Twilight by Brendan DuBois Read Free Book Online Page A

documentation that was required of me. Miriam was a forensic pathologist, Peter was a forensic analyst, and I was a former newspaper reporter, just trying to keep records of what had happened here. And all of us were UN employees. Not much in the way of peacekeeping, but it was something that had to be done. Peter and Miriam had their own laptops out and talked cryptically to each other about blood spatters, tissue samples, angles of trajectory and round sizes. I tried to stay out of their way and document as much as I could, letting everything exist only within the tiny screen of the camera. Somehow it made matters just a little bit easier.
    Twice I stopped and went over to the laptop and uplink station. There I downloaded the images from my camera, sorted them out and made sure that the correct captions were attached. Then they were uploaded and I got a reply within a minute, saying the photos had been successfully received in Geneva. I wiped the sweat that had collected on my brow, underneath the brim of the helmet. The latest in digital and transmission technology, recording for all time—as long as things were recorded in bits and bytes—a type of massacre that had happened on this planet for millennia. I imagined some sour little Swiss bureaucrat in a cubicle somewhere in Geneva, idly looking at what I had submitted and then placing it in some file or e-mail attachment to The Hague. One more atrocity among thousands. We sure as hell still didn’t know how to prevent war crimes, but at least we were experts at recording them.
    Charlie came over, his M-16 slung over his shoulder. “Break time,” he announced. “Jean-Paul says it’s time for lunch and some debriefing.”
    Miriam said nothing but Peter was on his knees with a small flashlight, looking for more shell casings underneath a piece of farm machinery. “We’re rather busy here, Charles. Perhaps later.”
    Charlie grinned. “Nope. It’s now, sir. Like the good man said. Lunch and a debrief.”
    After spending time in the barn with the blood and bullet holes and the
scent of decay, I couldn’t imagine being hungry, but Jean-Paul had taken control of lunch and had cooked up some sort of broth, with hard rolls and cheese to accompany it. Maybe it was something to do with his unerring ability not to let the job get in the way of being fed. Someone had placed a canvas tarp on the ground and we leaned up against the sides of our vehicles, eating quietly. Overhead a flock of ravens flew to the south, croaking and calling, and Sanjay said, “I hate the birds in this country. They are all so fat.”
    Karen said, “It’s no wonder. There’s so much to eat out in the open now.”
    Miriam moved to take off her helmet and Charlie said, “Sorry, ma’am. Body armor stays on.”
    â€œBut this place is quiet,” she said. “Nobody is here. Nothing.”
    Charlie nodded, his weapon at his side. “Nothing we can see , ma’am. It’s the stuff we can’t see that worries me. The helmets and body armor stay on.”
    Peter said, “How much longer do we stay here, Jean-Paul?”
    Our team leader wiped some broth out of his metal bowl with a piece of bread. “We stay until the job is done.”
    Peter said impatiently, his eyes flashing, “I know that. But how much longer?” He waved a hand. “Not meaning to sound crude, but this is one more farmhouse, one more dead family, in a very long and sad list of other farmhouses and dead families in this state and other states. So sorry and all that, but it’s not Site A. Not by a long shot.”
    Jean-Paul munched on his bread, stood up. “We stay until the job is done. Site A will take care of itself. Samuel?”
    â€œYes?” I said, stepping up quickly.
    â€œWe need you now in the farmhouse, if that is all right with you.”
    â€œThat’ll be fine,” I said. Peter looked glumly