Marino looked at him, baffled. "I think your son's home," he said.
Susan's father began to weep uncontrollably as car doors slammed shut out front in the wintry darkness and laugher sounded from the porch.
Christmas dinner went into the trash, the evening spent pacing about the house and talking on the phone while Lucy stayed inside my study with the door shut. Arrangements had to be made. Susan's homicide had thrown the office into a state of crisis. Her case would have to be sealed, photographs kept away from those who had known her. The police would have to go through her office and her locker. They would want to interview members of my staff.
"I can't be down there," Fielding, my deputy chief, told me over the phone. "I realize that," I said, a lump forming in my throat. "I neither expect nor want anyone down there.”
„And you?„ "I have to be.”
"Christ. I can't believe this has happened. I just can't believe it.”
Dr. Wright, my deputy chief in Norfolk, kindly agreed to drive to Richmond early the next morning. Because it was Sunday, no one else was in the building except for Vander, who had come to assist with the Luma-Lite. Had I been emotionally capable of doing Susan's autopsy, I would have refused. The worst thing I could do for her was to jeopardize her case by having the defense question the objectivity and judgment of an expert witness who also happened to be her boss. So I sat at a desk in the morgue while Wright worked. From time to time he commented to me above the clatter of steel instruments and running water as I stared at the cinderblock wall. I did not touch any of her paperwork of label a single test tube. I did not turn around to look.
Once I asked him, "Did you smell anything on her or her clothes? A cologne of some sort?”
He stopped what he was doing and I heard him walk several steps. "Yes. Definitely around the collar of her coat and on the scarf.”
"Does it smell like men's cologne to you?”
"Hmm. I think so. Yes, I'd say the fragrance is masculine. Perhaps her husband wears cologne?”
Wright was near retirement age, a balding, potbellied man with a West Virginian accent. He was a very capable forensic pathologist and knew exactly what I was contemplating.
"Good question," I said. "I'll ask Marino to check it, but her husband was ill yesterday and went to bed after lunch. That doesn't mean he didn't have on cologne. It doesn't mean her brother or father didn't have on cologne that got on her collar when they hugged her.”
"This looks small-caiiber. No exit wounds.”
I dosed my eyes and listened. "The wound in her right temple is three-sixteenths of an inch with half an inch of smoke - an incomplete pattern. A little bit of stippling and some powder but most will be lost in her hair. There's some powder in the temporalis muscle. Nothing much in bone or dura. "
"Trajectory?” I asked.
"The bullet goes through the posterior aspect of the right frontal lobe, travels across anterior to basal ganglia and strikes the left temporal bone, and gets hung up in muscle under the skin. And we're talking about a plain lead bullet, uh, copper coated but not jacketed.”
"And it didn't fragment?” I asked.
"No. Then we've got this second wound here at the nape of the neck. Black, burned abraded margin with muzzle mark. A little laceration about one-sixteenth of an inch at the edges. Lots of powder in the occipital muscles.”
"Tight contact?”
"Yes. Looks to, me like he pressed the barrel hard against her neck. The bullet enters at the junction of the foramen magnum and C-one and takes out the cervicalmedullary junction. Travels right up into the pons.”
"What about the angle?” I asked.
"It's angled up quite a bit. I'd say that if she was sitting in the car at the time she received this wound, she was slumped forward or had her head bowed.”
"That's not the way she was found," I said. "She was leaning back in the seat.”
"Then I guess he positioned her that way;" Wright commented. "After he shot her. And I'd say that this shot that went through the pons was fired last. I would speculate she was already incapacitated, maybe slumped over when she was shot the second time.”
At intervals I could handle it, as if we were not referring to anyone I knew. Then a tremor would go through me, tears fighting to break free. Twice I had to walk outside and stand in the parking lot in the cold. When he got to the ten week-old fetus in her womb, a girl, I retreated to my office upstairs. According to Virginia law, the unborn child was not a person and therefore could not have been murdered because you cannot murder a non person.
"Two for the price of one," Marino said bitterly over the phone later in the day.
"I know," I said, digging a bottle of aspirin out of my pocketbook.
"In court the damn jurors won't be told she was pregnant. It won't be admissible, don't count he murdered a pregnant woman.”
"I know," I said again. 'Wright's about done. Nothing significant turned up during her external exam. No trace to speak of, nothing that jumped out. What's going on at your end?”
"Susan was definitely going through something, Marino said.
"Problems with her husband?”
"According to him, her problem was with you. He claims you were doing weird shit like calling her a lot at home, hassling her. And sometimes she'd come home from work acting half crazy, like. she was scared shitless about something.”
