Jon hesitated.
"I'm not sure what you're asking."
"Lucy identified herself as Scarpetta when she called the second time?"
"That's what Rick told me. He just said it was Scarpetta on the line."
"Her last name is not Scarpetta."
"Jeez," he said after a startled pause.
"You're kidding. I just assumed. Well, that's kinda weird."
I thought of Lucy paging Marino, who then returned her call, quite likely from the Steiner home. Denesa Steiner must have thought he was talking to me, and how simple it would have been for her to wait until Marino was out of the room and get directory assistance to give her the number for Green Top. Then all she had to do was call and ask the questions she did. It was an odd sense of relief mingled with fury I felt. Denesa Steiner had not attempted to kill Lucy, nor had Carrie Grethen or anyone else. The intended victim had been me.
I asked Jon one last question.
"I don't want to put you on the spot, but did Lucy seem intoxicated when you waited on her?"
"If she had, I never would have sold her anything."
"What was her demeanor?"
"She was in a hurry but joking around and very nice." If Lucy had been drinking as much as I suspected she had for months or longer, she could have had a.12 and seemed to function fine. But her judgment and reflexes would have been impaired. She would not have reacted as well to what happened on the road. I hung up and got the number for the Asheville-Citizen Times, and was told by the city desk that the name of the person who had written about the accident was Linda Mayfair. Fortunately, she was in, and momentarily I had her on the line.
"This is Dr. Kay Scarpetta," I said.
"Oh! Gosh, what can I do for you?" She sounded very young.
"I wanted to ask about a story you wrote. It was about an accident involving my car in Virginia. Are you aware that you were incorrect to say that I was driving and subsequently arrested for DUI?" I was very calm but firm.
"Oh, yes, ma'am. I'm really sorry, but let me tell you what happened. Something brief about the wreck came over the wire very late the night of the accident. All it said was that the car, a Mercedes, was identified as yours and it was suspected the driver was you and alcohol was involved. I happened to be working late finishing up something else when the editor came over with the printout. He told me to run it if I could confirm that the driver was you. Well, by now we're on deadline and I didn't think there was a chance.
"Then out of the blue, a call gets rolled over to my desk. And it's this lady who says she's a friend of yours and is calling from a hospital in Virginia. She wants us to know that you were not badly injured in the accident. She thought we should know since Dr. Scarpetta-you-have colleagues still in our area working on the Steiner case. She says she doesn't want us hearing about the accident some other way and printing something that would alarm your colleagues when they pick up the paper. "
"And you took the word of a stranger and ran a story like that?"
"She gave her name and number and both of them checked out. And if she wasn't someone familiar with you, how could she have known about the accident and that you have been here working on the Steiner case?" She could have known all of that if she were Denesa Steiner and were in a phone booth in Virginia after attempting to kill me. I asked, "How did you check her out?"
"I called the number right back and she answered, and it was a Virginia area code."
"Do you still have the number?"
"Gosh, I think so. It should be in my notepad."
"Will you look for it now?"
I heard pages flipping and a lot of shuffling around. A long minute passed, and she gave me the number.
"Thank you very much. I hope you've gotten around to printing a retraction," I said, and I could tell she was intimidated. I felt sorry for her and did not believe she had intended harm. She was just young and inexperienced, and was certainly no match for a psychopath determined to play games with me.
"We ran a We Were Wrong the next day. I can send you a copy."
"That won't be necessary," I said as I recalled the reporters turning up at the exhumation. I knew who had tipped them off. Mrs. Steiner. She couldn't resist more attention. The phone rang for a long time when I dialed the number the reporter had given me. Finally, it was answered by a man.
"Excuse me," I said.
"Hello?"
"Yes, I need to know where this phone is."
"Which phone. Yours or mine?" The man laughed. " Cause if you don't know where yours is, you're in trouble. "
"Yours."
"I'm at a pay phone outside a Safeway getting ready to call my wife to ask what kind of ice cream she wants. She forgot to tell me. The phone started ringing so I answered it."
"Which Safeway?" I asked.
"Where?"
"On Cary Street."
"In Richmond?" I asked in horror.
"Yeah. Where are you?"
I thanked him and hung up and began pacing around the room. She had been to Richmond. Why? To see where I lived? Had she driven past my house?
I looked out at the bright afternoon, and the clear blue sky and vivid colors of the leaves seemed to say that nothing bad like this could happen. No dark power was at work in the world, and none of what I was finding out was real. But I always felt the same disbelief when the weather was exquisite, when snow was falling, or the city was filled with Christmas lights and music. Then morning after morning I would go into the morgue and there would be new cases. There would be people raped and shot, and killed in mindless accidents.
Before I vacated the room, I tried the FBI labs and was surprised the scientist I intended to leave a message for was in. But like so many of us who seemed to do nothing but work, weekends were for others.
"The truth is I've done all with it I can," he said of the image enhancement he had been working on for days.
"And nothing?" I asked, disappointed.
"I've filled it out a little. It's a little clearer, but I can't begin to recognize whatever it is that's there."
"How long will you be in the lab today?"
