Jack Reacher - 16

In memory of David Thompson (1971-2010), excellent bookseller and good companion

The Pentagon is the largest office building in the world: six and a half million square feet, thirty thousand employees, seventeen miles of corridors, but only three street entrances, each leading to a secure lobby. I preferred to enter from the southern facade, through the main entrance, which is located closest to the metro station and bus stop. This entrance was the busiest and most preferred by the civilian staff; and I wanted to be in the thick of them, and it is best to get lost in a long, endless stream, so as not to be shot as soon as they see. Arrests are always not so simple, be they accidental or prepared, that's why I needed witnesses: I wanted to attract indifferent glances to myself from the very beginning. I certainly remember that day: Tuesday, March 11, 1997, the last day I entered the Pentagon as an employee employed by the people for whom this building was built.

Much time has passed since then.

March 11, 1997, by chance, turned out to be a day, exactly four and a half years after which the world changed, but on that Tuesday, as well as the next, and on any other day from that previous time, many things, including and the protection of this main crowded entrance remained a serious matter, without hysterical neurosis. No, the hysteria was not caused by me. And it did not come from outside. I was in a class A uniform, in everything clean, ironed, polished and polished to a shine, in addition, I was wearing medal strips, tokens, badges, earned in thirteen years of service, and in my file there were also presentations for the award. I was thirty-six years old, I was tall, I walked as if I had swallowed an arshin; basically met the requirements of a Major in the United States Army Military Police on all counts, except that my hair looked too long and I hadn't shaved for five days.

At the time, the security of the Pentagon was provided by the Department of Defense's Security Service; from a distance of forty yards, I looked at a dozen of their guys in the lobby - a bit too much in my opinion - and wondered if they all serve in their department or if there are our guys working undercover and waiting for me among them. In our country, most of the work requiring qualifications is performed by warrant officers, and most often they perform their work pretending to be someone else. They pretend to be colonels, generals, private or non-commissioned servicemen, and in general, for the one in whom there is a need now; in these matters they are masters. All their daily work is to throw on the OSMO uniform and wait for the target to appear. From thirty yards I didn't recognize any of them, but the army is a gigantic structure, and they must have chosen people I had never met before.

I kept walking, being a small particle in the wide stream of people hurrying through the main lobby to the right doors. Some of the men and women were in uniforms, either in Class A uniforms, as I was wearing, or in camouflage, which we had worn before. Some, apparently from military service, were not in uniform, but in suits or work clothes; some - most likely civilians - carried bags, briefcases or packages that could be used to determine which category their owners belonged to. These people slowed down, stepped aside, shuffled their feet on the floor as the wide stream narrowed, turning into an arrowhead, after which it squeezed even tighter; they stretched out in a row or lined up in pairs, while crowds of people outside entered the building in the meantime. I joined their stream as it took the form of a column one at a time, standing behind a woman with pale hands not tainted by work, and in front of a guy in a shabby suit with shiny elbows.

© 2011 by Lee Child. This edition published by arrangement with Darley Anderson Literary, TV & Film Agency and The Van Lear Agency

Illustration on the dust jacket by V. Korobeinikov

© Veisberg Yu.I., translated into Russian, 2012

© Edition in Russian, design. LLC "Publishing house" Eksmo ", 2015

In memory of David Thompson (1971–2010), an excellent bookseller and a good friend.

The Pentagon is the largest office building in the world: six and a half million square feet, thirty thousand employees, seventeen miles of corridors, but only three street entrances, each leading to a secure lobby. I preferred to enter from the southern facade, through the main entrance, which is located closest to the metro station and bus stop. This entrance was the busiest and most preferred by the civilian staff; and I wanted to be in the thick of them, and it is best to get lost in a long, endless stream, so as not to be shot as soon as they see. Arrests are always not so simple, be they accidental or prepared, that's why I needed witnesses: I wanted to attract indifferent glances to myself from the very beginning. I certainly remember that day: Tuesday, March 11, 1997, the last day I entered the Pentagon as an employee employed by the people for whom this building was built.

Much time has passed since then.

March 11, 1997, by chance, turned out to be a day, exactly four and a half years after which the world changed, but on that Tuesday, as well as the next, and on any other day from that previous time, many things, including and the protection of this main crowded entrance remained a serious matter, without hysterical neurosis. No, the hysteria was not caused by me. And it did not come from outside. I was in a class A uniform, in everything clean, ironed, polished and polished to a shine, in addition, I was wearing medal strips, tokens, badges, earned in thirteen years of service, and in my file there were also presentations for the award. I was thirty-six years old, I was tall, I walked as if I had swallowed an arshin; basically met the requirements of a Major in the United States Army Military Police on all counts, except that my hair looked too long and I hadn't shaved for five days.

