Five Scarpetta Novels (8 page)

“Tonight, yes,” he said. “Because I'm more worried about her seeing it, if you want to know.” He looked at Lucy.

“Pete,” my niece spoke very reasonably, “you don't need to protect me anymore, even though I appreciate it.”

He was silent.

“What sort of bible?” I asked him.

“Not any sort you've ever carried to Mass.”

“Satanic?”

“No, I can't say it's like that. At least not like the ones I've seen, because it's not about worshiping Satan and doesn't have any of the sort of symbolism that you associate with that. But it sure as hell isn't something you'd want to read before going to bed.” He glanced at Lucy again.

“Where is it?” I wanted to know.

He peeled foil off the top of the bottle and unwound wire. The cork popped loudly, and he poured champagne the way he poured beer, tilting the glasses sharply to prevent a head.

“Lucy, how about bringing my briefcase here. It's in the kitchen,” he said, and he looked at me as she left the room and lowered his voice. “I wouldn't have brought it with me if I thought I was going to be seeing her.”

“She's a grown woman. She's an FBI agent, for God's sake,” I said.

“Yeah, and she gets whacked out sometimes, and you know that, too. She don't need to be looking at spooky stuff like this. I'm telling you, I read it because I had to, and I felt really creepy. I felt like I needed to go to Mass, and when have you ever heard me say that?” His face was intense.

I had never heard him say that, and I was uneasy. Lucy had been through hard times that had seriously frightened me. She had been self-destructive and unstable before.

“It is not my right to protect her,” I said as she returned to the living room.

“I hope you're not talking about me,” she said as she handed Marino his briefcase.

“Yeah, we were talking about you,” he said, “because I don't think you should be looking at this.”

Clasps sprang open.

“It's your case.” Her eyes were calm as they turned to me. “I am interested in it and would like to help in even the smallest way, if I can. But I'll leave the room, if you want me to.”

Oddly, the decision was one of the hardest ones I'd had to make, because my allowing her to look at evidence I wanted to protect her from was my concession to her professional accomplishment. As wind shook windows and rushed around the roof, sounding like spirits in distress, I moved over on the couch.

“You can sit next to me, Lucy,” I said. “We'll look at it together.”

The New Zionist bible was actually titled the
Book of Hand,
for its author had been inspired by God and had modestly named the manuscript after himself. Written in Renaissance script on India paper, it was bound in tooled
black leather that was scuffed and stained and lettered with the name of someone I did not know. For more than an hour, Lucy leaned against me and we read while Marino prowled about, carrying in more wood and smoking, his restlessness as palpable as the fire's wavering light.

Like the Christian Bible, much of what the manuscript had to say was conveyed in parables, and prophesies and proverbs, thus making the text illustrative and human. This was one of many reasons why reading it was so hard. Pages were populated with people and images that penetrated to deeper layers of the brain. The Book, as we came to call it during the beginning of this new year, showed in exquisite detail how to kill and maim, frighten, brainwash and torture. The explicit section on the necessity of pogroms, including illustrations, made me quake.

I found the violence reminiscent of the Inquisition, and it was, in fact, explained that the New Zionists were here on earth to effect a new Inquisition, of sorts.

“We are in an age when the wrongful ones must be purged from our midst,” Hand had written, “and in doing so we must be loud and obvious like cymbals. We must feel their weak blood cool on our bare skin as we wallow in their annihilation. We must follow the One into glory, and even unto death.”

I read other ruinations and runes, and perused strange preoccupations with fusion and fuels that could be used to change the balance of the land. By the Book's end, a terrible darkness seemed to have enveloped me and the entire cottage. I felt sullied and sickened by the reminder that there were people in our midst who might think like this.

It was Lucy who finally spoke, for our silence had been unbroken for more than an hour. “It speaks of the One and their loyalty to him,” she said. “Is this a person or a deity of some sort?”

“It's Hand, who probably thinks he's Jesus friggin' Christ,” Marino said, pouring more champagne. “Remember that time we saw him in court?” He glanced up at me.

“That I'm not likely to forget any time soon,” I said.

“He came in with this entourage, including a Washington attorney who has this big gold pocket watch and a silver-topped cane,” he said to Lucy. “Hand is wearing some fancy designer suit, and he's got long blond hair in a ponytail, and women are waiting outside the courthouse to get a peek at him like he's Michael Bolton or something, if you can believe that.”

“What was he in court for?” Lucy looked at me.

“He'd filed a petition for disclosure, which the attorney general had denied, so it went before a judge.”

“What did he want?” she asked.

“Basically, he was trying to force me to turn over copies of Senator Len Cooper's death records.”

“Why?”

“He was alleging that the late senator was poisoned by political enemies. In fact, Cooper died of an acute hemorrhage into a brain tumor. The judge granted Hand nothing.”

“I guess Joel Hand doesn't like you too much,” she said to me.

