Testimony of Mr. J. Stanley

The other party urged him to take the medicine as directed, hurry up, I don't have time to stand here all day.

He left, the chain of keys hanging around his waist rattling, leaving Stanley alone to ponder the rain whose sound track had been removed outside.Apart from his own heartbeat, he has no other tool to measure the time. Judging from the cloudy sky, it can be any time between ten in the morning and midnight.He moved awkwardly to the window and looked out at a patch of rain-beaten grass, which could have been anywhere in the world.

The door to his private cage opened again, but it was just another orderly, followed by two guards in black uniforms, handcuffing him and tossing him a change of laundry, which Stanley put in the pile that smelled of disinfectant. The smelling cloth was cradled to his chest with his still splinted right arm, as if it were a dead baby.While the orderly wiped him clean with a kind of honed indifference, the prison guards stood guard at the public bathroom door like two wet-painted puppets.The orderly took out a safety razor, and Stanley reached for it automatically, an innocuous morning routine suddenly turned into a critical incident, and the guard rushed in and pinned him to the wall with a Taser in his lower back .Prisoners are not allowed to handle sharp objects, common sense, sir.From the nurse's tone, it was clear that he believed that prison etiquette should be part of basic education for all children under the age of 15.Standing in front of the yellowing tile wall, letting the orderly shave the stubble off his chin, Stanley felt like a stray dog ​​recently caught in a shelter.The prison guards sandwiched him from left to right, so close that Stanley could feel their breath against his ears.

Gibson was already there when the trio escorted Stanley back to his private room, his trench coat draped over the back of his chair, glistening with rain.The prison guards uncuffed him, put him back in the cage, and locked it.He slowly moved towards the hospital bed, a bird knocked down by guns, dragging its wings to find a shadow to hide in.Gibson waited for him to sit down before speaking, picking up the conversation where it left off yesterday.Stanley was facing the window, his back slightly hunched, as if pulling an invisible cable with a collier tied at the other end.Thunder pierced through the wall, and the glass trembled slightly.

"I don't know when he came, but Bobby knows, Bobby saw him."

The boy's name wasn't Bobby, it was Bradley, but everyone called him Bobby.Stanley recognized his little bike, a blue one with two training wheels that didn't actually touch the ground.Every neighborhood has a constant like Barbie, aged between eight and 12, wearing brightly colored helmets and knee pads, crunching like clockwork on tree-shaded residential sidewalks Toy.

The postman came the day before yesterday, Bobby said, looking up at Stanley, helmet covering his forehead, a dark stain, dust, or hazelnut spread from breakfast on his right cheek.

Very well, Bradley, I'm sure the postman comes every day, smart young man, thank you.Perfunctory, absent-minded, he has little patience with children.The flowerbed has been dug up, who really buries chocolate eggs in the mud these days?Total folly.Stanley pulled out the thick stack of mail and closed the mailbox again.

Another kind of postman, not a newspaper postman, but a box postman, explained Bobby, gesturing with both hands together into the square shape of the package.He put the box behind the pot and I saw it and he asked me to tell you but I forgot because Trish and her brother invited me to race cars and no one won Trish.Then another gentleman comes along, does Mr. Stanley like racing cars?

He squatted down and looked at the boy, a wilted daffodil was crushed under the wheel of the bicycle, there was no hope of rescue.Bradley, think about it, what "Mr. Another"?what did he do

"The Other Mister," who looked like an F.D. agent on TV, must have walked around the house because when Bobby turned the corner with his bike, he happened to be walking in the path that separates the two gardens Come out, the rest of Barbie doesn't remember, a kid his age, the world is measured by the hour, the day before yesterday was as far away as 1979.Mr. Stanley strode across the drive to pick up the package from behind the geranium pots.

The corners of the package were soaked by yesterday's rain, and the cardboard became limp.The sender's name was so scribbled that it was impossible to tell what it was.He cut open the cardboard box, and inside was a notebook wrapped in a waterproof bag, without an envelope or note.He touched the inside of the box to make sure he hadn't missed anything.A soft leather notebook lay on the dining table like physical evidence of a murder.Stanley folded his arms and stared at it for a while before opening the waterproof bag and turning a few pages.