At the time, the security of the Pentagon was provided by the Department of Defense's Security Service; from a distance of forty yards, I looked at a dozen of their guys in the lobby - a bit too much in my opinion - and wondered if they all serve in their department or if there are our guys working undercover and waiting for me among them. In our country, most of the work requiring qualifications is performed by warrant officers, and most often they perform their work pretending to be someone else. They pretend to be colonels, generals, private or non-commissioned servicemen, and in general, for the one in whom there is a need now; in these matters they are masters. All their daily work is to throw on the OSMO uniform and wait for the target to appear. From thirty yards I didn't recognize any of them, but the army is a gigantic structure, and they must have chosen people I had never met before.

I kept walking, being a small particle in the wide stream of people hurrying through the main lobby to the right doors. Some of the men and women were in uniforms, either in Class A uniforms, as I was wearing, or in camouflage, which we had worn before. Some, apparently from military service, were not in uniform, but in suits or work clothes; some - most likely civilians - carried bags, briefcases or packages that could be used to determine which category their owners belonged to. These people slowed down, stepped aside, shuffled their feet on the floor as the wide stream narrowed, turning into an arrowhead, after which it squeezed even tighter; they stretched out in a row or lined up in pairs, while crowds of people outside entered the building in the meantime. I joined their stream as it took the form of a column one at a time, standing behind a woman with pale hands that were not tainted by work, and in front of a guy in a shabby suit with shiny elbows. They were both civilians, which is what I need. Indifferent looks. The time was approaching noon. The sun in the sky gave out a little warmth into the March air. Spring in Virginia. The cherry trees growing on the other side were about to wake up and become beauties in bloom. Everywhere on the tables in the hall lay cheap tickets of national airlines and SLR cameras - what is necessary for a sightseeing trip to the capital.

Standing in a column, I waited. Ahead of me, the OSMO guys were doing what the guards were supposed to do. Four of them had special assignments: two, ready to ask questions, sat at a table with an elongated tabletop, and two checked those who had personal tokens and, after checking with a hand gesture, guided them into the open turnstile. Two stood just behind the glass on either side of the door, their heads raised and looking ahead, scanning the approaching groups of people with intense gaze. Four stuck in the shadows behind the turnstiles; they were aimlessly jostling there and chatting about something. All ten were armed.

It was this four behind the turnstiles that worried me. Then, in 1997, it was quite clear that the security staff were clearly inflated in comparison with the level of threat that existed at that time, but it was unusual to see four security guards on duty with absolutely nothing at all. Most of the orders given at least gave the illusion that excess security personnel were busy doing something. But these four certainly did not have any responsibilities and were not responsible for anything. I stretched my neck, lifting my head as high as possible, and tried to see their shoes. Shoes can tell a lot. Undercover workers often overlook this aspect of their image, especially if they are around people in uniform. The security service played mainly the role of the police, and this circumstance fully influenced the choice of shoes. The guards would love to wear the big, comfortable shoes that cops walk in. Undercover military police warrant officers can wear their own shoes, which also differ in some way.

But I could not see the shoes on their feet. It was too dark inside, and they were far away.

The column, slowly shuffling across the floor, moved forward at a pace that was considered quite normal until 9/11. No angry impatience, no feeling of dissatisfaction with the time wasted in the lobby, no fear. The woman in front of me was wearing perfume. I could smell the scent from her neck. I liked the perfume. Two guys behind the glass spotted me about ten yards away. Their gazes, passing from the woman standing in front, stopped on me and, lingering a little longer than required, switched to the guy standing behind.

And then their gazes came back to me. For four or five seconds, both guards openly examined me, first from top to bottom, then in the opposite direction, then from left to right, and then from right to left; then I shuffled forward, but their attentive gazes followed me. They did not say a word to each other. They did not say anything to any of the nearby guards. No warning, no wariness. There are two possible explanations. One thing that was most fitting was that they had not seen me before. Or maybe I stood out in the column because I was taller and larger than anyone in a radius of about a hundred yards. Or perhaps because I was wearing major oak leaves and order strips that testified to participation in serious affairs, among which was the Silver Star medal, and I looked as if I had just jumped off a poster ... but only hair and a beard made me look like a caveman, and this visual dissonance may have been reason enough to give me a second long look out of pure interest. Guard duty can be boring, and looking at something unusual is always pleasing to the eye.

Jack Reacher, or Case

In memory of David Thompson (1971–2010), an excellent bookseller and a good friend

The Pentagon is the largest office building in the world: six and a half million square feet, thirty thousand employees, seventeen miles of corridors, but only three street entrances, each leading to a secure lobby. I preferred to enter from the southern facade, through the main entrance, which is located closest to the metro station and bus stop. This entrance was the busiest and most preferred by the civilian staff; and I wanted to be in the thick of them, and it is best to get lost in a long, endless stream, so as not to be shot as soon as they see. Arrests are always not so simple, be they accidental or prepared, that's why I needed witnesses: I wanted to attract indifferent glances to myself from the very beginning. I certainly remember that day: Tuesday, March 11, 1997, the last day I entered the Pentagon as an employee employed by the people for whom this building was built.

