Trace

by Patricia Cornwell

  “It don’t hurt.”

  “Lean forward. Let me look.”

  He bends over and feels her carefully move the pillows away from his back. He feels her warm fingers between his shoulder blades, her hands lightly touching his bare skin and pushing him farther forward as she examines his back, and he tries to remember whether she’s ever touched his bare back before. She hasn’t. He would remember.

  “What about your genitals?” she asks as if it is nothing. When he doesn’t respond, she says, “Marino, did she injure your genitals? Is there something there I should photograph, not to mention treat, or are we going to pretend that I somehow don’t know that you have male genitalia like half the rest of the human race? Well, obviously she hurt your genitals, or else you would simply tell me no. Correct?”

  “Correct,” he mutters, covering his crotch with his hands. “Yeah, I’m hurting, okay? But maybe you got enough already to prove your point, to prove she hurt me, no matter what I did to her, assuming I did something.”

  She sits on the edge of the bed not more than two feet from him and looks at him. “How about a verbal description. Then we’ll decide if you need to take your pants off.”

  “She bit me. All over. And I got bruises.”

  “I’m a doctor,” Scarpetta says.

  “I know that all right. But you ain’t my doctor.”

  “I would be if you died. If she’d killed you, who do you think would want to see you and know every damn thing about it? But you’re not dead, for which I’m extremely grateful, but you got attacked and have the same sort of injuries you might have were you dead. And this all sounds perfectly ridiculous, even to me, even as I’m saying it. Will you please let me take a look and see if you need medical treatment and if we need to take photographs?”

  “What kind of medical treatment?”

  “Probably nothing that a little Betadine won’t cure. I’ll pick some up at the drugstore.”

  He tries to imagine what will happen if she sees him. She has never seen him. She doesn’t know what he has, and he might not be above average or below average, and ordinarily just being ordinary will get one by, but he doesn’t know what to expect because he has no idea what she likes or is accustomed to. So it’s probably not smart to take off his pants. Then he thinks of riding in the back of an unmarked car and being photographed in lockup and going to court, and he unbuttons his pants and pulls down the zipper.

  “If you laugh I’ll hate you the rest of your life,” he says, and his face burns hot and he is sweating, and the sweat stings whatever it touches.

  “You poor boy,” she says. “That crazy bitch,” she says.

  31.

  IT IS RAINING a cold hard rain when Scarpetta pulls off to the side of the street and parks in front of Suzanna Paulsson’s house. For a few minutes she sits with the engine running and the wiper blades sweeping back and forth, and she looks out at the uneven brick sidewalk that leads to the sloping porch and imagines Marino’s path last night. She doesn’t have to imagine much else.

  What he told her was more than he thinks. What she saw was worse than he knows. He may not believe he told her every detail, but he told her plenty. She turns off the wipers and watches the rain spatter the glass and run down it, and then it is raining so hard all she can hear is a steady wet splashing, and the water on the windshield looks like rippled ice. Suzanna Paulsson is home. Her minivan is parked near the sidewalk and the lights are on in the house. She didn’t walk anywhere in this weather.

  Scarpetta’s rental car has no umbrella and she doesn’t have a hat. She gets out and the smacking of water is suddenly louder and rain dashes her face as she hurries along the slippery old bricks that lead to the house of a girl who is dead and a mother who is sexually insane. Perhaps it is overly dramatic to consider her sexually insane. Scarpetta reconsiders, but she is much angrier than Marino knows. He may not realize she is angry at all, but she is quite angry and Mrs. Paulsson is about to see what it is like when Scarpetta is angry. She firmly taps the brass pineapple against the front door and contemplates what to do if the woman refuses to open it, if she pretends she isn’t home like Fielding did. She taps the pineapple again, slower and harder.

