Five Scarpetta Novels (69 page)

“Well, let me tell you something,” he said, cranking the engine. “I don't care what anybody says. He was a good man.”

I watched him drive away and could sense Lucy's eyes on me. She touched my arm.

“You're exhausted,” she said. “Why don't you spend the night and I'll fly you back in the morning. If we find anything else, we'll let you know right away. No point in your hanging around.”

I had very difficult work ahead and the sensible thing to do was to head back to Richmond now. But in truth, I did not feel like walking inside my empty home. Benton would be at Hilton Head by now, and Lucy was staying in Warrenton. It was too late to call upon any of my friends, and I was too spent for polite conversation. It was one of those times when I could think of nothing that might soothe me.

“Teun's moved us to a better place and I got an extra bed in my room, Aunt Kay,” Lucy added with a smile as she pulled a car key out of her pocket.

“So now I'm Aunt Kay again.”

“As long as nobody's around.”

“I've got to get something to eat,” I said.

W
E BOUGHT DRIVE
-
THRU
Whoppers and fries at a Burger King on Broadview, and it was dark out and very cool. Approaching headlights hurt my eyes, and no amount of Motrin would relieve the hot pain in my temples or the dread in my heart. Lucy had brought her own CDs and was playing one of them loudly as we glided through Warrenton in a rented black Ford LTD.

“What's this you're listening to?” I asked as a way of registering a complaint.

“Jim Brickman,” she sweetly said.

“Not hardly,” I said over flutes and drums. “Sounds Native American to me. And maybe we could turn it down a bit?”

Instead, she turned it up.

“David Arkenstone.
Spirit Wind.
Got to open your mind, Aunt Kay. This one right now is called ‘Destiny.'”

Lucy drove like the wind, and my mind began to float.

“You're getting kooky on me,” I said as I imagined wolves and campfires in the night.

“His music's all about connectivity and finding your way and positive force,” she went on as the music got
lively and added guitars. “Don't you think that fits?”

I couldn't help but laugh at her complicated explanation. Lucy had to know how everything worked and the reason why. The music, in truth, was soothing, and I felt a brightening and calm in frightening places in my mind.

“What do you think happened, Aunt Kay?” Lucy suddenly broke the spell. “I mean, in your heart of hearts.”

“Right now it's impossible to say,” I answered her the way I would anybody else. “And we shouldn't assume anything, including gender or who might have been staying in the house.”

“Teun is already thinking arson, and so am I,” she matter-of-factly stated. “What's weird is Pepper didn't alert on anything in any areas where we thought he might.”

“Like the master bathroom on the first floor,” I said.

“Nothing there. Poor Pepper worked like a dog and didn't get fed.”

The Labrador retriever had been food-reward trained since his youth to detect hydrocarbon petroleum distillates, such as kerosene, gasoline, lighter fluid, paint thinner, solvents, lamp oil. All were possible, if not common, choices for the arsonist who wanted to start a major fire with the drop of a match. When accelerants are poured at a scene, they pool and flow as their vapors burn. The liquid soaks into fabric or bedding or carpet. It seeps under furniture and between the cracks in flooring. It is not water-soluble or easy to wash away, so if Pepper had found nothing to excite his nose, chances were good that nothing was there.

“What we got to do is find out exactly what was in the house so we can begin to calculate the fuel load,” Lucy went on as the music turned to violins, and strings and
drums got sadder. “Then we can begin to get a better idea about what and how much would have been needed to get something like that going.”

“There was melted aluminum and glass, and tremendous burning of the body in the upper legs and lower arms, any areas that weren't spared by the glass door,” I said. “That suggests to me the victim was down, possibly in the bathtub, when the fire reached her.”

“It would be bizarre to think a fire like this started in a marble bathroom,” my niece said.

“What about electrical? Any possibility of that?” I asked, and our motel's red and yellow lighted sign floated above the highway, maybe a mile ahead.