Much time has passed since then.

March 11, 1997, by chance, turned out to be a day, exactly four and a half years after which the world changed, but on that Tuesday, as well as the next, and on any other day from that previous time, many things, including and the protection of this main crowded entrance remained a serious matter, without hysterical neurosis. No, the hysteria was not caused by me. And it did not come from outside. I was in a class A uniform, in everything clean, ironed, polished and polished to a shine, in addition, I was wearing medal strips, tokens, badges, earned in thirteen years of service, and in my file there were also presentations for the award. I was thirty-six years old, I was tall, I walked as if I had swallowed an arshin; basically met the requirements of a Major in the United States Army Military Police on all counts, except that my hair looked too long and I hadn't shaved for five days.

At the time, the security of the Pentagon was provided by the Department of Defense's Security Service; from a distance of forty yards, I looked at a dozen of their guys in the lobby - a bit too much in my opinion - and wondered if they all serve in their department or if there are our guys working undercover and waiting for me among them. In our country, most of the work requiring qualifications is performed by warrant officers, and most often they perform their work pretending to be someone else. They pretend to be colonels, generals, private or non-commissioned servicemen, and in general, for the one in whom there is a need now; in these matters they are masters. All their daily work is to throw on the OSMO uniform and wait for the target to appear. From thirty yards I didn't recognize any of them, but the army is a gigantic structure, and they must have chosen people I had never met before.

I kept walking, being a small particle in the wide stream of people hurrying through the main lobby to the right doors. Some of the men and women were in uniforms, either in Class A uniforms, as I was wearing, or in camouflage, which we had worn before. Some, apparently from military service, were not in uniform, but in suits or work clothes; some - most likely civilians - carried bags, briefcases or packages that could be used to determine which category their owners belonged to. These people slowed down, stepped aside, shuffled their feet on the floor as the wide stream narrowed, turning into an arrowhead, after which it squeezed even tighter; they stretched out in a row or lined up in pairs, while crowds of people outside entered the building in the meantime. I joined their stream as it took the form of a column one at a time, standing behind a woman with pale hands that were not tainted by work, and in front of a guy in a shabby suit with shiny elbows. They were both civilians, which is what I need. Indifferent looks. The time was approaching noon. The sun in the sky gave out a little warmth into the March air. Spring in Virginia. The cherry trees growing on the other side were about to wake up and become beauties in bloom. Everywhere on the tables in the hall lay cheap tickets of national airlines and SLR cameras - what is necessary for a sightseeing trip to the capital.

Standing in a column, I waited. Ahead of me, the OSMO guys were doing what the guards were supposed to do. Four of them had special assignments: two, ready to ask questions, sat at a table with an elongated tabletop, and two checked those who had personal tokens and, after checking with a hand gesture, guided them into the open turnstile. Two stood just behind the glass on either side of the door, their heads raised and looking ahead, scanning the approaching groups of people with intense gaze. Four stuck in the shadows behind the turnstiles; they were aimlessly jostling there and chatting about something. All ten were armed.

Jack Reacher, or Case

In memory of David Thompson (1971–2010), an excellent bookseller and a good friend

The Pentagon is the largest office building in the world: six and a half million square feet, thirty thousand employees, seventeen miles of corridors, but only three street entrances, each leading to a secure lobby. I preferred to enter from the southern facade, through the main entrance, which is located closest to the metro station and bus stop. This entrance was the busiest and most preferred by the civilian staff; and I wanted to be in the thick of them, and it is best to get lost in a long, endless stream, so as not to be shot as soon as they see. Arrests are always not so simple, be they accidental or prepared, that's why I needed witnesses: I wanted to attract indifferent glances to myself from the very beginning. I certainly remember that day: Tuesday, March 11, 1997, the last day I entered the Pentagon as an employee employed by the people for whom this building was built.

Much time has passed since then.

March 11, 1997, by chance, turned out to be a day, exactly four and a half years after which the world changed, but on that Tuesday, as well as the next, and on any other day from that previous time, many things, including and the protection of this main crowded entrance remained a serious matter, without hysterical neurosis. No, the hysteria was not caused by me. And it did not come from outside. I was in a class A uniform, in everything clean, ironed, polished and polished to a shine, in addition, I was wearing medal strips, tokens, badges, earned in thirteen years of service, and in my file there were also presentations for the award. I was thirty-six years old, I was tall, I walked as if I had swallowed an arshin; basically met the requirements of a Major in the United States Army Military Police on all counts, except that my hair looked too long and I hadn't shaved for five days.