"For another hour or two."
"Where do you live?"
"Aquia Harbor."
I would not have enjoyed that commute every day, but a surprising number of Washington agents with families lived there and in Stafford and Montclair. Aquia Harbor was maybe a half hour drive from where Wesley lived.
"} hate to ask you this," I went on.
"But it's extremely important that I get a printout of this enhancement as soon as I can. Is there any possibility you could drop one by Benton Wesley's house? Round trip, it would be about an hour out of your way." He hesitated before saying, "I can do that if I leave now. I'll call him at home and get directions."
I grabbed my overnight bag. I did not return my revolver to my briefcase until I was at the Knoxville airport behind a shut door in the ladies' room.
I went through the usual routine of checking that one bag and letting them know what was in it, and they marked it with the usual fluorescent orange tag, which brought to mind the duct tape again. I wondered why Denesa Steiner would have blaze orange duct tape and where she might have gotten it.
I could see no reason for her to have any connection to Attica and decided as I crossed the tarmac to board the small prop plane that the penitentiary had nothing to do with this case.
I took my aisle seat and was completely caught up in my contemplations, so I did not notice the tension among the other twenty or so passengers until I was suddenly aware of police on board. One of them was saying something to a person on the ground, eyes darting furtively from face to face. Then my eyes did the same as I went into their mode. I knew the demeanor so well, and my mind went into gear as I wondered what fugitive they were looking for and what he might have done. I raced through what action I would take if he suddenly jumped out of his seat. I would trip him. I would tackle him from behind as he went past.
There were three officers p
anting and sweating, and one of them stopped right by me and his eyes dropped to my belt. His hand subtly dropped to his semiautomatic pistol and released the thumb snap. I did not move.
"Ma'am," he said in his most official police voice, "you're going to have to come with me."
I was shocked.
"Are those your bags under the seat?"
"Yes." Adrenaline was roaring through me. The other passengers were absolutely still. The officer quickly stooped to pick up my purse and overnight bag, his eyes not leaving me. I got up and they led me out. All I could think was that someone had planted drugs in one of my bags. Denesa Steiner had, and I crazily looked around the tarmac and at the plate glass windows of the terminal. I looked for someone looking at me, a woman who was back in the shadows watching the latest dilemma she had caused me.
A member of the ground crew in a red jumpsuit pointed at me.
"That's her!" he said excitedly.
"It's on her belt!"
I suddenly knew what this was about.
"It's just a phone." I slowly raised my elbows so they could see beneath my suit jacket. Often when I wore slacks, I carried my portable phone on my belt so I didn't have to keep digging it out of my bags.
One of the officers rolled his eyes. The ground crewman looked horrified.
"Oh, no," he said.
"It looked exactly like a nine- millimeter, and I've been around FBI agents before and she looks like one of them."
I just stared at him.
"Ma'am," one of the officers said, "do you have a firearm in either of these bags?"
I shook my head.
"No, I do not."
"We're really sorry, but he thought you were wearing a gun on your belt, and when the pilots checked the passenger list, they didn't see anyone on it who was authorized to carry a gun on the plane."
"Did someone tell you I was wearing a gun?" I demanded of the man in the jumpsuit.
"If so, who?" I glanced around some more.
"No. No one told me. I thought I saw it when you walked past," he lamely went on.
"It's that black case it's in. I'm sure sorry."
"It's all right," I said, my graciousness strained.
"You were just doing your job." An officer said, "You can go back on the plane." By the time I returned to my seat, I was trembling so violently my knees were almost knocking, and I felt eyes on me. I did not look at anyone as I tried to read the paper. The pilot was considerate enough to announce what had happened.
"She was armed with a nine-millimeter portable phone," he continued to explain the delay as everybody laughed. This was one upset I could not blame on her, but I realized with stunning clarity that assuming she had caused it was automatic. Denesa Steiner was controlling my life. People I loved had become her pawns. She had come to dominate what I thought and did, and was always at my heels, and the revelation sickened me. It made me feel half crazy. A soft hand touched my arm and I jumped.
"We really feel bad about this," a flight attendant said quietly. She was pretty, with per med blond hair.
"At least let us buy you a drink."
"No, thank you," I said.
"Would you like a snack? I'm afraid all we've got are peanuts."
I shook my head.
"Don't feel bad. I would hope you would check out anything that might jeopardize the safety of your passengers." I talked on, saying exactly the right words as my mind soared in flight patterns that had nothing to do with where we were.
"It's nice of you to be such a good sport."
We landed in Asheville as the sun went down, and my briefcase quickly came off the one carousel in the small baggage department. I went back into a ladies' room and transferred my handgun to my purse, then I went out on the curb and got a cab. The driver was an old fellow in a knit cap that he had pulled below his ears. His nylon jacket was dingy and frayed around the cuffs, and his big hands looked raw on the wheel as he drove at a prudent speed and made sure I understood it was quite a distance to Black Mountain. He was worried on my behalf about the fare because it could be close to twenty dollars. I closed my eyes as they began to water, and I blamed it on the heat blasting to drive out the cold.
