The Hornet’s Nest. Patricia Cornwell

seemed even more haunted and menacing at this hour. Brazil sat and stared, imagining

murder, and believing there was a person who had heard the gunshots and spraying of

paint. Somewhere, someone knew. Brazil left his engine running, the Sig Sauer between

the front seats, and within reach.

He began walking around, probing with a flashlight, his eyes nervous, as if he feared he

was being watched. Old blood on pavement was black, and an opossum was working on

it, eyes white in the flashlight as it spied the intrusion and scuttled off. The woods

teemed with restless insects, and fireflies winked. A far-off train rumbled down rusty

tracks, and Brazil was chilled, his attention darting around, like static. He felt murder in

this place. He sensed a sinister energy that bristled and coiled and waited to claim more.

These killings were common and cold, and Brazil believed that the monster was known

by the people of the night, and fear kept identity hidden.

Brazil did not believe prostitution was right. He did not think that anyone should have to pay for such a thing. He did not believe that anyone should have to sell such a thing. All

of it was depressing, and he imagined being a homely middle-aged man and accepting

that no woman would want him without his wallet. Brazil imagined a woman worrying

about servicing the next client in order to feed her child or herself or avoid another

beating from her pimp. A horrid slavery, all of it dreadful and hard to imagine. This

moment, Brazil entertained little hope about the human condition when he considered

that heartless behavior had evolved not one level higher since the beginning of time.

It seemed that what had changed, simply, was the way people got around and

communicated, and the size of the weapons they used against each another.

On Highway 277, he saw one of these very sad creations on the shoulder, walking

languidly, in tight jeans and no bra, her chest thrust out. The young hooker was pointed

and tattooed, in a skimpy white knit shirt. He slowed, meeting bold, mocking eyes that

didn’t know fear. She was about his age and missing most of her front teeth, and he tried

to imagine talking to her, or picking her up. He wondered if the appeal was stolen fire,

some sort of mythical thing, an ill-gotten rush that made people feel powerful, her over

him, him over her, if only for a dark, degrading moment. He imagined her laughing at

her Johns and hating them as much as she hated herself and all. He followed the young

hooker in his rearview mirror as she stared back at him, with a slight, quizzical smile,

waiting for the boy to make up his mind. She could have been pretty once. Brazil sped

up as a van cruised close to her and stopped.

X? The next night, Brazil was out on the street again, and reality seemed different and odd, and, at first, he thought it was his imagination. From the moment he left the

Observer in his BMW, he saw cops everywhere in spotless white patrol cars. They were

watching and following him, and he told himself this could not be true, that he was tired

and full of fantasy. The evening was slow, with no good reports in the press basket,

unless Webb had already stolen them. There were no good calls over the scanner until a

fire broke out. Brazil didn’t waste time. The blaze was huge and he could see it against

the night sky in Adam One, close to where Nations Ford and York Roads met.

Brazil’s adrenaline flooded him with nervous energy. He was focused on getting to the

scene and not getting lost, when suddenly a siren sounded behind him, and he checked

his rearview mirror.

“Shit,” he said.

Moments later, he was in the passenger’s seat of a police cruiser, getting a ticket as the

distant fire burned without him.

“My speedometer is broken,” Brazil tried that shopworn line.

“Get it fixed.” The officer was unfriendly and taking her time.

“Could you please hurry with that, ma’am?” Brazil then politely said.

“I’ve got to get to my assignment.”

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