Edge of Black. J.T. Ellison
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Название: Edge of Black

Автор: J.T. Ellison

Издательство: HarperCollins

Жанр: Приключения: прочее

Серия:

isbn: 9781408970324

isbn:

СКАЧАТЬ sure hands, he opened the cylinder and depressed the button. The can discharged, spraying silently into the vent.

      One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

      Empty.

      He shook it lightly, but there was nothing else to release. It was done.

      He tucked the cylinder back into his shirt and started to move away. He needed to get out of the shaft and back onto the platform, all while avoiding the cameras.

      He could do it. He had faith. He’d done three dry runs, and all went according to plan.

      He moved out, reversing the slither, arms bunching, forcing his body backward until the resistance ended and he could move his shoulders and hips without constriction. The pipe grew larger, big enough that he crawled onto his knees, turned and faced the exit. He fed a mirror mount down the shaft. No one was around.

      Clear.

      He dropped lightly to the ground, took three steps to the right to make sure he didn’t accidentally get caught on film, found the metal ladder and began to climb. Higher and higher, his heart lighter and lighter. Success was his.

      Below, he felt the first blast of air that indicated a train was coming. The rumbling grew louder, the ladder began to shake. He could have sworn he heard a cough. He paused his climb, held on and breathed into his mask.

      This was a better high than you could pay for.

      The train passed below him, streaking silver in the dark, rushing the air from the vent toward the platform. He let the rumbling shake his body for a few moments, counting off again, then continued to climb. The exit would be deserted, he’d made sure of that. He had a two-minute window during the shift change to get out.

      He set the stopwatch in his head. Two minutes. Mark.

      He opened the hatch and climbed onto the deserted platform. Three steps to the right, two steps forward. He’d left his backpack in the trash receptacle. He worked quickly. The mask, canister and gloves went into a sealable plastic bag. His clothes were next: he exchanged the black running suit for jeans and a white cotton T-shirt, pulled on yellow Timberlands. He used hand sanitizer on his arms to eliminate any traces that might have been left behind.

      He zippered the bag, tossed it on his shoulder and started walking.

      One minute.

      The giant disposal catchall was nearly full. As he passed it, he tossed the bag into the depths. He knew they’d be around to empty it in two hours, and all tangible evidence of the crime would disappear into the vast chaos that was the dump.

      Now unencumbered, he made better time.

      Thirty seconds.

      He could hear voices, ahead in the gloom.

      Twenty seconds.

      He stretched his stride, long legs eating up the pathway.

      The elongated shaft of the tunnel appeared before him. His senses were overloaded—orange and blue and white lights, people milling about, yellow hard hats obscuring peripheral vision, getting ready to go back into the tunnels and hammer for the next several hours. He ducked around a column, reversing direction, and slid into the last of the line with the rest of the workers.

      Ten seconds.

      The first shift ended with a shrieking whistle, and a subway train arrived, rumbling to a stop on the platform. He followed the crowd into the metal tube, took a seat. The rest of the workers filed in behind him, exhausted after their long overnight.

      Time.

      The train pulled away, building speed, taking him farther and farther from the scene, away, in the other direction, from the canister’s contents.

      He was safe.

      He risked a small smile. Around him, men’s heads nodded in time as the train rushed along the tracks. He started counting forward, and at ninety-eight, the train began to lurch to a stop.

      At exactly one hundred, the doors opened, and he stepped out into the brilliant early-morning sunshine.

      Only one thing left to do, then he could depart. Leave this cesspool of a city behind.

      Glory was his. Glory be. Glory be.

      Chapter 2

      Washington, D.C.

      Dr. Samantha Owens

      Dr. Samantha Owens walked into her lecture hall at exactly 7:00 a.m. The students were already arranged in the chairs, some sitting upright, some obviously wilting. Sam placed her notes on the lectern and turned to the class.

      “Perk up, buckaroos. I know it’s early, and I realize the ice-cream social last night involved more ethanol than frozen coagulants, but we have work to do. Who can tell me what Locard’s Exchange Principle is?”

      There was quiet laughter, the rustling of paper and laptops opening. Despite the obvious hangovers of many of the students, hands shot up all over the room. Sam called on the closest.

      “First row, blue shirt. Go.”

      The boy didn’t hesitate. “Any time you come in contact with an object or a space, you take something away and leave something behind.”

      “Very good. So when you’re thinking in terms of a crime scene?”

      The class chanted together, “There are no clean crime scenes.”

      “Exactly.” Sam turned to the whiteboard and wrote Locard’s Theory at the top.

      Sam was two weeks into her first teaching gig, and loving every minute of it. She missed the hands-on work that came with being a medical examiner, sure, but this was almost like vacation. Eager, happy, excited, sometimes—okay, often—hungover kids, all dying to learn the tricks of the trade so they could rush out and become the latest and greatest forensic investigators. Once the fall semester began, she’d be teaching at Georgetown University, heading up their new forensic pathology program, but in the meantime, her boss, Hilary Stag, the Georgetown University Head of Pathology, had volunteered Sam for the summer science continuing education program, which included a week of guest lecturing at their rival medical school, George Washington.

      She’d been back in D.C. for just a month now. The move had gone smoothly, almost too smoothly. Her house in Nashville had sold quickly despite the depressed market, so instead of rushing into another mortgage, she’d decided to rent on N Street in Georgetown, a beautiful three-story Federalist townhouse that had been gutted inside and completely redone in nearly severe modernism, all glass and stainless and open stairwells, with an infinity lap pool in the backyard. It was as opposite from her snug home in Nashville as she could find, and she quickly realized the minimalist aesthetics pleased her. The only pricks of color were from the flowers she brought in and a few Pollock-like paintings on the walls. Everything else was black and white. She’d sold the vast majority of her furniture anyway, keeping just a few things she couldn’t bear to part with, including a supple white leather couch and her rolltop writing desk—it had been her grandmother’s. She purchased a bed, a small glass table and Eames chairs for the eat-in, and СКАЧАТЬ