The roar inside the ancient red-and-white Dodge reminded me of the plane as we headed east toward a town that had been shattered without being aware of it. Its citizens could not even begin to understand what really had happened to a little girl walking home with her guitar. They could not comprehend what was happening to those of us who had been called in to help.
We were being destroyed one by one because the enemy had an uncanny ability to sense where we were weak and where we could be hurt. Marino was prisoner and weapons carrier for this woman. My niece, who was like my daughter, was head injured in a treatment center, and it was a miracle she had not died. A simple man who swept floors and sipped moonshine in the mountains was about to be lynched for a hideous crime he had not committed, and Mote would retire on disability, while Ferguson was dead.
The cause and effect of evil spread out like a tree that blocked all light inside my head. It was impossible to know where the wickedness had started and where it would end, and I was afraid to analyze too closely if one of its twisted limbs had caught me up. I did not want to think my feet might no longer be in contact with the ground.
"Ma'am, is there anything else I can do for you?" I was vaguely aware that the driver was speaking to me.
I opened my eyes. We were parked in front of the Travel-Eze, and I wondered how long we had been there.
"I hated to wake you. But it'd be a lot more comfortable to get in your bed instead of sitting out here. Maybe cheaper, too." The same yellow-haired clerk welcomed me back as he checked me in. He asked me which side of the motel I'd like to be on. As I recalled, one side viewed the school where Emily had gone and the other offered a panorama of the interstate. It didn't matter because the mountains were all around, blazing in the day and black against the starry night sky.
"Just put me in nonsmoking, please. Is Pete Marino still here?" I asked.
"He sure is, though he don't come in much. Would you rather be next to him?"
"No, I'd rather not. He's a smoker and I'd like to be as far away from that as I can." This was not my reason, of course.
"Then I'll just put you on a different wing."
"That would be fine. And when Benton Wesley gets in, will you have him ring my room immediately?" Then I asked him to call a car rental company and have something with an air bag delivered to me early in the morning.
I went to my room and locked and chained the door and propped a chair beneath the knob. I kept my revolver on top of the toilet while I took a long, hot bath with several drops of Hermes perfuming the water. The fragrance stroked me like warm, loving hands, moving up my throat and face and lightly through my hair. For the first time in a while I felt soothed, and at intervals I ran more hot water and the perfume's sweet oily splashes swirled like clouds. I had pulled the shower curtain shut, and in this fragrant sauna I dreamed.
The times I had relived loving Benton Wesley could not be counted. I did not want to admit how often the images leaned against my thoughts until I could no longer resist giving myself up to their embrace. They were more powerful than anything I had ever known, and I had stored every detail of our first encounter here, though it had not happened exactly here. I had memorized the number of that room and would know it forever.
In truth, my lovers had been few, but they had all been formidable men who were not without sensitivity and a certain acceptance that I was a woman who was not a woman. I was the body and sensibilities of a woman with the power and drive of a man, and to take away from me was to take away from themselves. So they gave the best they had, even my ex-husband. Tony, who was the least evolved in the lot, and sexuality was a shared erotic competition. Like two creatures of equal strength who had found each other in the jungle, we tumbled and took as much as we gave.
But Benton was so different I still could not q
uite believe it. Our male and female pieces had interlocked in a manner unparalleled and unfamiliar, for it was as if he was the other side of me. Or maybe we were the same.
I did not quite know what I had expected, and certainly I had imagined us together long before we were. He would be soft beneath his hard reserve, like a warrior sleepy and warm in a hammock tethered between mighty trees. But when we had begun to touch on the porch in the early morning, his hands had surprised me.
As his fingers undid clothing and found me, they moved as if they knew a woman's body as well as a woman did, and I felt more than his passion. I felt his empathy, as if he wanted to heal those places he had seen so hated and harmed. He seemed sorrowed by everyone who had ever raped or battered or been unkind-as if their collective sins had cost him the right to enjoy a woman's body as he was enjoying mine.
I had told him in bed that I had never known a man to truly enjoy a woman's body, that I did not like to be devoured or overpowered, which was why sex for me was rare.
"I can see why anyone would want to devour your body," he matter-of-factly had said in the dark.
"I can see why anyone would want to devour yours," I said with candor, too.
"But people overpowering people is why you and I have the work we do."
"Then we won't use devour and overpower anymore. No more words like that. We'll come up with a new language." The words of our new language came easily, and we had gotten fluent fast.
I felt much improved after my bath and rummaged through my carry-on bag for something new and different to wear. But that was an impossibility, and I put on the deep blue jacket, pants, and turtleneck sweater I had been wearing for days. The bottle of Scotch was low, and I sipped slowly as I watched the national news. Several times I thought of calling Marino's room, only to put the receiver down before I dialed.
My thoughts traveled north to Newport, and I wanted to talk to Lucy. I resisted that impulse, too. If I could get through, it would not be good for her. She needed to concentrate on her treatment and not on what she had left at home. I called my mother instead.
"Dorothy's staying the night up there in the Marriott and flying back to Miami in the morning," she told me.
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