billfold from a back pocket. When he held it up to the light the bottom half
dropped down. “Federal Bureau of Investigation. You're all under arrest.”

“Hey, what is this? Who the hell do you people think you are?” Inside, Vandorm was trembling. Not
because he feared being arrested for a little harmless cross burning, but because of what was concealed
in the pickup next to BJ's. It was brand-new, boasted four high-intensity lights on top, halogen fog lamps
in front, a chrome roll bar, and displayed a bright Confederate flag on the flanks. It was Walter Conroy's
truck.

In the glove compartment was a small folder. Inside the folder were the plans that he and Conroy and BJ
and Sutherlin had worked on for the past three months. The plans that described in detail exactly how the
four of them planned to blow up the office of the American Civil Liberties Union in downtown Jackson.