  Night is coming quickly like a cloud of black ink because of the storm, and she can see her breath as she stands on the porch, surrounded by splashing water, and she raps again and again. I’ll just keep standing here, she thinks. You’re not getting out of this, don’t think there’s a chance I’ll turn around and leave. She pulls her cell phone and a scrap of paper out of her coat pocket and looks at a number she jotted down when she was here yesterday, when she was quiet and gentle with this woman, when she felt sorry for her. She dials and can hear the phone ring inside the house, and she raps the pineapple again as loud as she can. If the door knocker breaks she doesn’t care.

  Another minute passes and she redials the number and the phone rings and rings inside and she hangs up before the answering machine begins. You’re home, she thinks. Don’t pretend you’re not. You probably know it’s me out here. Scarpetta steps back from the door and looks at the lighted windows along the front of the small brick house. Filmy white curtains are drawn across them, and they are full of soft, warm light, and she sees a shadow pass before the window on her right. She can see the outline of a person as it drifts past the window, pauses, then turns around and vanishes.

  She raps on the door again and redials. This time when the answering machine picks up, Scarpetta stays on the line and says, “Mrs. Paulsson, it’s Dr. Kay Scarpetta. Please answer your door. It’s very important. I’m standing outside your front door. I know you’re home.” She ends the call and raps some more, and the shadow moves again, this time past the window to the left of the door, and then the door opens.

  “Good heavens,” Mrs. Paulsson says in feigned surprise that is unconvincing. “I didn’t know who it was. What a storm. Come in out of the rain. I don’t answer the door when I don’t know who it is.”

  Scarpetta drips into the living room and takes off her long, dark, soaking-wet coat. Cold water drips from her hair and she pushes it off her face, realizing her hair is as wet as it would be had she just stepped out of the shower.

  “God knows you’re going to get pneumonia,” Mrs. Paulsson says to her. “Here I am telling you. You’re the doctor. Come on in the kitchen and let me get you something warm to drink.”

  Scarpetta looks around the tiny living room, at the cold ashes and chunks of burned wood in the fireplace, at the plaid couch beneath the windows, at the doorways on either side of the living room that lead into other parts of the house. Mrs. Paulsson catches Scarpetta looking and a tightness comes over her face, a face that is almost pretty but cheap and rough.

  “Why are you here?” Mrs. Paulsson says in a different voice. “What are you doing here? I thought you might be here for Gilly, but I can see that’s not it.”

  “I’m not sure anybody was here for Gilly,” Scarpetta replies, standing in the middle of the living room, dripping on the hardwood floor and looking around, making it obvious that she is looking around.

  “You have no right to say that,” Mrs. Paulsson snaps. “I think you should leave right now. I don’t need the likes of you in my house.”

  “I’m not leaving. Call the police if you want. But I’m not going anywhere until we’ve had a conversation about what happened last night.”

  “I should call the police all right. After what that monster did. After all I’ve been through, and then he comes over here and takes advantage like that. Going after someone who’s hurting the way I am. I should have known. He looks the type.”

  “Go on,” Scarpetta says. “Call the police. I have a story too. Quite a story. If you don’t mind, I believe I’ll look around. I know where the kitchen is. I know where Gilly’s room is. I presume if I head through this doorway and turn left instead of right, I might just find your bedroom,” she says as she walks that way.

  “You can’t just walk around my hou
se,” Mrs. Paulsson exclaims. “You get out of my house this minute. You have no cause to be snooping around.”

  The bedroom is bigger than Gilly’s but not much. In it are a double bed, a small antique walnut nightstand on either side, and two dressers crammed against a wall. A doorway leads into a small bathroom, and another doorway opens into a closet, and there in plain view on the closet floor is a pair of black leather combat boots. Scarpetta digs inside a pocket of her suit jacket and pulls out a pair of cotton gloves. She puts them on as she stands in the closet doorway, looking down at the boots. She scans the clothes hanging from the rod and abruptly turns around and walks into the bathroom. Draped over the side of the tub is a camouflage T-shirt.

  “He told you a story, didn’t he?” Mrs. Paulsson says from the foot of the bed. “And you believe it. We’ll see what the police believe. I don’t think they’ll believe him or you.”

