Five Scarpetta Novels (174 page)

“O
NE-THIRTY
over eighty,” Dr. Paulsson says, touching her again as Velcro rips and he removes the cuff. “Is it usually that high?”

“No, not at all,” Lucy says, acting shocked. “It is? I mean, you would know. But it's usually about one-ten over seventy. Almost too low, usually.”

“You nervous?”

“I never have liked going to doctors,” she says, and since she is sitting on the table and lower than he is, she leans back a little. She wants Benton to see Dr. Paulsson's face as he talks to her and tries to intimidate and manipulate her. “Maybe I'm a little nervous.”

He places his hands on her neck, high under her jaw. His skin is warm and dry as he palpates the soft areas under her ears, and her hair is over her ears. He couldn't possibly see the hidden receiver. He tells her to swallow, feeling her lymph nodes and taking his time as she sits upright and continues to will herself into a state of anxiety, knowing he can feel her pulse beating hard in her neck.

“Swallow,” he says again, feeling for her thyroid, checking to see if her trachea is midline, and it flits through her thoughts that she knows all about physical examinations. Whenever she had one as a child she asked her Aunt Kay questions and wasn't satisfied until she knew the reason for the examining doctor's every touch and remark.

He begins palpating her lymph nodes again, pressing in closer to her, and his breath is light on the top of her head.

“Getting nothing but the lab coat,” Benton's voice sounds clearly in her left ear.

Nothing I can do about it, she thinks.

“Have you been feeling tired lately, feeling not so great?” Dr. Paulsson asks in his matter-of-fact, intimidating way.

“No. Well, I mean, I've been working so hard, traveling so much. Maybe just a little tired,” she stumbles, pretending she is as frightened as she sounds while he presses up against her knees, and she feels him. He is hard against one knee then the other, and the camera can't capture what she feels, unfortunately.

“I need to go to the ladies' room,” she says. “I'm sorry. I'll be quick.”

He backs off and suddenly the room is there again. It is as if the cover has been removed from a hole in the earth and she is allowed to climb out. She slips down from the table and walks quickly to the doorway while he steps over to the computer and picks up her form, the one she filled in correctly. “There's a cup in a plastic bag on the sink,” he says as she leaves the room.

“Yes, sir.”

“Just leave it on top of the toilet when you're finished.”

But she doesn't use his toilet, merely flushes it and says “Sorry” for Benton's benefit. That's all she says as she removes the receiver from her ear and tucks it into a pocket. She doesn't leave her urine in a cup on top of the toilet, because she has no intention of leaving any part of her biological self. Although it is unlikely that her DNA is on a database, she never assumes that it isn't. Over the years, she has employed stringent measures to make sure her DNA and fingerprints aren't on any database in this country or abroad, but she is programmed to live with worst-case scenarios foremost in her mind, so she doesn't leave urine for this doctor, who soon enough will be quite motivated to go after P. W. Winston. Since entering his house, she has wiped off the surfaces she has touched, leaving no prints that might identify Lucy Farinelli, former FBI, former ATF.

She returns to the examination room, willing herself to anticipate the worst. Her pulse reacts accordingly.

“Your lymph nodes seem slightly enlarged,” Dr. Paulsson says, and she knows he is lying. “When is the last time…Well, you said you don't like going to the doctor, so you probably haven't had a thorough physical in quite a while. Not bloodwork, either, I am to assume?”

“They're enlarged?” Lucy says, reacting with the expected panic.

“You've been feeling okay of late? No extreme fatigue? No fever? Nothing like that?” He steps close to her again and sticks the otoscope in her left ear, his face very close to her cheek.

“I haven't felt sick,” she replies, and he moves the scope to her other ear and looks.

He sets down the otoscope and picks up the ophthalmoscope. He peers into her eyes, his face inches from hers, then he gets the stethoscope. Lucy lets herself be afraid even though she is more angry than afraid. In fact, she isn't afraid at all, she realizes as she sits on the edge of the examination table, and paper crinkles softly whenever her weight shifts even slightly.

“If you'll just unzip your flight suit and pull it down to your waist,” he says in the same matter-of-fact tone.

