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

were being marched across the clearing to join them.

“Don't you people have anything better to do?” BJ said angrily.

Vandorm was surprised. BJ didn't volunteer much in the way of conversation. He reacted instead of
initiating. Apparently the actual arrest had triggered something within him. Vandorm was glad because it
took the agent's eyes off him; those accusing, disgusted-looking eyes.

BJ wasn't finished. “Why ain't you out bustin’ the Mafia or runnin’ down burglars instead of harassin’
regular folks who ain't doin’ anyone any harm.”

“Just keep moving,” said the man in the jeans. His companion no longer held the pistol pointed at
Vandorm. Luther gazed longingly at the shielding darkness of the woods nearby, but he didn't feel his legs
were in shape for anything longer than a ten-yard sprint. What would've been the point? They had his
name, had identified him at the beginning. Running would solve nothing.

It occurred to him suddenly that their chapter must have been under surveillance for some time. In
addition to being embarrassed, he now felt like a fool.

The rear doors of the van gaped wide. BJ was still talking.

“It's damn wrong, that's what it is. Y'all ought to be out doin’ some decent work instead of troublin’
honest folks.”

“Just get in, BJ,” Luther told him. “You don't have to say anything to these people. Wait till Sutherlin's
lawyer talks to you.” He was starting to regain a smidgen of his former self-confidence. A backward
glance revealed the big pickup squatting alone and uninspected on the far side of the clearing. Maybe
they'd even miss the papers in Sutherlin's Caddy. They might get out of this yet!

“You guys are making a big mistake, you'll see. What did you go to all this trouble for? So you could
stick us with a drunk and disorderly? A little cross burning on National Forest land? It's our damn forest!
What's that gonna get us, a warning and a fifty-dollar fine? Damn waste of taxpayers’ money is what it
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is.”

“Just find a seat,” said the man in the jeans. His companion gestured casually with the pistol.

“Come on, hurry it up.”

BJ stopped, turned, and took a step toward him. He was smiling that silly, sappy grin Vandorm and the
others had come to know so well these past several months.

“I don't ‘preciate being rushed, mister—especially by ugly people. And you're just about the ugliest
people I ever did see.”

The agent's gun whipped up fast to crack BJ across the face and send him staggering backward. He sat