"Damn it," he said, although no one else was in the kitchen.

-

The first sign that things were going badly was the small van parked on the corner, a dark green color with yellow stripes on both doors.The spray-painted bouquets on the carriages have faded, and the logos and names have been smeared with graffiti, save for the scrappy words “Company, Professional Gardener, Exterminator.”No one gave it a second glance, after all the cleaners and gardeners who were paid by the hour came and went in the area.Like a silent parasite, this small dark green truck guards in front of a different garden every day. Occasionally, a "professional gardener" in a dark green uniform with yellow stripes takes the mower, shovel, spray Cans and industrial gloves were moved out of the car and back in a moment later, but Stanley couldn't help noticing the ventilation unit mounted on the roof of the car, which garden tools probably didn't need.At that time, he worked in a tropical disease laboratory called Aigrette & Füssen, and spent most of his time writing tedious test reports for ships and airlines, which took an hour and a half to drive back and forth.On the evening of the fourth day after receiving the package, when he arrived home ten minutes earlier than usual, the green van was parked outside the door, blocking the driveway, and it lazily moved away after Stanley honked his horn a few times.

The notebook was tucked away prominently on the shelf, between a vast dictionary and a pile of yearbooks that no one ever read.Stanley's first instinct was to look for the owner of the notes, but he seemed to disappear out of thin air. The news about Dr. Jason Coleman ended in Munich. He was supposed to have a lecture on cellular immunology, but it was canceled due to "traffic reasons" .Stanley briefly considered calling Ryan Sinclair, but dismissed the idea immediately, not wanting to attract unnecessary attention, and no one could tell who was listening on the other end of the phone.

No. 11 days after the package was delivered, "Another Mr." came to visit.

He came alone, his gray trench coat making him look like a disembodied, lean shadow, aged between 27 and 92, depending on how you looked at it.On that particular April afternoon, Stanley thought he looked like an unsympathetic dental assistant.He held up the papers to Stanley, Agent Arthur Ferguson, CIA.Can we talk, nothing to worry about, this is not a formal investigation, just information gathering.talk about what?Of course it was about Dr. Coleman, Mr. Stanley, who had been missing for a month.

"Missing." Stanley repeated the word, and the detective sat on the sofa opposite without taking off his windbreaker, like a condensed haze, "What kind of disappearance?"

"The disappearance of 'no one has seen him'," Ferguson opened a small notepad, as if to confirm how many different types of disappearances there are in nature. "He was captured on the surveillance video of Munich Airport. Definite last sighting, no exit records. Unless the Doctor is carrying a rocket jet with him, we can only assume he used a fake passport, which makes things tricky. We whip the press to silence for now , but you understand that doesn't shut them up forever."

"I don't know how I can help you, I haven't seen Jason in years."

Ferguson pondered his notepad. "You guys are friends. I don't know about you, but where I come from, people always go to their friends when they're in trouble."

"Like I said, we haven't been in touch very much."

The agent gave him a look like a bloodhound smelling blood. "What's the problem, money? Sex? Someone didn't pay the beer bill?"

"What trouble is he with? Why would the CIA be interested in this?"

"Mr. Stanley, if we continue to throw questions at each other like banana peels, this conversation will be less efficient than it has been in history, and I don't want to waste your time. Answer this question: Are you sure you haven't seen Dr. Coleman recently ?"

"No."

"Take 2 minutes to think about it. Suspicious call? Unknown package? Letter without a postmark?"

"No, I'm pretty sure."

Ferguson stared at him long enough to take Stanley apart and put him back together in his mind.He stuffed the little notepad back into his pocket and stood up, "Do you mind if I take a look around?"

Stanley refused to think about the notebook on the shelf, "Please."

Ferguson walked around the living room, touching nothing but a loose floorboard.As he approached the bookshelf, Stanley thought his neighbors across the street could hear his heart beating.The agent moved closer, as if to examine the dust, and made a comment on one of the books, which Stanley politely brushed off, and then