At the time, the security of the Pentagon was provided by the Department of Defense's Security Service; from a distance of forty yards, I looked at a dozen of their guys in the lobby - a bit too much in my opinion - and wondered if they all serve in their department or if there are our guys working undercover and waiting for me among them. In our country, most of the work requiring qualifications is performed by warrant officers, and most often they perform their work pretending to be someone else. They pretend to be colonels, generals, private or non-commissioned servicemen, and in general, for the one in whom there is a need now; in these matters they are masters. All their daily work is to throw on the OSMO uniform and wait for the target to appear. From thirty yards I didn't recognize any of them, but the army is a gigantic structure, and they must have chosen people I had never met before.

I kept walking, being a small particle in the wide stream of people hurrying through the main lobby to the right doors. Some of the men and women were in uniforms, either in Class A uniforms, as I was wearing, or in camouflage, which we had worn before. Some, apparently from military service, were not in uniform, but in suits or work clothes; some - most likely civilians - carried bags, briefcases or packages that could be used to determine which category their owners belonged to. These people slowed down, stepped aside, shuffled their feet on the floor as the wide stream narrowed, turning into an arrowhead, after which it squeezed even tighter; they stretched out in a row or lined up in pairs, while crowds of people outside entered the building in the meantime. I joined their stream as it took the form of a column one at a time, standing behind a woman with pale hands that were not tainted by work, and in front of a guy in a shabby suit with shiny elbows. They were both civilians, which is what I need. Indifferent looks. The time was approaching noon. The sun in the sky gave out a little warmth into the March air. Spring in Virginia. The cherry trees growing on the other side were about to wake up and become beauties in bloom. Everywhere on the tables in the hall lay cheap tickets of national airlines and SLR cameras - what is necessary for a sightseeing trip to the capital.

Standing in a column, I waited. Ahead of me, the OSMO guys were doing what the guards were supposed to do. Four of them had special assignments: two, ready to ask questions, sat at a table with an elongated tabletop, and two checked those who had personal tokens and, after checking with a hand gesture, guided them into the open turnstile. Two stood just behind the glass on either side of the door, their heads raised and looking ahead, scanning the approaching groups of people with intense gaze. Four stuck in the shadows behind the turnstiles; they were aimlessly jostling there and chatting about something. All ten were armed.

It was this four behind the turnstiles that worried me. Then, in 1997, it was quite clear that the security staff were clearly inflated in comparison with the level of threat that existed at that time, but it was unusual to see four security guards on duty with absolutely nothing at all. Most of the orders given at least gave the illusion that excess security personnel were busy doing something. But these four certainly did not have any responsibilities and were not responsible for anything. I stretched my neck, lifting my head as high as possible, and tried to see their shoes. Shoes can tell a lot. Undercover workers often overlook this aspect of their image, especially if they are around people in uniform. The security service played mainly the role of the police, and this circumstance fully influenced the choice of shoes. The guards would love to wear the big, comfortable shoes that cops walk in. Undercover military police warrant officers can wear their own shoes, which also differ in some way.

But I could not see the shoes on their feet. It was too dark inside, and they were far away.

The column, slowly shuffling across the floor, moved forward at a pace that was considered quite normal until 9/11. No angry impatience, no feeling of dissatisfaction with the time wasted in the lobby, no fear. The woman in front of me was wearing perfume. I could smell the scent from her neck. I liked the perfume. Two guys behind the glass spotted me about ten yards away. Their gazes, passing from the woman standing in front, stopped on me and, lingering a little longer than required, switched to the guy standing behind.

And then their gazes came back to me. For four or five seconds, both guards openly examined me, first from top to bottom, then in the opposite direction, then from left to right, and then from right to left; then I shuffled forward, but their attentive gazes followed me. They did not say a word to each other. They did not say anything to any of the nearby guards. No warning, no wariness. There are two possible explanations. One thing that was most fitting was that they had not seen me before. Or maybe I stood out in the column because I was taller and larger than anyone in a radius of about a hundred yards. Or perhaps because I was wearing major oak leaves and order strips that testified to participation in serious affairs, among which was the Silver Star medal, and I looked as if I had just jumped off a poster ... but only hair and a beard made me look like a caveman, and this visual dissonance may have been reason enough to give me a second long look out of pure interest. Guard duty can be boring, and looking at something unusual is always pleasing to the eye.

The second, the most inappropriate for me, was that they must have convinced themselves that some expected event had already happened and that everything was going strictly according to plan. As if they had already prepared, studied the photographs and were now saying to themselves: Well, he's here, just in time, so now we'll just wait two more minutes for him to go inside, and then we'll show him.

And all because they were waiting for me, and I appeared on time. I had an appointment for twelve o'clock, and had already agreed on the questions that I was to discuss with a certain colonel, whose office was on the third floor of the C ring, and I was sure that I would never get there. Going head-on to imminent arrest is clearly a stupid tactic, but sometimes, if you want to know if the oven is warm, the only way to find out is to touch it.

The knife was solid, with a sharp blade, and the killing blow was powerful, confident, and swift.

Turning to the doctor, Devereaux said:

“We need to examine her wrists and ankles.

The doctor replied with a gesture indicating: everything is at your service.