Lucy just looks at him. Then she says, “I think I need to use the ladies' room again. I'm sorry.”

“Go ahead,” he says rather impatiently. “But I'm running late.”

She hurries to the bathroom and is in and out in less than a minute, the toilet flushing in her wake, the receiver back in her ear.

“Sorry,” she says again. “I drank a big Diet Coke right before I got here. Mistake.”

“Pull down your flight suit,” he orders her.

She hesitates. Now the challenge comes, but she knows what to do. Unzipping her flight suit, she pulls it down to her waist, manipulating the position of the pen so it is angled just right, the wire connected to the cellular interface taped on the inside of the flight suit and not visible.

“Not quite so vertical,” Benton's voice is in her ear. “Angled down maybe ten degrees.”

She subtly adjusts the top of the flight suit that is around her waist, and Dr. Paulsson says, “Your sports bra, too.”

“I have to take it off?” she asks timidly, scared. “I never have before…”

“Miss Winston. I really am in a hurry. Please.” He tucks the stethoscope earpieces into his ears, his face stern as he moves close, waiting to listen to her heart and lungs, and she pulls her sports bra over her head and sits very still, frozen on top of the whitepaper-lined table.

He presses the stethoscope under one breast, then the other, touching her as she sits very still. She is breathing rapidly, her heart racing, registering her anger, not fear, but she knows he thinks she is afraid, and she wonders what images Benton is picking up. Subtly, she adjusts the flight suit around her waist, touching the pen camera as Dr. Paulsson touches her and pretends he has no interest in what he is seeing and feeling.

“Ten degrees down, to the right,” Benton instructs her.

Subtly, she adjusts the pen, and Dr. Paulsson leans her forward and moves over her back with the stethoscope. “Deep breaths,” he is saying, and he is quite skilled at doing his job while he manages to touch and brush against and even cup his hands around, as he presses against her, hard. “Do you have any scars or birthmarks? I'm not seeing any.” He runs his hands over her, looking.

“No sir,” she says.

“You must have something. From an appendectomy, maybe? Anything?”

“No.”

“That's enough,” Benton says in Lucy's ear, and she detects anger in his calm tone.

But it's not enough.

“I need you to get up now and stand on one foot,” Dr. Paulsson says.

“Can I dress?”

“Not yet.”

“That's enough,” Benton's voice sounds in her ear.

“Stand up,” Dr. Paulsson orders her.

Lucy sits on the table and pulls up her flight suit, working her arms into the sleeves and zipping it up, but not bothering with her bra because she doesn't have time. She stares at him, and suddenly she is no longer acting nervous or afraid and he sees the change in her and his eyes react. She gets off the table and steps close to him.

“Sit down,” she tells him.

“What are you doing?” His eyes widen.

“Sit down!”

He doesn't move, staring at her. As is typical of every bully she's ever met, he looks scared. She moves in to frighten him more, pulling the pen out of her breast pocket, lifting it up so he can see the attached wire. “Freq test,” she says to Benton, because he can check the concealed transmitters she planted in the waiting area and the kitchen downstairs.

“Clear,” he comes back.

Good, she thinks. He isn't picking up on any sounds downstairs. “You don't even want to know how much trouble you're in,” Lucy says to Dr. Paulsson. “You don't even want to know who's watching and listening to all of this in real time, live. Sit down. Sit down!” She returns the pen to her pocket, its hidden lens looking right at him.

He moves unsteadily, fumbles with a chair, rolls it out from the counter, and sits, looking at her, his face white. “Who are you? What are you doing?”

“I'm your destiny, motherfucker,” Lucy says to him, and she tries to will her rage back into its cage, but it is easier for her to will herself to seem scared than it is for her to will her rage into submission. “You do this sort of shit with your daughter? With Gilly? You molest her too, you son of a bitch?”

He stares at her, his eyes wild.

“You heard me. You heard me loud and clear, asshole. The FAA's going to hear soon enough, too.”

“Get out of my office.” He is thinking of grabbing her, she can see it in the tensed muscles of his body, in his eyes.