“Look, the place had been electrically upgraded. When fire reached the wires and insulation was degraded by heat, the ground wires came in contact with each other. The circuit failed, the wires arced and the circuit breakers tripped,” she said. “That's exactly what I would expect to happen whether the fire was set or not. It's hard to say. There's a lot left to look at, and of course the labs will do their thing. But whatever got that fire going, got it going fast. You can tell from some of the flooring. There's a sharp demarcation between really deep charring and the unburned wood, and that means hot and fast.”

I remembered wood near the body looking just as she had described. It was alligatored, or blistered black on top, versus slowly burned all the way through.

“First floor again?” I asked as my private suspicions about this case grew darker.

“Probably. Plus, we know things happened fast anyway based on when the alarm went off and what the firefighters found seventeen minutes later.” She was quiet for a moment, then went on, “The bathroom, the possible
hemorrhage in tissue near her left eye. What? Maybe she was taking a bath or shower? She's overcome by carbon monoxide and falls and hits her head?”

“It appears she was fully dressed when she died,” I reminded her. “Including boots. If the smoke alarm goes off while you're in the bath or shower, I doubt you'd take time to put on all that.”

Lucy turned the volume up even louder and adjusted the bass. Bells jingled with drums and I oddly thought of incense and myrrh. I wanted to lie in the sun with Benton and sleep. I wanted the ocean to roll over my feet as I walked in the morning exploring the beach, and I remembered Kenneth Sparkes as I had seen him last. I envisioned what was left of him turning up next.

“This is called ‘The Wolf Hunt,'” Lucy said as she turned into a white brick Shell Food Mart. “And maybe that's what we're on, huh? After the big bad wolf.”

“No,” I said as she parked. “I think we're looking for a dragon.”

She threw a Nike windbreaker over her gun and BDUs.

“You didn't see me do this,” she said as she opened her door. “Teun would kick my ass to the moon.”

“You've been around Marino too long,” I said, for he rarely minded rules and was known to carry beer home in the trunk of his unmarked police car.

Lucy went inside, and I doubted that she fooled anyone in her filthy boots and faded blue pants with so many pockets, and the tenacious smell of fire. A keyboard and cowbell began a different rhythm on the CD as I waited in the car and longed for sleep. Lucy returned with a six-pack of Heineken, and we drove on as I drifted with flute and percussion until sudden images shocked me straight up in my seat. I envisioned bared chalky teeth and dead
eyes the grayish-blue of boiled eggs. Hair strayed and floated like dirty cornsilk in black water, and crazed, melted glass was an intricate sparkling web around what was left of the body.

“Are you all right?” Lucy sounded worried as she looked over at me.

“I think I fell asleep,” I said. “I'm fine.”

Johnson's Motel was just ahead of us on the other side of the highway. It was stone with a red and white tin awning, and a red and yellow lit-up sign out front promised it was open twenty-four hours a day and had air conditioning. The NO part of the vacancy sign was dark, which boded well for those in need of a place to stay. We got out, and a welcome mat announced HELLO outside the lobby. Lucy rang a bell. A big black cat came to the door, and then a big woman seemed to materialize from nowhere to let us in.

“We should have a reservation for a room for two,” Lucy said.

“Check-out's eleven in the morning,” the woman stated as she went around to her side of the counter. “I can give you fifteen down there at the end.”

“We're ATF,” Lucy said.

“Honey, I already figured out that one. The other lady was just in here. You're all paid up.”

A sign posted above the door said no checks but encouraged MasterCard and Visa, and I thought of McGovern and her resourceful ways.

“You need two keys?” the clerk asked us as she opened a drawer.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Here's you go, honey, and there's two nice beds in
there. If I'm not around when you check out, just leave the keys on the counter.”

“Glad you got security,” Lucy drolly said.

“Sure do. Double locks on every door.”

“How late does room service stay open?” Lucy played with her again.

“Until that Coke machine out front quits,” the woman said with a wink.

She was at least sixty with dyed red hair and jowls, and a squat body that pushed against every inch of her brown polyester slacks and yellow sweater. It was obvious that she was fond of black and white cows. There were carvings and ceramic ones on shelves and tables and fastened to the wall. A small fish tank was populated with an odd assortment of tadpoles and minnows, and I couldn't help asking her about them.