Devereaux took Chapman's left hand, and I took my right. Her wrist bones were light and graceful. No scuffs were found on the skin. No rope marks. But there was some trace on the wrist, it is not known from what remained. It was a stripe two inches wide and appeared a little bluer than the rest of the skin. A little bit more blue. Almost nothing — and yet something was felt. Very slight swelling compared to the rest of the forearm. There was definitely a bulge here. The exact opposite of squeezing.

I looked at Merrim and asked:

- What did you do with the corpse?

“The cause of death was the loss of blood flowing out through the damaged carotid arteries,” he replied. - I got paid to determine it.

- How much did you get paid?

- The amount of payment was agreed by my predecessor and the district leadership.

- Was your fee over fifty cents?

- Why are you asking this?

“Because your opinion is not worth more than fifty cents. The cause of death, as they say, is obvious. So you can work out your bread if you help us a little.

Devereaux looked at me with interest, I just shrugged. The fact that it was I who turned to the doctor with such a proposal, and not her, seemed more reasonable to me. After all, she will have to live in the same city with this type, and I will not.

“I don’t like your tone,” Merriam replied.

“I don’t like the fact that a twenty-seven-year-old woman dies in the street. So you intend to help us or not? I asked.

“I'm not a pathologist,” he announced.

“Me too,” I said sharply.

The doctor hesitated for a few seconds, sighed and took a step towards the table. Taking Janice May Chaplin's soft and lifeless hand from my hand, he carefully examined the wrist, and then, gently running his fingers up and down from forearm to elbow, felt for a swelling.

- Do you have any suggestions? - he asked.

“I think she was tightly attached. For the wrists and ankles. Bruises and swelling began to appear in the places where the retainers were applied, but she did not live long enough for the bruises to become clearly visible. However, there is no doubt that they have begun to form. Some of the blood got into her tissues and remained there, while the remaining blood drained from her body. That is why we now see in places previously squeezed by fixators, swelling in the form of borders.

- And how could she be tied?

“Not with ropes,” I replied. - Maybe with straps or adhesive tape. Something wide and flat. Silk scarves, perhaps. Maybe something padded. In order to hide what they did to her.

Merriam said nothing. Walking past me, he walked around the table and began examining Chapman's ankles. She was wearing pantyhose when her body was taken to the doctor. The nylon was intact - no tears, no descents.

- She was tied with something with a soft lining. Maybe with spongy rubber or foam rubber. Something similar. But the fact that she was tied is for sure.

Merriam fell silent for a moment.

“It is possible,” he said thoughtfully after a pause.

- How true is this? I asked.

- Postmortem examination has its limitations. For complete confidence, you need a witness who has seen everything with his own eyes.

- How do you explain the complete exsanguination?

“She may have had hemophilia.

- And if we assume that she did not suffer?

“Then the only explanation might be gravity bleeding. So she was hanging upside down.

- Fixed in this position with straps or ropes with some kind of soft pads?

“Possibly,” Merriam said slowly again.

“Turn it,” I said.

“I want to see dents and scratches from contact with gravel.

“In that case, you have to help me,” he said, which I did.

The human body is a machine that heals itself without wasting time. When the skin is compressed, torn, cut, blood immediately rushes to the site of injury, and red blood cells form a crust and binding fibrous structure in order to connect the edges of the wound, and white blood cells seek out and destroy bacteria and pathogens that have penetrated into it. The process begins literally immediately and continues for many hours, or even days, necessary to restore the skin to its previous integrity. Graphically, this process, accompanied by inflammation, can be expressed by a normal distribution curve, the peak of which corresponds to the time of maximum bleeding, the formation and thickening of the scab and the fight against infection, which reaches its highest intensity during this period.

Janice May Chapman's lower back was completely covered with small cuts, in the same condition was the skin on the buttocks and upper parts of the forearms to the elbows. The cuts were small; they looked like thin excisions made with a sharp instrument, and were surrounded by small dents in the skin, which, due to the complete exsanguination of the body, appeared colorless. These cuts, randomly spaced in different directions, seemed to be made by some kind of freely rotating objects of the same type and size - small and hard, not sharp like razors, but not completely blunt either.

Typical gravel scratches.

Looking at Merrim, I asked:

- How long ago do you think these injuries could have appeared?

“I don’t imagine,” he replied.

- Children have cuts and scrapes all the time. You've seen more than one hundred of both.

- Then use your education and guess.

“Four hours,” said the doctor.

I nodded in agreement. I myself assumed that exactly four hours was that time, judging by the scabs on the cuts, which did not look completely fresh, but not yet fully formed. The process of their occurrence was continuous, but it suddenly stopped when the victim's throat was cut, the heart stopped, the brain died and the metabolism stopped.

- Have you determined the time of death? I asked.

“It's very difficult to do,” Merriam replied. - Almost impossible. Exsanguination of the body disrupts normal biological processes.

