demille.thegeneralsdaughter-第20部分

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oint　could　easily　explain　that；　but　obviously　Dr。　Wells　wasn't　buying　it；　and　neither　was　I。
　I　leafed　through　the　file；　intending　at　some　early　date　to　read　it　from　cover　to　cover。　As　I　was　about　to　close　the　folder；　an　errant　scrap　of　paper　caught　my　eye　and　I　read　the　handwritten　words：　Whoever　fights　monsters　should　see　to　it　that　in　the　process　he　does　not　bee　a　monster。　And　when　you　look　long　into　the　abyss；　the　abyss　also　looks　into　you。…Nietzsche。
　What　that　quote　was　doing　there；　I　don't　know；　but　it　was　appropriate　in　the　file　of　a　psy…ops　officer　and　would　have　been　appropriate　in　the　file　of　a　CID　man　as　well。
　
　CHAPTER　NINE
　
　I　did　not　need　to　be；　nor　did　I　want　to　be；　Sergeant　Franklin　White　any　longer；　especially　since　Sergeant　White　had　to　salute　every　snot…nosed　lieutenant　he　passed。　So　I　made　the　half…mile　walk　to　the　Infantry　Training　Brigade　and　retrieved　my　pick…up　truck；　then　headed　out　to　Whispering　Pines　to　change　into　civvies。
　I　drove　past　the　post　armory；　but　didn't　see　Sergeant　Elkin's　POV　parked　in　the　lot。　I　had　this　unsettling　thought　that　Elkins　was　going　to　consummate　the　deal　behind　my　back　and　take　off　for　parts　unknown；　leaving　me　to　explain　how　I　let　a　few　hundred　M…16s　and　grenade　launchers　get　into　the　hands　of　Colombian　banditos。
　But　first　things　first。　I　left　post　and　got　onto　the　highway。　The　drive　to　Whispering　Pines　took　about　twenty　minutes；　during　which　time　I　reconstructed　the　events　of　the　morning　from　the　time　the　phone　rang　in　the　armory。　I　do　this　because　my　employer；　the　United　States　Army；　is　big　on　chronology　and　facts。　But　in　a　murder　investigation；　what　you　see　and　when　you　saw　it　is　not　the　whole　game；　because　by　the　nature　of　the　act　of　murder；　the　crucial　things　happened　before　you　got　there。　There　is　sort　of　a　spirit　world　that　coexists　with　the　world　of　empirical　observation；　and　you　have　to　get　in　touch　with　that　world　through　the　detective's　equivalent　of　the　séance。　You　don't　use　a　crystal　ball；　though　I'd　like　one　that　worked…but　you　do　clear　your　mind　and　listen　to　what　isn't　said　and　see　things　that　aren't　there。
　That　aside；　Karl　needed　a　written　report；　so　I　drafted　one　in　my　mind：　Further　to　our　phone　conversation；　the　general's　daughter　was　a　whore；　but　what　a　magnificent　whore。　I　can't　get　her　out　of　my　mind。　If　I　had　been　obsessively　in　love　with　her　and　found　out　she　was　fucking　for　everyone；　I　would　have　killed　her　myself。　Nevertheless；　will　find　son…of…a…bitch　who　did　it　and　see　that　he　faces　a　firing　squad。　Thanks　for　the　case。　（Signed）　Brenner。
　That　might　need　a　little　work。　But　it's　important；　I　think；　to　admit　to　yourself　the　truth　of　how　you　feel　about　things。　Everyone　else　is　going　to　lie；　posture；　and　dissemble。
　Regarding　that；　I　thought　about　Cynthia。　In　truth；　I　couldn't　get　the　woman　out　of　my　mind。　I　kept　seeing　her　face　and　hearing　her　voice；　and　I　was　right　then　missing　her。　This　is　presumptive　evidence　of　a　strong　emotional　attachment；　perhaps　a　sexual　obsession；　and；　God　forbid；　love。　This　was　worrisome；　not　only　because　I　wasn't　ready　for　this　but　because　I　wasn't　sure　how　she　felt。　Also；　there　was　the　murder。　When　you　get　handed　a　murder；　you　have　to　give　it　everything　you've　got；　and　if　you　don't　have　much　left　to　give；　you　have　to　draw　on　psychic　energy　that　you've　been　saving　for　other　things。　Eventually；　of　course；　there's　nothing　left　to　borrow；　and　people　like　Cynthia；　young　and　filled　with　a　sense　of　duty　and　enthusiasm；　call　you　cold；　callous；　and　cynical。　I　deny　this；　of　course；　knowing　I'm　capable　of　emotions　and　feelings；　of　love　and　warmth。　I　was　sort　of　like　that　in　Brussels　last　year；　and　look　at　what　it　got　me。　Anyway；　murder　deserves　one's　undivided　attention。