"Susan and I did not have a problem.”
I swallowed three aspirin with a mouthful of cold coffee.
"I'm just telling you what the guy's saying. Other thing is - and I think you'll find this interesting - looks like we got us another feather. Not that I'm saying it links Deighton and this one, Doc, or that I'm necessarily thinking that way. But damn. Maybe we're dealing with some squirrel who wears down-filled gloves, a jacket. I don't know. It's just not typical. Only other time I've ever found feathers was when this drone broke into a crib by smashing out a window and cut his down jacket on broken glass.”
My head hurt so much I felt sick to my stomach.
"What we found in Susan's car is real small - a little piece of white down," he went on. "It was clinging to the upholstery of the passenger's door. On the inside, near the floor, a couple inches below the armrest"
"Can you get that to me?” I asked.
"Yeah. What are you going to do?”
"Call Benton.”
"I've been trying, dammit. I think he and the wife went out of town.”
"I need to ask him if Minor Downey can help us.”
"You talking about a person or a fabric softener?”
"Minor Downey with hairs and fibers at the FBI labs. His specialty is feather analysis.”
"And his name's Downey, it really is?” Marino was incredulous.
"It really is," I said.
8
The telephone rang for a long time at the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit, located in the subterranean reaches of the Academy at Quantico. I could envision its bleak, confusing hallways and offices cluttered with the mementos of polished warriors like Benton Wesley, who had gone skiing, I was told.
"In fact, I'm the only one here at the moment," said the courteous agent who answered the phone.
"This is Dr. Kay Scarpetta and it's urgent that I reach him.
Benton Wesley returned my call almost immediately.
"Benton, where are you?”
I raised my voice above terrible static.
"In my car," he said. "Connie and I spent Christmas with her family in Charlottesville. We're just west of there on our way to Hot Springs. I heard about what happened to Susan Story. God, I'm sorry. I was going to call you tonight"
"You're breaking up. I almost can't hear you.”
"Hold on.”
I waited impatiently for a good minute. Then he was back.
"That's better. We were in a low area. Listen, what do you need from me?”
"I need the Bureau's help with analysis of some feathers."
"No problem. I'll call Downey.??
?
"I need to talk," I said with great reluctance, for I knew I was putting him on the spot. "I don't feel it can wait.”
"Hold on.”
This time the pause was not due to static. He was conferring with his wife.
"Do you ski?” His voice came back.
"It depends on who you ask.”
"Connie and I are on our way to the Homestead for a couple of days. We could talk there. Can you get away?”
"I'll move heaven and earth to, and I'll bring Lucy.”
"That's good. She and, Connie can pal around while you and I talk. I'll see about your room when we check in. Can you bring something for me to look at?”
"Yes.”
"Including whatever you've got on the Robyn Naismith case. Let's cover every base and every imagined one.”
"Thank you, Benton," I said gratefully. "And please thank Connie.”
I decided to leave the office immediately, and offered little explanation.
"It will be good for you," Rose said, jotting down the Homestead's number. She did not understand that my intention was not to unwind at a five-star resort. For an instant, her eyes were bright with tears as I told her to let Marino know where I was so he could contact me immediately if there were any new developments in Susan's case.
"Please don't release my whereabouts to anyone else," I added.
"Three reporters have called in the last twenty minutes," she said. "Including the Washington Post.”
"I'm not discussing Susan's case right now. Tell them the usual, that we're waiting on lab results. Just tell them I'm out of town and unavailable.”
I was haunted by images as I drove west toward the mountains. I pictured Susan in her baggy scrubs, and the faces of her mother and father as Marino told them their daughter was dead.
"Are you feeling okay?”
Lucy asked. She had been looking at me every other minute since we left my house.
"I'm just preoccupied," I replied, concentrating on the toad. "You're going to love skiing. I have a feeling you'll be good at it.”
She silently gazed out the windshield. The sky was a washed-out denim blue, mountains rising in the distance dusted with snow.
"I'm sorry about this," I added. "It seems that every time you visit, something happens and I can't give you my full attention.”
"I don't need your full attention.”
"Someday you'll understand.”
"Maybe I'm the same way about my work. In fact, maybe I learned from you. I'll probably be successful like you, too.”
My spirit felt as heavy as lead. I was grateful that I was wearing sunglasses. I did not want Lucy to see my eyes.
"I know you love me. That's what counts. I know my mother doesn't love me," my niece said.
"Dorothy loves you as much as she is able to love anyone.”
"You're absolutely right. As much as she is able to, which isn't much because I'm not a man. She only loves men.”