  “How often did you play soldier when your daughter was around to see it?” Scarpetta asks, looking right at her. “Apparently Frank liked to play soldier? Is that where you learned the game, from him? Or are you the creator of this vile little charade of yours? How much did you do in front of Gilly, and who played the game with you when Gilly was here? Group sex? Is that who ‘them’ is? Other people who played the game with you and Frank?”

  “How dare you accuse me of such a thing!” she exclaims, and her face is twisted by contempt and rage. “I don’t know a thing about any game.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty of accusing to go around, and there will probably be more,” Scarpetta says, moving closer to the bed and with a gloved hand pulling back the covers. “It doesn’t look like you changed the linens. That’s good. See the blood spots on this sheet right here? How much do you want to bet that comes back as Marino’s blood. Not yours.” She gives her a long look. “He’s bleeding and you aren’t. Now that’s curious. I believe there’s a bloody towel around here somewhere too.” She looks around. “Maybe you’ve washed it, but it doesn’t matter. We can still get what we need from something that’s been washed.”

  “I have this happen to me and you’re worse than he is,” Mrs. Paulsson says, but her expression has changed. “I would think another woman would have at least a little compassion.”

  “For someone who mauls another person and then accuses him of assault? I don’t believe you’ll find a decent woman on this planet who would have compassion for that, Mrs. Paulsson.” Scarpetta starts pulling the cover off the bed.

  “What are you doing? You can’t do that.”

  “I’m going to do that and more. Just watch.” She strips off the sheets and rolls them and the pillows into the quilt.

  “You can’t do that. You’re not a cop.”

  “Oh, I’m worse than any cop. Trust me.” Scarpetta picks up the bundle of linens and places it on top of the bare mattress. “What next?” She looks around. “You may not have noticed when you ran into Marino at the medical examiner’s office this morning, but he had on the same pants that he had on last night. And the same underwear. All day, as a matter of fact. You probably know that when a man has sex he is likely to leave at least a little something in his underwear and possibly even in his pants. But he didn’t. He didn’t leave a trace of anything in his underwear or pants, except blood from where you hurt him. You also may not know that people can see through your curtains, see if you’re with someone, if you’re fighting or having a romantic encounter, assuming you’re still on your feet. No telling what the neighbors across the street have seen when your lights are on or you’ve got a fire going.”

  “Maybe it started out all right between the two of us and got out of hand,” Mrs. Paulsson says, and she seems to have made a decision. “It was innocent enough, just a man and a woman enjoying each other. Maybe I got a little carried away because he frustrated me. Got me all dressed up with no place to go. He couldn’t do it. A big man like him, and he couldn’t do it.”

  “I guess not when you kept filling his glass with bourbon,” Scarpetta says, and she is pretty sure Marino didn’t do it. She doesn’t see how he could. The problem is, he still worries that he did it and he worries that he couldn’t, so there isn’t much room for discussion with him.

  Scarpetta squats inside the closet and retrieves the boots. She places them on the bed, and they look very sinister and large against the bare mattress.

  “Those are Frank’s boots,” Mrs. Paulsson tells her.

  “If you’ve worn them, your DNA will be inside them.”

  “They’re way too big for me.”

  “You heard what I said. DNA will tell us a lot.” She walks into the bathroom and picks up the camouflage T-shirt. “I suppose this is Frank’s, as well.”

  Mrs. Paulsson has nothing to say.

  “We can go into the kitchen now if you want,” Scarpetta says. “Something warm to drink would be nice. Maybe some coffee. What kind of bourbon were you drinking last night? You shouldn’t feel very good right now either, unless you spent more time filling his glass than your own. Marino’s in pretty bad shape today. Pretty bad. He required medical treatment.” All this as Scarpetta walks briskly toward the back of the house, toward the kitchen.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he needed a doctor.”

  “He went to the doctor?”

  “He was examined and photographed. Every inch of him. He’s not in good shape,” Scarpetta says, walking into the kitchen and spotting the coffeemaker near the sink, very close to where the bottle of cough syrup was the other day. The bottle isn’t there now. It is nowhere in sight. She takes off her cotton gloves and tucks them in her suit pocket.

