LEE CHILD. KILLING FLOOR

`Footprints in the blood,’ he said. `The place was a lake of blood. Gallons of it. Partly dried up now, of course. They left footprints all over. But they were wearing rubber overshoes, you know? Like you get for the winter up north? No chance of tracing them. They must sell millions every year.’

They had come prepared. They’d known there was going to be a lot of blood. They’d brought overshoes. They must have brought overalls. Like the nylon bodysuits they wear in the slaughterhouse. On the killing floor. Big white nylon suits, hooded, the white nylon splashed and -smeared with bright red blood.

`They wore gloves, too,’ he said. `There are rubbery smears in the blood on the walls.’

`How many people?’ I asked him. I was trying to build up a picture.

`Four,’ he said. `The footprints are confused, but I think I can see four.’

I nodded. Four sounded right. About the minimum, I reckoned. Morrison and his wife would have been fighting for their lives. It would take four of them, at least. Four out of the ten Hubble had mentioned.

`Transport?’ I said.

`Can’t really tell,’ Finlay said. `Gravel driveway, washed into ruts here and there. I saw some wide ruts which look new, maybe. Could have been wide tyres. Maybe a big four-wheel-drive or a small truck.’

We were a couple of hundred yards south of where Main Street had petered out. We turned west up a gravel driveway which must have been just

about parallel with Beckman Drive. At the end of the driveway was Morrison’s house. It was a big formal place, white columns at the front, symmetrical evergreen trees dotted about. There was a new Lincoln parked near the door and a lot of police tape strung at waist height between the columns.

`We going in?’ Finlay asked.

`May as well,’ I said.

We ducked under the tape and pushed in through Morrison’s front door. The house was a wreck. Grey metallic fingerprint powder everywhere. Everything tossed and searched and photographed.

`You won’t find anything,’ Finlay said. `We went over the whole place.’

I nodded and headed for the staircase. Went up and found the master bedroom. Stopped at the door and peered in. There was nothing to see except the ragged outline of the nail holes in the wall and the massive bloodstains. The blood was turning black. It looked like somebody had flung buckets of tar around. The carpet was crusty with it. On the parquet in the doorway I could see the footprints from the overshoes. I could make out the intricate pattern of the treads. I headed back downstairs and found Finlay leaning on a porch column out front.

`OK?’ he asked me.

`Terrific,’ I said. `You search the car?’

He shook his head.

`That’s Morrison’s,’ he said. `We just looked for stuff the intruders might have left behind.’

I stepped over to the Lincoln and tried the door. Unlocked. Inside, there was a strong new-car smell and not much else. This was a chief’s car. It wasn’t

going to be full of cheeseburger wrappings and soda cans like a patrolman’s would be. But I checked it out. Poked around in the door pockets and under the seats. Found nothing at all. Then I opened the glovebox and found something. There was a switchblade in there. It was a handsome thing. Ebony handle with Morrison’s name in goldfilled engraving. I popped the blade. Double edged, seven inches, Japanese surgical steel. Looked good. Brand new, never been used. I closed it up and slipped it into my pocket. I was unarmed and facing big trouble. Morrison’s switchblade might make a difference. I slid out of the Lincoln and rejoined Finlay on the gravel.

`Find anything?’ he asked.

`No,’ I said. `Let’s go.’

We crunched back down the driveway together and turned north on the county road. Headed back to town. I could see the church steeple and the bronze statue in the distance, waiting for us.

THIRTEEN

`Something I need to check with you,’ I said.

Finlay’s patience was running thin. He looked at his watch.

`You better not be wasting my time, Reacher,’ he said.

We walked on north. The sun was dropping away from overhead, but the heat was still fierce. I didn’t know how Finlay could wear a tweed jacket. And a moleskin vest. I led him over to the village green. We crossed the grass and leaned up on the statue of old Caspar Teale, side by side.