- But can you guess?

“A few hours before she was brought to me.

- About how much?

- More than four.

- It can be seen in the gravel scratches. So how much more than four?

- I do not know. But no more than twenty-four hours. This is the most accurate that I can guess.

- No other injuries. No bruising. Not a trace of struggle or defense, I said to myself.

“I agree,” Merriam confirmed my words.

“Perhaps she didn't resist,” Devereaux suggested. “Perhaps they put a gun to her head. Or a knife to the throat.

“Perhaps,” I agreed. Turning to Merrim, I asked, "Have you performed a vaginal examination?"

- Of course.

- I believe that shortly before her death, she had sexual intercourse.

- Did you find bruising or tears in this area?

- I found no external damage.

- Then why did you decide that she was raped?

- Do you think it was by agreement? Would you lay down on gravel to make love?

“Perhaps I would go to bed,” I replied. - Depending on with whom.

“She had a house,” said Merriam. - And it has a bed. And a car with rear seats. Any of her prospective boyfriends must have a house and a car too. In addition, there is a hotel in the city. And there are plenty of other cities like that. So you don't have to choose the street for your date.

- Especially in the month of March, - supported the doctor Devereaux.

There was silence in the small room, which lasted until Merriam asked:

- So you're done?

“Finished,” Devereaux replied.

- Well, then I wish you success, chief. Hope this case goes better than the last two.

Devereaux and I entered the driveway leading to the doctor's house, walked past the mailbox, past the nameplate, walked out onto the sidewalk and stopped in front of her car. I understood that she was not going to give me a lift. This is not a democracy. At least not now.

- Have you ever seen tights on a rape victim remain intact? I asked.

- Do you consider this circumstance important?

- Of course. After all, when she was attacked, she was on the ground covered with gravel. Her pantyhose should have been torn to shreds.

“Maybe she was forced to undress first. Slowly and carefully.

- The gravel has edges. She was wearing something. Something shot over the head, something shot over the legs, but she was partially dressed. And after that I changed. This is possible, because she had four hours at her disposal.

“Don't get into it,” Devereaux said.

- Don't go deep into what?

- You are trying to accuse the army only of rape. And the murder that happened later, you want to hang on someone else, without connecting these two events.

I didn't answer.

“Don't try in vain,” Devereaux continued. “You bump into someone committing a rape, and over the next four hours, you bump into a completely different person who cuts your throat, so you see? It's a really unlucky day, isn't it? The most unhappy one can be. Only there are too many accidents. No, this is the work of one person. But he devoted as much time to it as necessary. Without looking at the clock. He had a plan and everything he needed. He had access to her clothes. He made her change. Everything was thought out and planned in advance.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“That's right,” I agreed. “But they don't often go on leave for the whole day. Moreover, in a city located close to the place where you train. This is not accepted in the army.

- But Kelham is not only a place where training camps take place, right? My assumptions are not related to those who arrived at the training camp. A couple of battalions are still stationed there, under arms and replacing each other on a rotational basis. Some leave when others return. And the last one is the weekend. Lots of days off. And in a row, one after another.

I didn't answer.

- You should call your superiors. Report everything looks bad.

Elizabeth, after a short pause, said:

- I want to ask you a favor.

- And what is it about?

- Let's go look at what's left of the car again. Maybe we can find a license plate or a serial number. Pellegrino found nothing there.

- Why do you trust me?

“Because you are the son of a Marine. And because you know that if you hide or destroy evidence, I will put you in jail.

“What did Dr. Merriam mean when he wished you this case to go better than the last two?” I asked.

The sheriff didn’t answer.

- What do you mean "last two"?

She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, her pretty face tensed slightly.

“Two girls were killed last year. In the same way. They had their throats slit. And I haven't figured out anything. Now it is "hanging". Janice May Chapman is her third in the past nine months.

Without another word, Elizabeth Devereaux got into her Caprice and drove off. Making a sharp turn, she headed north, back into the city. Having lost sight of her, I stood for a long time at the place where we parted, and then moved forward. After walking ten minutes, I passed through the last bend of the suburban part of the road, after which the road, having become wider, ran right in front of me, turning into Main Street - in every sense. The day began. Stores were opening. I saw two cars and a couple of pedestrians. That's all. Carter Crossing was by no means the center of business. I was more than sure of this.

I walked along the sidewalk on the right side of the street, past a home improvement store, a pharmacy, a hotel, and a café; walked past an undeveloped wasteland located behind them. I did not find Devereaux's car near the sheriff's office. There was not a single police car at all. Instead, there were two civilian pickup trucks in the parking lot, both seemingly more than modest, old and rumpled. In all likelihood, these vehicles were driven by a registrar and a dispatcher. They were both probably local, which meant no union membership and no associated privileges. I remembered again my friend Stan Lowry and his desire to find a job on the ad. I was confident that he would apply for more significant positions. Otherwise, there is no way. He had girlfriends - many girlfriends and many hungry mouths.