“Don't try it,” Lucy warns him. “Don't think of moving out of that chair until I tell you to. When was the last time you saw Gilly?”

“What is this about?”

“The rose,” Benton cues her.

“I'm the one asking questions,” Lucy tells Dr. Paulsson, and a part of her wants to tell Benton the same thing. “Your ex-wife is spreading stories around. Did you know that, Dr. Homeland Security Snitch?”

He wets his lips, his eyes wide and frantic.

“She's making a pretty good case for you being the reason Gilly's dead. Did you know that?”

“The rose,” Benton sounds in her ear.

“She says you came to see Gilly not long before she suddenly died. You brought her a rose. Oh, we know about it. Everything in that poor little girl's room has been gone through, trust me.”

“A rose was in her room?”

“Get him to describe it,” Benton says.

“You tell me,” Lucy says to Dr. Paulsson. “Where'd you get the rose?”

“I didn't. I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't waste my time.”

“You're not going to the FAA…”

Lucy laughs and shakes her head. “Oh, assholes like you are cut out with a cookie cutter. You really think you'll get away with your shit, you really think it. Talk to me about Gilly. Then we'll talk about the FAA.”

“Turn it off.” He indicates the camera pen.

“You tell me about Gilly, I'll turn it off.”

He nods.

She touches the pen and pretends she's turning it off. His eyes are scared and don't trust her.

“The rose,” she repeats.

“I swear to God, I don't know anything about a rose,” he replies. “I would never hurt Gilly. What is she saying? What is that bitch saying?”

“Yes, Suzanna.” Lucy stares at him. “She has a lot to say. The way she tells it, you're the reason Gilly's dead. Murdered.”

“No! Good God, no!”

“You play soldier with Gilly, too? You dress her up in camouflage and boots, asshole? You let perverts in your house to play your sick little games?”

“Oh God,” he groans, shutting his eyes. “That bitch. It was between us.”

“Us?”

“Suz and me. Couples do things.”

“And who else? You have other people over playing your games?”

“It was my private home.”

“What a pig you are,” Lucy says menacingly. “Doing shit like that in front of a little girl.”

“Are you FBI?” He opens his eyes, and they look dead with hate, like shark eyes. “You are, aren't you. I knew it would happen. I should have known. As if my life has to do with anything. I knew it. I've been set up.”

“I see. The FBI forced you to make me take my clothes off for a routine flight physical.”

“It has nothing to do with anything. It doesn't matter.”

“I beg to differ,” she replies sarcastically. “It matters all right. You're going to find out just how much it matters. I'm not the FBI. You aren't that lucky.”

“This is all about Gilly?” He is more relaxed in the chair, defeated and barely moving. “I loved my daughter. I haven't seen her since Thanksgiving and that's the God's truth.”

“The puppy,” Benton cues her, and Lucy considers ripping the receiver out of her ear.

“You think someone killed your daughter because you're a snitch for Homeland Security?” Lucy knows better, but she is going to get him. “Come on, Frank. Tell the truth! Don't make it worse for yourself!”

“Someone killed her,” he repeats. “I don't believe it.”

“Believe it.”

“That can't be.”

“Who came to your house to play the game? You know Edgar Allan Pogue? The guy living behind your house? Living where Mrs. Arnette used to live?”

“I knew her,” he says. “She was a patient of mine. Hypochondriac. Damn pain in the ass, really.”

“This is important,” Benton says, as if Lucy doesn't know. “He's confiding. Be his friend.”

“Your patient in Richmond?” Lucy asks Dr. Paulsson, and the last thing she wants is to be his friend, but she softens, acts interested. “When?”

“When? Oh God. Forever ago. Actually, I bought our Richmond house from her. She owned a number of houses in Richmond. At the turn of the century, her family owned the whole damn block, was one big estate, got divided up for members of her family, eventually for sale. I bought our house from her, for a bargain. Some bargain.”

“Sounds like you didn't like her much,” Lucy says, as if she and Dr. Paulsson get along fine, as if he wasn't molesting her a few minutes ago.

“She'd come by the house, my office, whenever she wanted. Pain in the ass. Always complaining.”