　I　looked　out　the　windshield　as　I　approached　Whispering　Pines　Trailer　Park。　Up　ahead；　on　the　left；　I　saw　a　county　road　crew　making　a　blacktop　repair；　and　I　recalled　two　and　a　half　decades　ago　when　I　saw　my　first　Georgia　chain　gang。　I　don't　think　they　use　chain　gangs　on　the　roads　anymore；　and　I　hope　they　don't。　But　I　recall　the　sight　vividly；　the　prisoners；　filthy　and　bowed；　their　ankles　connected　by　chains；　and　the　guards　in　sweaty　tan　uniforms；　carrying　rifles　and　shotguns。　I　couldn't　believe　at　first　what　I　was　seeing。　Paul　Brenner；　late　of　South　Boston；　simply　could　not　prehend　that　men　were　chained　together；　working　like　slaves　in　the　blistering　sun；　right　here　in　America。　I　actually　felt　my　stomach　tighten　as　though　someone　had　punched　me。
　But　that　Paul　Brenner　no　longer　existed。　The　world　had　bee　softer；　and　I'd　bee　harder。　Somewhere　on　the　time　line；　the　world　and　I　had　been　harmonious　for　a　year　or　two；　then　went　our　separate　ways　again。　Maybe　my　problem　was　that　my　worlds　changed　too　much：　Georgia　today；　Brussels　last　year；　Pago　Pago　next　week。　I　needed　to　stop　in　one　place　for　a　while；　I　needed　to　know　a　woman　for　more　than　a　night；　a　week；　or　a　month。
　I　passed　between　two　stripped　pine　trees　to　which　had　been　nailed　a　hand…painted　sign　overhead　that　once　read　〃Whispering　Pines。〃　I　parked　the　pickup　truck　near　the　owner's　mobile　home　and　began　the　trek　to　my　aluminum　abode。　I　think　I　liked　rural　southern　poverty　better　when　it　was　housed　in　wooden　shacks　with　a　rocking　chair　and　a　jug　of　corn　squeezings　on　the　front　porch。
　I　did　a　walk　around　the　trailer；　checking　for　open　windows；　footprints；　and　other　signs　that　someone　had　been　there。　I　came　around　to　the　entrance　and　inspected　the　strand　of　sticky　filament　I'd　placed　across　the　door　and　the　frame。　It's　not　that　I'd　seen　too　many　movies　where　the　detective　goes　into　his　house　and　gets　clubbed　over　the　head。　But　I　spent　five　years　in　the　infantry；　one　of　them　in　'Nam；　and　about　ten　years　in　Europe　and　Asia　dealing　with　everyone　from　drug　traffickers；　to　arms　smugglers；　to　just　plain　murderers；　and　I　know　why　I'm　alive；　and　I　know　how　to　stay　that　way。　In　other　words；　if　you　have　your　head　up　your　ass；　four　of　your　five　senses　aren't　working。
　I　entered　the　mobile　home　and　left　the　door　open　as　I　checked　to　see　that　I　was　the　only　one　there。　I　seemed　to　be　alone；　and　the　premises　seemed　to　be　the　way　I'd　left　them。
　I　walked　to　the　back　bedroom。　This　was　'the　room　I　used　for　my　office　where　my　pistols　were　kept；　along　with　my　notes；　reports；　codebooks；　and　other　tools　of　the　trade。　I　had　put　a　hasp　and　padlock　on　this　bedroom　door　so　no　one；　including　the　owner　of　the　trailer　park；　could　get　into　it；　and　I'd　also　put　epoxy　glue　in　the　sliders　of　the　only　window。　I　unlocked　the　padlock　and　went　inside。
　The　bedroom　furniture　came　with　the　place；　but　I'd　signed　out　a　camp　desk　and　chair　from　the　post　quartermaster；　and　on　the　desk　I　saw　that　the　light　on　the　telephone　answering　machine　was　blinking。　I　hit　the　message　button；　and　a　prerecorded　male　voice　with　a　nasal　problem　announced；　〃You　have　one　message。〃　Then　another　male　voice　said；　〃Mr。　Brenner；　this　is　Colonel　Fowler；　the　post　adjutant。　General　Campbell　wishes　to　see　you。　Report　to　his　home；　ASAP。　Good　day。〃
　Rather　curt。　All　I　could　deduce　from　that　was　that　Colonel　Kent　had　finally　got　around　to　informing　the　deceased's　next　of　kin　and　had　volunteered　the　information　that　this　Brenner　guy　from　Falls　Church　was　the　investigating　officer　and　had　given　Colonel　Fowler　my　phone　number。　Thanks；　Kent。
　I　had　no　time　for　General　or　Mrs。　Campbell　at　the　moment；　so　I　erased　the　message　from　the　tape　and　from　my　mind。
　I　went　to　the　dresser　and　took　my　9mm　Glock　automatic　with　holster；　then　exited　the　spare　bedroom；　closing　the　padlock　behind　me。
　I　entered　the　master　bedroom；　changed　into　a　blue　tropical　wool　suit；　adjusted　the　holster；　went　into　the　kitchen；　popped　a　cold　beer；　then　exited　the　trailer。　I　left　the　pickup　truck　where　it　was　and　got　into　the　Blazer。　Thus　transformed；　I　was　outwardly　prepared　to　deal　with　rape　and　murder；　though　somewhere　along　the　line　I　had　to　log　some　cot　time。
　I　took　a　few　pulls　on　the　beer　as　I　drove。　This　state　has　a　law　about　open　alcoholic　beverage　containers　which　the　locals　say　means；　if　you　open　it；　you　have　to　finish　it　before　you　throw　it　out　the　window。
　I　detoured　into　a　depressing　suburb　of　small　ranch　houses　called　Indian　Springs。　There　were　no　Indians　around；