When I reached the T-junction, I turned right. In daylight, the road literally spread out in front of me, straight as an arrow. Narrow shoulders, deep ditches. Traffic lanes reached the railway crossing, crossed over it; there roadsides and ditches appeared again, and the road itself rushed further ahead, but already among the trees.

A truck was parked on my side of the road before the crossing. The windshield is aimed directly at me. A large, blunt-nosed car, painted with a dark brush. There are two shaggy guys in the cockpit. They stared at me. Hands overgrown with blue tattoos, dirty, greasy hair ...

Two friends I met last night.

I walked forward, not fast, not slowly, just walking. They were twenty yards away. The distance is quite close, from which you can see the faces in detail. Close enough for them to see me.

This time they got out of the car. The cab doors opened at the same time, and the guys jumped to the ground and stood in front of the radiator grill. Same height, same build. Perhaps cousins. About six feet two inches tall and weighing two hundred, maybe two hundred and ten pounds. Their arms were long and knobby, and their palms were large and wide. Heavy work boots are on my feet.

I kept walking. Stopped ten feet short of them. From this distance I could smell their sickening smell. Beer, cigarettes, sweat, dirty clothes.

The guy standing opposite my right hand said:

- Hello, soldier, so we met again.

Alpha male. Both times he sat in the driver's seat and both times he was the first to start a conversation. The second guy may have been something of a silent mastermind, but that seemed unlikely.

I didn't say anything, of course.

- Where are you going? The guy asked.

I didn't answer.

“You're going to Kelham,” he said. “Where else could this damn road lead?”

The guy turned and made an extravagant gesture with a wave of his hand, showing the road, its unbroken straightness and the absence of alternative endpoints on it. Turning to me again, he said:

“Last night you said you weren’t from Kelham. So you lied to us.

“Maybe I live on the other side of town.

- No, - the guy shook his head. - If you tried to settle on the other side of the city, we would have already visited you.

- For what purpose?

- Explain to you some facts from life. Different places for different people.

He came a little closer. His partner followed him. The smell got stronger.

“You know what,” I said, “you urgently need to take a bath. Not necessarily together.

The guy standing against my right hand asked:

- What did you do this morning?

“You don’t need to know that,” I replied.

- No, you have to.

“No, you really don't need to know.

“But this is a free country,” I said.

- Not for people like you.

After that he fell silent; his gaze suddenly changed direction and began to gaze intently at something distant behind my shoulders. The oldest trick described in many books. Only this time it didn't work. I didn’t turn around, but I heard the noise of a car engine behind me. Far. Large car, moves almost silently on wide tires for driving on highways. And not a police car, since I did not notice any alarm in the guy's eyes. And nothing indicated that the car was familiar to him. He had never met this car before.

I waited, and then she quickly drove past us. Black city car. Precisely urban. Tinted glass. He overcame the rise in front of the rails, crossed over the tracks and, again dropping onto a flat road, moved forward. In a minute, he had already become small and barely distinguishable in the atmospheric haze. Soon the car was completely out of sight.

Official guest bound for Kelham. In rank and prestige.

Or in a panic.

The guy standing against my right hand said:

- You need to move back to base. And stay there.

I said nothing.

“I'm not from Kelham,” I said.

The guy took another step forward.

“Liar,” he said.

I took a deep breath and pretended to say something, but instead hit the guy with his head in the face. Without warning. I just strained my legs and, moving my body forward above the waist, cracked my forehead across the nose. Bang. It was done wonderfully. And in terms of time, and strength, and the blow itself. All this was fully present. Plus the surprise. Nobody expects such a blow. People don't bang their heads over things. Some innate instincts support this. The headbutt changes the game. He adds to the confusion of feelings a certain unbalanced intemperance. An unprovoked headbutt is like the sudden appearance of a short-barreled gun in a knife fight.

The guy collapsed to the ground, as if knocked down. His brain told his knees that it was over; he hunched over and then stretched out on his back. Consciousness left him even before he fell to the ground. I could tell by the sound of the back of his head hitting the road. No attempt to soften the blow. The head just crashed into the road with a thud. He may have suffered a few more back injuries in addition to my front impact. Blood gushed profusely from his nose, which was already beginning to swell. The human body is a machine that heals itself without wasting time.

The second guy stood still. The silent leader-inspirer. Or the leader's servant. He did not take his eyes off me. Taking a wide step to the left, I delivered the same headbutt to him. Bang... A double bluff, or rather a repetition of the first bluff. The guy was completely unprepared for my blow. He expected me to use my fist and fell to the ground like a sack. I left him lying on his back six feet from my friend. I could use their truck to avoid walking and save time and energy, but I couldn't bear the stench that permeated the cab. Therefore, I walked to the railway, and when I reached it, I walked along the sleepers in a northern direction.