“Home grown?” I said.

She gave me a sheepish smile. “I catch 'em in the pond out back. One of them turned into a frog not long ago and it drowned. I didn't know frogs can't live under water.”

“I'm gonna use the pay phone,” Lucy said, opening the screen door. “And by the way, what happened to Marino?”

“I think some of them went out to eat somewhere,” I said.

She left with our Burger King bag, and I suspected she was calling Janet and that our Whoppers would be cold by the time we got to them. As I leaned against the counter, I noticed the clerk's messy desk on the other side, and the local paper with its front page headline: MEDIA MOGUL'S FARM DESTROYED BY FIRE. I recognized a subpoena among her clutter and posted notices of
reward money for information about murders, accompanied by composite sketches of rapists, thieves, and killers. All the same, Fauquier was the typical quiet county where people got lulled into feeling safe.

“I hope you aren't working here all by yourself at night,” I said to the clerk, because it was my irrepressible habit to give security tips whether or not anyone wanted them.

“I've got Pickle,” she affectionately referred to her fat black cat.

“That's an interesting name.”

“You leave an open pickle jar around, and she'll get into it. Dips her paw right in, ever since she was a kitten.”

Pickle was sitting in a doorway leading into a room that I suspected was the clerk's private quarters. The cat's eyes were gold coins fixed on me as her fluffy tail twitched. She looked bored when the bell rang and her owner unlocked the door for a man in a tank top who was holding a burned-out lightbulb.

“Looks like it done it again, Helen.” He handed her the evidence.

She went into a cabinet and brought out a box of lightbulbs as I gave Lucy plenty of time to get off the pay phone so I could use it. I glanced at my watch, certain Benton should have made it to Hilton Head by now.

“Here you go, Big Jim.” She exchanged a new lightbulb for bad. “That's sixty watts?” She squinted at it. “Uh huh. You here a little longer?” She sounded as if she hoped he would be.

“Hell if I know.”

“Oh dear,” said Helen. “So things still aren't too good.”

“When have they ever been?” He shook his head as he went out into the night.

“Fighting with his wife again,” Helen the clerk commented to me as she shook her head, too. “Course, he's been here before, which is partly why they fight so much. Never knew there'd be so many people cheating on each other. Half the business here is from folks just three miles down the road.”

“And they can't fool you,” I said.

“Oh no-sir-ree-bob. But it's none of my business as long as they don't wreck the room.”

“You're not too far from the farm that burned,” I then said.

She got more animated. “I was working that night. You could see the flames shooting up like a volcano going off.” She gestured broadly with her arms. “Everyone staying here was out front watching and listening to the sirens. All those poor horses. I can't get over it.”

“Are you acquainted with Kenneth Sparkes?” I wondered out loud.

“Can't say I've ever seen him in person.”

“What about a woman who might have been staying in his house?” I asked. “You ever heard anything about that?”

“Only what people say.” Helen was looking at the door as if someone might appear any second.

“For example,” I prodded.

“Well, I guess Mr. Sparkes is quite the gentleman, you know,” Helen said. “Not that his ways are popular around here, but he's quite a figure. Likes them young and pretty.”

She thought for a moment and gave me her eyes as moths flickered outside the window.

“There are those who got upset when they'd see him around with the newest one,” she said. “You know, no matter what anybody says, this is still the Old South.”

“Anybody in particular who got upset?” I asked.

“Well, the Jackson boys. They're always in one sort of trouble or another,” she said, and she was still watching the door. “They just don't like colored people. So for him to be sporting something pretty, young, and white, he tended to do that a lot . . . Well, there's been talk. I'll just put it like that.”

I was imagining Ku Klux Klansmen with burning crosses, and white supremacists with cold eyes and guns. I had seen hate before. I had dipped my hands in its carnage for most of my life. My chest was tight as I bid Helen the clerk good night. I was trying not to leap to assumptions about prejudice and arson and an intended victim, which may have been only Sparkes and not a woman whose body was now on its way to Richmond. Of course, it may simply have been Sparkes's vast property that the perpetrators had been interested in, and they did not know anyone was home.