And in the process, though Legrange, obliterate the tracks of anyone else that might have gone the same way.
“Sergeant, who the hell is going to come from post to Moorstown on foot at this hour of the morning?”
She shrugged. “Ma’am, I didn’t say it was my idea. I didn’t say it was a good idea. I just said that’s what the XO did.”
Legrange said nothing, but everyone there knew what she was thinking. They were probably thinking the same thing. Major Trippe was that hopeless combination of dull and keen; uninspired and ambitious, most dreaded by every soldier. He never seemed to grasp the important in anything, but could be relied upon to pursue the unimportant with vigor, annoying everyone involved with pointless supervision, overtime, and cheer-leading even as major problems crashed and burned around them.
“Let me guess,” she said tersely, “he also released everyone to quarters.”
“Oh, yes Ma’am. He said he ‘wasn’t going to hold up the duty day over some A-rab getting his throat cut in a blood feud.”
With that, the girl jumped to her feet, shaking her head, scattering yellow sweat suit jackets as she ranted.
“No! That’s not true! Hugo’s a good boy! He’s never, never, fighting!” Her eyes burned bright, deep within the shadow of her bonnet.
The group started, stupefied. It had not occurred to them that she spoke any Anglic, despite the fact that they had been speaking it to her, unremittingly, for half an hour. The MPs shifted from one foot to another, looking at her, then at each other, then at her again, wondering if they should do something. Or secure something. Or something. Caught off balance by Marul’s sudden movement, Sergeant Thompson stopped waving the ammonia capsule and thrashed to her own feet. The shivering banana cluster took a step back in unison, then remembering the grim artifact in the tree above them, lurched forward again. Even Swanson, at the far end of the path, turned to see what was going on.
The girl switched to Tok Pisin and continued ranting.
“See, Ma’am? She just goes off!”
Legrange looked down at the child, dwarfed by this forest of strangers, and made several snap decisions.
“Sergeant,” she barked, pointing to the banana bunch, “why are these people here?”
“They—uh—live in unofficial barracks? I mean, you know, in Moorstown? They was gunna take her home, only she won’t go.”
“Were any of you first on the scene?”
“Ma’am?”
“In that gaggle of 150 heroes chasing each others’ afterburners through the road apples, were any of you up at the front of the formation?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“OK, Sergeant, get these people out of here, and get the first rank back here, ASAP.”
“But Ma’am, it was a Brigade Fun Run.”
The implication of this was not lost on Legrange. Fun Runs were not in the least fun. Fun Runs were an opportunity for officers twice their age to demonstrate the tortoise principle to eighteen-year-old hares. Said tortoises comprised the primary headquarters staff. The Personnel, Security, Operations, and Supply Officers would have formed the first rank, led by The Hoop himself or, in his absence, his Executive Officer—the selfsame Major Trippe. And, since Legrange had herself been absent, by virtue of the previous night’s Duty, the Communications Officer would have run in her stead. Sending a buck sergeant medic to entreat the entire headquarters senior staff to abandon their desks and return to Moorstown was not only impolitic; it was extremely unlikely to succeed.
Legrange looked at her watch. It was 7:30. “OK. Take Swanson and the FLIVR. Tell ‘em the DO says Command Call, Staff Conference Room, oh-eight hundred. I’ll bring the civil liaison officer to them to take their statements.”
The cluster shifted a bit uneasily. One spoke up, looking rather horrified at his sweat suit jacket, now half-trampled under Marul’s bloody feet. “Uh, Ma’am, I mean, it don’t really matter, but what about our gear?”
Legrange just nodded, and unzipped her field jacket. “Leave straight up the middle of the path. Do not under any circumstances cut across that field!”
They grappled with their clothing while Legrange directed one of the MPs.
“You. Go straight to the far side of the bridge and stop anyone from crossing. Watch your feet every step of the way. If you see footprints, do not step in ‘em. If you see blood, do not step on it. You are the Last of the Mohicans in those woods. You disturb nothing. You hop like silent fleas.”
“Yes Ma’am,” he said, eyes already darting over the ground, obviously comprehending nothing of what he saw.
She sighed. “Footprints.”
“Ma’am?”
“They’ll be sort of like scuff marks. Places where the leaves have been squashed or kicked off the gravel.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
She called after him as he moved off. “And politely. Tell people ‘Tasol Polis’ politely!”
The second MP was now panting for a mission of his own.
“You. Same thing, only go about a hundred meters down the Philosopher’s Way away from post. To the left. Follow your buddy’s tracks exactly until you turn off, then same instructions.”
He looked disappointed. He kept looking up at the body and fingering his utility belt. He clearly did not see much of anything heroic about standing around on the Philosopher’s Way in case some fresh air nut came blundering onto the scene. He wanted to log evidence, or arrest somebody, or just plain knock heads.
Legrange eyed him as he turned, somewhat sullenly, and threw him a bone. “And watch yourself, Poole. That killer’s still out there somewhere.”
She smiled slightly as his shoulders squared and he stalked off, shadowing his partner’s footsteps to the millimeter.
The banana bunch had finally finished sorting out their jackets—a pointless exercise, it seemed to Legrange, for they all looked to be the same shapeless size and well-ripened color. They filed past. Legrange softly, tenderly, lowered her field jacket onto Marul’s shoulders. She then unwound the field scarf from around her own neck and handed it to Sergeant Thompson, who had begun to shiver, teeth chattering.
Legrange looked at her watch again, impatiently. It was now 7:35, and there was still no sign of either the civil police or the Civil Liaison Officer. Sirens or no, they were obviously stuck in the crush of morning traffic. She was tired, she was cold, she was hungry, she hoped to God her troops would handle any confrontation with civilians appropriately, and she did not look forward to the tongue-lashing she would no doubt receive for the absolute bollocks the troops had made of the murder scene.
Legrange squatted, facing the girl, and spoke softly, bilingually.
“Are you sad?” She thought the girl nodded, but Marul was rocking, still shivering and sobbing, and it was hard to tell.
“Are you afraid?” This time, Marul definitely nodded, but slowly.
“I can imagine. It’s horrible.” The girl continued rocking.
Legrange glanced upward. “Is that what you’re afraid of?” Nothing.
“What are you afraid of?” Still nothing.
“Of him?” Marul shook her head, slowly.
“Of me?” Again, a slow shake of the head.
“Of somebody else?” The rocking stopped, and the girl gave one short nod.
“Of whom?”
Marul did not answer, but she made one quick, involuntary glance in the direction of the bridge, and then another up the path across the meadows. There, her glance froze, then relaxed. She actually smiled slightly, tears still welling.
With gritty eyes, Legrange followed Marul’s look, then muttered “Damn!” under her breath. She’d sent the trooper off with Swanson and the FLIVR, but had posted no-one in Swanson’s place to block access. A lone, wiry, slight figure was approaching.