I got off the track a little earlier than last night, and approached the edge of the site, along which the wreckage of the deceased car was scattered. Small and light parts were scattered at a closer distance from the canvas. Less moment of inertia, I suggested. The kinetic energy is also less. Or maybe the air resistance is higher. Or some other reason. But I was the first to find the smaller pieces of glass and pieces of metal. They broke away from the hull, flew through the air, fell and stuck to the ground much earlier than the heavy parts, which, having received a high initial speed, flew further.

It looks like it was a really old car. It exploded from the collision - it was visible, as in the drawing - but some parts became unusable even before the explosion. The underbody of the body was replete with large rusty bald spots, in some places there were just flakes of rust. All the lower nodes were covered with a thick layer of petrified mud.

An old car that has been in use for a long time in cold climates, where roads are sprinkled with salt in winter. But clearly not in Mississippi. This car was constantly transported from place to place - six months here, six months there; this was repeated regularly, and it seemed that there was no time to prepare her for riding in the new conditions.

Perhaps this is a soldier's car.

I walked forward, then turned, trying to determine the main direction of flight of the machine parts. The debris flew away as if they were being blown away by a jet of air from a fan: first narrow, then wide. I imagined a plate with a registration number — a small rectangle of thin, lightweight alloy ripped from three mounting bolts, flying through the night air; here it loses speed, falls, possibly rolls over several times. I tried to locate where it landed, but I couldn’t choose anything suitable — not inside the site, strewn with parts and details, as if brought by an air blast of a fan, not around its edges, not beyond. But then, remembering the howling sound made by the rushing train, I expanded the search area. I imagined a plate picked up by a tornado accompanying the train: now it was picked up and twisted in the air stream, driven forward, and possibly thrown back.

I eventually found it attached to the chrome bumper I saw last night. The bent bumper, to the surface of which the plate was attached, stuck into the ground and in this position was half hidden by bushes. Like a harpoon. I, swinging, pulled it out of the ground, turned it face up and saw a plate hanging on one black bolt.

The number was issued by the state of Oregon. Underneath, I saw a drawing of a salmon. Something like a call to take care of wildlife. Protect the environment. The sign itself was valid and not expired. I memorized the number and "reburied" the bent bumper by sticking it into the former recess. After that, he went further, to where the bulk of the debris burned among the trees.

Pellegrino was right. In bright daylight, it became clear that before its death the car was blue, with a light, as if given by powder, shade - this is the color of the winter sky. Maybe that was the original color of the car, or maybe it became that because it faded over time. I found an intact interior element that housed the glove box. Under the melted plastic edging of one of the doors, I found a spray-applied strip. Almost nothing else survived. No personal items. No papers. No rubbish or waste. No hair, no fabric. No ropes, no belts, no braid, no knives.

Notes (edit)

Security Service of the Ministry of Defense ( English The Defense Protective Service, or Pentagon Police, is an agency that, in conjunction with other law enforcement agencies (federal, state, and local), has exclusive legal authority over all Pentagon premises and land surrounding the building, covering approximately 275 acres (1.11 sq. km). Further in the text OSMO.

The Silver Star Medal is a significant American military award. It is awarded to servicemen of all branches of the armed forces for courage shown in the course of hostilities.

Amateur Hour is an American radio and television program and song of the same name by the Sparks.

Actions do not make a person guilty if there is no guilt in his intentions ( lat.).

This is the 75th Ranger Regiment, an elite light infantry unit in the US Army. Subordinate to the United States Army Special Operations Command. It is headquartered in Fort Benning, Georgia.

Goodwill is a system of thrift stores selling second-hand items at bargain prices.

"Beans and Bullets" is the title of a series of World War II posters calling for the supply of supplies to the army and the population.

A bus from Greyhound of America, a national bus company serving intercity and transcontinental passenger routes. The company emblem depicts a running greyhound.

In West Point, pcs. New York, home to the United States Military Academy.

The Major League is the primary association of professional baseball leagues in the United States. The main base (aka "home") is a pentagonal white rubber tile with an area of ​​900 square meters. cm.

The balance of probabilities is one of the criteria of proof in Anglo-Saxon law. It is interpreted as a probability of more than 50%, or simply as "more likely than not."

Parris Island is the Marine Corps Recruitment Center and primary training center for the Marine Corps. Located in the state of South Carolina. The name of the center is consonant with the name Paris ( English Paris).

Union (Union) - a term during the Civil War in the United States, when the Confederation of the Southern States was opposed by the Union of the Northern States, which included the state of Mississippi. Now this name is used less often, although it is preserved in the modern language in the title of the president's report "On the situation in the country" (State of the Union message).

Reindeer goats - a device for slaughtering reindeer. It is a folding table on four legs, the table top of which consists of two parts, located in the working position at an angle to each other. A deer is placed and tied into the formed longitudinal groove, the head of which hangs over the edge of the goat. In this position, the animal's throat is cut, collecting blood in a container placed under the blood stream.