  “He ought to be after what he did.”

  “You can stop that story now,” Scarpetta says, filling the glass coffeepot with tap water. “That story is a lie and you may as well give it up. If you have injuries, let’s see them.”

  “If I show them to anybody, it will be the police.”

  “Where do you keep the coffee?”

  “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it isn’t the truth,” Mrs. Paulsson says, opening the freezer and setting a bag of coffee by the pot. She opens a cupboard and finds a box of filters, letting Scarpetta help herself.

  “Truth seems hard to find these days,” Scarpetta replies, opening the coffee and placing a filter in the coffeemaker, then measuring coffee with a small scoop she found in the bag. “I wonder why that is. We can’t seem to find the truth about what happened to Gilly. Now the truth about what happened last night seems to elude us. I’d like to hear what you have to say about truth, Mrs. Paulsson. That’s why I decided to drop by tonight.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything about Pete,” she says bitterly. “If I was going to, don’t you think I would have? Truth is, I thought he had a good time.”

  “A good time?” Scarpetta leans against the counter and crosses her arms at her waist. Coffee drips and the aroma of it seeps around the edges of the kitchen. “If you looked like he does today, I’m wondering if you’d think you had a good time.”

  “You don’t know what I look like.”

  “I can tell by the way you move that he didn’t hurt you. In fact, he didn’t do much of anything, not after all that bourbon. You just told me that yourself.”

  “You got something with him? Is that why you’re here?” She looks slyly at Scarpetta, and interest glints in her eyes.

  “I have something with him. But it isn’t something you’re likely to understand. Did I mention to you that I’m also a lawyer? Would you like to hear what happens to people who falsely accuse someone of assault or rape? Have you ever been to jail?”

  “You’re jealous. I see what this is about.” She smiles smugly.

  “Think what you want. But think about jail, Mrs. Paulsson. Think about crying rape and the evidence proving you to be a liar.”

  “I won’t be crying rape, don’t you worry,” she says, her face turning harder. “Nobody rapes me anyway. Let them try. What a big baby. That’s w
hat I have to say about him. A baby. I thought he would be fun. Well, I thought wrong. You can have him, Miss Doctor or Lawyer or whatever you are.”

  The coffee is ready and Scarpetta asks about cups, and Mrs. Paulsson finds two in a cupboard and then two spoons. They sip coffee standing up, and then Mrs. Paulsson begins to cry. She bites her lower lip and tears spill out and stream down her face and she starts shaking her head.

  “I’m not going to jail,” she says.

  “That would be what I prefer. I’d rather you didn’t go to jail,” Scarpetta says, sipping her coffee. “Why did you do it?”

  “It’s personal what people do with each other.” She won’t look at her.

  “When you draw blood and bruise someone, it’s not personal. It’s a crime. Is rough sex a habit of yours?”

  “You must be some kind of Puritan,” she says, wandering to the table and sitting down. “I guess there must be a lot you’ve never heard of.”

  “You might be right. Tell me about the game.”

  “Get him to.”

  “I know what Marino has to say about your game, at least the one you played last night.” Scarpetta sips her coffee. “You’ve played your games for a while, haven’t you? Did they start with your ex-husband, with Frank?”

  “I don’t have to talk to you,” she says from the table. “I don’t see why I should.”

  “The rose we found in Gilly’s dresser. You said Frank might know something about it. What did you mean?”

  She will not answer, and she looks angry and full of hate as she sits at the table and cradles the coffee cup in both hands.

  “Mrs. Paulsson, do you think Frank might have done something to Gilly?”

  “I don’t know who left the rose,” she says, staring at the same spot on the wall she stared at when Scarpetta was here yesterday. “I know I didn’t. I know it wasn’t there before, not out in her room, not where I could see it. And I’d been in her drawers. I went in them the day before, putting away laundry and things. Gilly was bad about putting things away. I was always picking up after her. I never saw anything like it. She couldn’t put something back to save her.” She catches herself and falls silent, staring at the wall.