Lee Child - Killing Floor

Killing Floor

ONE

I was arrested in Eno's diner. At twelve o'clock. I waseating eggs and drinking coffee. A late breakfast, notlunch. I was wet and tired after a long walk in heavy rain.

All the way from the highway to the edge of town.

The diner was small, but bright and clean. Brand-new,built to resemble a converted railroad car.

Narrow, with a long lunch counter on one side and akitchen bumped out back. Booths lining the oppositewall. A doorway where the centre booth would be.

I was in a booth, at a window, reading somebody'sabandoned newspaper about the campaign for aPresident I didn't vote for last time and wasn't going tovote for this time. Outside, the rain had stopped but theglass was still pebbled with bright drops. I saw thepolice cruisers pull into the gravel lot. They weremoving fast and crunched to a stop. Light bars flashingand popping. Red and blue light in the raindrops on mywindow. Doors burst open, policemen jumped out. Twofrom each car, weapons ready. Two revolvers, twoshotguns. This was heavy stuff. One revolver and oneshotgun ran to the back. One of each rushed the door.

I just sat and watched them. I knew who was in thediner. A cook in back. Two waitresses. Two old men. Andme. This operation was for me. I had been in town lessthan a half-hour. The other five had probably been hereall their lives. Any problem with any of them and anembarrassed sergeant would have shuffled in. Hewould be apologetic. He would mumble to them. Hewould ask them to come down to the station house. Sothe heavy weapons and the rush weren't for any ofthem. They were for me. I crammed egg into my mouthand trapped a five under the plate. Folded theabandoned newspaper into a square and shoved it intomy coat pocket. Kept my hands above the table anddrained my cup.

The guy with the revolver stayed at the door. He wentinto a crouch and pointed the weapon twohanded.

At my head. The guy with the shotgun approachedclose. These were fit lean boys. Neat and tidy.

Textbook moves. The revolver at the door could coverthe room with a degree of accuracy. The shotgun upclose could splatter me all over the window. The otherway around would be a mistake. The revolver couldmiss in a closequarters struggle and a long-rangeshotgun blast from the door would kill the arrestingofficer and the old guy in the rear booth as well as me.

So far, they were doing it right. No doubt about that.

They had the advantage. No doubt about that, either.

The tight booth trapped me. I was too hemmed in to domuch. I spread my hands on the table. The officer withthe shotgun came near. `Freeze! Police!' he screamed.

He was screaming as loud as he could. Blowing off histension and trying to scare me. Textbook moves.

Plenty of sound and fury to soften the target. I raisedmy hands. The guy with the revolver started in from thedoor. The guy with the shotgun came closer. Too close.

Their first error. If I had to, I might have lunged for theshotgun barrel and forced it up. A blast into the ceilingperhaps and an elbow into the policeman's face and theshotgun could have been mine. The guy with therevolver had narrowed his angle and couldn't riskhitting his partner. It could have ended badly for them.

But I just sat there, hands raised. The guy with theshotgun was still screaming and jumping. ut here onthe floor!' he yelled.

I slid slowly out of the booth and extended my wriststo the officer with the revolver. I wasn't going to lie onthe floor. Not for these country boys. Not if they broughtalong their whole police department with howitzers.

The guy with the revolver was a sergeant. He waspretty calm. The shotgun covered me as the sergeantholstered his revolver and unclipped the handcuffs fromhis belt and clicked them on my wrists. The backupteam came in through the kitchen. They walked aroundthe lunch counter. Took up position behind me. Theypatted me down. Very thorough. I saw the sergeantacknowledge the shakes of the heads. No weapon.

The backup guys each took an elbow. The shotgunstill covered me. The sergeant stepped up in front.

He was a compact, athletic white man. Lean andtanned. My age. The acetate nameplate above his shirtpocket said: Baker. He looked up at me. `You are underarrest for murder,' he said. `You have the right to remainsilent. Anything you say may be used as evidenceagainst you. You have the right to representation by anattorney. Should you be unable to afford an attorney,one will be appointed for you by the State of Georgiafree of charge. Do you understand these rights?'

It was a fine rendition of Miranda. He spoke clearly. Hedidn't read it from a card. He spoke like he knew what itmeant and why it was important. To him and to me. Ididn't respond. `Do you understand your rights?' hesaid again.

Again I didn't respond. Long experience had taught methat absolute silence is the best way. Say something,and it can be misheard. Misunderstood. Misinterpreted.

It can get you convicted. It can get you killed. Silenceupsets the arresting officer. He has to tell you silence isyour right but he hates it if you exercise that right. I wasbeing arrested for murder. But I said nothing. `Do youunderstand your rights?' the guy called Baker asked meagain. `Do you speak English?'

He was calm. I said nothing. He remained calm. He hadthe calm of a man whose moment of danger hadpassed. He would just drive me to the station house andthen I would become someone else's problem.

He glanced round his three fellow officers. K, make anote, he's said nothing,' he grunted. `Let's go.'

I was walked towards the door. At the door we formeda single file. First Baker. Then the guy with the shotgun,walking backward, still with the big black barrel pointingat me. His nameplate said: Stevenson.

He too was a medium white man in good shape. Hisweapon looked like a drainpipe. Pointing at my gut.

Behind me were the backup guys. I was pushedthrough the door with a hand flat on my back.

Outside in the gravel lot the heat was up. It must haverained all night and most of the morning. Now the sunwas blasting away and the ground was steaming.

Normally this would be a dusty hot place. Today it wassteaming with that wonderful heady aroma of drenchedpavement under a hot noon sun. I stood face up to thesun and inhaled as the officers regrouped. One at eachelbow for the short walk to the patrol cars. Stevensonstill on the ball with the pump-action. At the first car heskipped backward a step as Baker opened the reardoor. My head was pushed down. I was nudged into thecar with a neat hip-to-hip contact from the left-handbackup. Good moves. In a town this far from anywhere,surely the result of a lot of training rather than a lot ofexperience.

I was alone in the back of the car. A thick glasspartition divided the space. The front doors were still