“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.

Every third Friday at six a.m., Linda Libiziewsky parked her oxide green skater, named Kermit the Magnificent, at the far end of the leased housing block and began a systematic trek from stairwell to stairwell, toting a touchscreen, cross-checking and verifying repair reports, fire extinguisher inspection tags, work orders, grounds maintenance, and anything else that caught her meticulous eye.

Her powers were broad. Nominally, she was the post housing coordinator, responsible for ensuring that each and every soldier, civilian employee, school teacher, and attached family member obtained and moved into safe, approved, adequate quarters, preferably within seven days of arrival in the TCM security zone.

But that mandate gave her secondary, sweeping authority to inspect housing conditions in general, in order to assess availability and adequacy. She chose to interpret “conditions” fairly liberally, and was on the lookout constantly and especially for signs of strain; stress; community breakdown. By the time soldiers earn several stripes and several children, their habits are well-entrenched. They come to prefer ordered lives. Too many shaggy lawns; too many toys and appliances left rusting alongside walkways; too many stairwells littered with unclaimed junk; too many bloody noses and black eyes were signs, not so much of bad upbringing, but of families stretched by grueling duty hours; short tempers; fatigue. Absent these factors, the few bad apples were quickly polished by the orchard police.

 This morning, as she wound her way down the inevitable Brigham Young Way intersection with John Smith Lane, Linda stopped to ponder the inordinate number of cracked window panes, missing insect screens, unsealed fire extinguishers, and untrimmed hedges. Dirt, leaves, and graffiti marked an imperceptible but inexorable transition into Moorstown. Where once had stood a demarcation line, like foursquare farmland abutting a wilderness, was now more like the brackish pooling of an anastomosing river into a saline estuary—impossible to tell, through mangrove roots or cypress knees, where river left off and sea began. If anything, although drearier, simple lack of possessions made for neater exteriors outside the Moorstown buildings.

Linda’s teeth set. This change was not the result of some long decline. She could date it, and document it. It was very recent indeed. In another era, she would have been housekeeper to a great estate on New Washington or Sparta, aware at any moment of the location and condition of each and every piece of crockery. This state of affairs offended her sense of order.

It had taken about an hour-and-a-half to complete her peregrination, and she set out briskly to reach her office, a temporary partition in a temporary building erected in haste forty years before, by eight o’clock sharp. She could, of course, have simply gone back to retrieve Kermit the Magnificent, but a brisk constitutional along the banks of the river was part of her routine, for she made several more checks and paperwork stops at the various warehouses that intervened.