"No, Lucy. Your mother doesn't really love men. They are a symptom of her obsessive quest of finding somebody who will make her whole. She doesn't understand that she has to make herself whole.”
"The only thing 'whole' in the equation is she picks assholes every time.”
"I agree that her batting average hasn't been good.”
"I'm not going to live like that. I don't want to be anything like her.”
"You aren't," I said.
"I read in the brochure they have skeet shooting where we're going.”
"They have all sorts of things.”
"Did you bring one of the revolvers?”
"You don't shoot skeet with a revolver, Lucy.”
"You do if you're from Miami.”
"If you don't stop yawning, you're going to get me started.”
"Why didn't you bring a gun?” she persisted.
The Ruger was in my suitcase, but I did not intend to tell her that. "Why are you so worried about whether I brought a gun?”
I asked: "I want to be good at it. So good I can shoot the twelve off the dock every time I try," she said sleepily.
My heart ached as she rolled up her jacket and used it as a pillow. She lay next to me, the top of her head touching my thigh as she slept. She did not know how strongly tempted I was to send her back to Miami this minute. But I could tell she sensed my fear.
The Homestead was situated on fifteen thousand acres of forest arid streams in the Allegheny Mountains, the main section of the hotel dark red brick with white-pillared colonnades. The white cupola had a clock on each of its four sides that always agreed on the time and could be read for miles, and tennis courts and golf greens were solid white with snow.
"You're in luck," I said to Lucy as gracious men in gray uniforms stepped our way. "The ski conditions are going to be terrific.”
Benton Wesley had accomplished what he had promised, and we found a reservation waiting for us when we got to the front desk. He had booked a double room with glass doors opening onto a balcony overlooking the casino, and on top of a table were flowers from Connie and him. "Meet us on the slopes," the card read. "We scheduled a lesson for Lucy at three-thirty.”
"We've got to hurry," I said to Lucy as we flung open suitcases. "You've got your first ski lesson in exactly forty minutes. Try these.”
I tossed her a pair of red ski pants, which were followed by jacket, socks, mittens, and sweater flying through the air and landing on her bed. "Don't forget your butt pack. Anything else you need we'll have to get later.”
"I don't have any ski glasses," she said, pulling a bright blue turtleneck over her head. "I'll go snowblind.”
"You can use my goggles. The sun will be going down soon anyway.”
By the time we caught the shuttle to the slopes, rented equipment for Lucy, and connected her with the instructor at the rope tow, it was twenty-nine minutes past three. Skiers were brilliant, spots of color moving downhill, and it was only whet, they got dose that they turned into people. I leaned forward in my .boots, skis firmly wedged against the slope as I scanned lines and lifts, my hand shielding my eyes. The sun was nearing the top of trees, the snow dazzled by its touch, but shadows were spreading and the temperature was dropping quickly.
I spotted the man and woman simply because their parallel skiing was so graceful, poles lifted, like feathers and barely flicking snow as they soared and turned like birds. I recognized Benton Wesley's silver hair and raised my hand. Glancing back at Connie and yelling something I could not hear, he pushed off and schussed downhill like a knife, skis so close together I doubted you could fit a piece of paper between them.
When he stopped in a spray of snow and pushed back his goggles, it suddenly occurred to me that if I did not know him I would have been watching him anyway. Black ski pants hugged well-muscled legs I had never known were beneath the trousers of his conservative suits, and the jacket he wore reminded me of a Key West sunset. His face and eyes were brightened by the cold, making his sharp features more striking than formidable. Connie eased to a stop beside him.
"It's wonderful that you're here," Wesley said, and I could never see him or hear his voice without being reminded of Mark. They had been colleagues' and best friends. They could have passed for brothers.
"Where's Lucy?” Connie asked.
"Conquering the rope tow even as we speak.” I pointed.
"I hope you didn't mind my signing her up for a lesson.”
"Mind? I can't thank you enough for being so thoughtful. She's having the time of her life.”
"I think I'll stand right here and watch her for a while," Connie said. "Then I'll be ready for something hot to drink and I have a feeling Lucy will be, too. Ben, you look like you haven't had enough.”
Wesley said to me, "You up for a few quick runs?”
We exchanged remarks about nonessential matters as we moved through the line, and then were silent when the lift swung around and seated us. Wesley lowered the bar as the cable slowly pulled us toward the mountaintop. The air was
numbing and deliciously clean, and filled with the quiet sounds of skis swishing and dully slapping hard-packed snow. Snow from snow machines drifted like smoke through the woods between slopes.
"I talked to Downey," he said. "He'll see you at headquarters just as soon as you can get there.”
"That's good news," I said. "Benton, what have you been told?”