“I expect he doesn't.” I looked at the Book on the coffee table, and asked Marino, “This name on the cover. Do you know who Dwain Shapiro is?”

“I was about to get to that,” he said. “This is as much as we could pull up on the computer. He lived on the New Zionists' compound in Suffolk until last fall when he defected. About a month later he got killed in a carjacking in Maryland.”

We were quiet for a moment, and I felt the cottage's dark windows as if they were big, square eyes.

Then I asked, “Any suspects or witnesses?”

“None anybody knows of.”

“How did Eddings get hold of Shapiro's bible?” said Lucy.

“Obviously, that's the twenty-thousand-dollar question,” Marino replied. “Maybe Eddings talked to him at some point, or maybe to his relatives. This thing ain't a photocopy, and it also says right in the beginning of it that you're not supposed to let your Book ever leave your hands. And if you're ever caught with someone else's Book, you can kiss your ass good-bye.”

“That's pretty much what happened to Eddings,” Lucy said.

I did not want the Book anywhere near us and wished I could throw it into the fire. “I don't like this,” I said. “I don't like it at all.”

Lucy looked curiously at me. “You're not getting superstitious on us, are you?”

“These people are consorting with evil,” I said. “And I respect that there is evil in the world and it is not to be taken lightly. Where exactly in Eddings' house did you find this God-awful book?” I asked Marino.

“Under his bed,” he said.

“Seriously.”

“I'm very serious.”

“And we're certain Eddings lived alone?” I asked.

“Appears that way.”

“What about family?”

“Father's deceased, a brother's in Maine and the mother lives in Richmond. Real close to where you live, as a matter of fact.”

“You've talked to her?” I asked.

“I stopped by and told her the bad news and asked if we could conduct a more thorough search of her son's
house, which we'll do tomorrow.” He glanced at his watch. “Or I guess I should say today.”

Lucy got up and moved to the hearth. She propped an elbow on a knee and cupped her chin in her hand. Behind her, coals glowed in a deep bed of ashes.

“How do you know this bible originally came from the New Zionists?” she said. “Seems to me all you know is it came from Shapiro, and how can we be sure where he got it?”

Marino said, “Shapiro was a New Zionist until just three months ago. I've heard that Hand isn't real understanding when people want to leave him. Let me ask you something. How many ex–New Zionists do you know?”

Lucy could not say. Certainly, I couldn't either.

“He's had followers for at least ten years. And we never hear anything about anyone leaving?” he went on. “How the hell do we know who he's got buried on his farm?”

“How come I've never heard of him?” she wanted to know.

Marino got up to top off our champagne.

He said, “Because they don't teach subjects like him at MIT and UVA.”

A
T DAWN
,
I
lay in bed and looked out at Mant's backyard. The snow was very deep and piled high on the wall, and beyond the dune the sun was polishing the sea. For a while I shut my eyes and thought of Benton Wesley. I wondered what he would say about where I was living now, and what we would say to each other when we met later this day. We had not spoken since the second week of December, when we had agreed that our relationship must end.

I turned to one side and pulled the covers up to my ears as I heard quiet footsteps. Next I felt Lucy perch on the edge of my bed.

“Good morning, favorite niece in the world,” I mumbled.

“I'm your only niece in the world.” She said what she always did. “And how did you know it was me?”

“It had better be you. Someone else might get hurt.”

“I brought you coffee,” she said.

“You're an angel.”

“‘Yo,' to quote Marino. That's what everybody says about me.”

“I was just trying to be nice.” I yawned.

She bent over to hug me, and I smelled the English soap I had placed in her bathroom. I felt her strength and firmness, and I felt old.

“You make me feel like hell.” I rolled on my back, placing my hands behind my head.

“Why do you say that?” She wore a pair of my loose cotton flannel pajamas and looked puzzled.

“Because I don't think I could even do the Yellow Brick Road anymore,” I said, referring to the Academy's obstacle course.

“I've never heard anyone call it easy.”

“It is for you.”

She hesitated. “Well, it is now. But it's not like you have to hang out with HRT.”

“For that I am thankful.”

She paused, then added with a sigh, “You know, at first I was pissed when the Academy decided to send me back to UVA for a month. But it may end up being a relief. I can work in the lab, ride my bike and jog around the campus like a normal person.”

Lucy was not a normal person, nor would she ever be. I had decided that in many sad ways, individuals with IQs as high as hers are as different from others as are the mentally impaired. She was gazing out the window and the snow was becoming bright. Her hair was rosegold in shy morning light, and I was amazed I could be related to anyone so beautiful.

“It may be a relief not being around Quantico right now, too.” She paused, her face very serious when she turned back to me. “Aunt Kay, there's something I need to tell you. I'm not sure you're really going to want to hear this. Or maybe it would be easier if you didn't hear it. I would have told you yesterday if Marino hadn't been here.”

“I'm listening.” I was immediately tense.

She paused again. “Especially since you may be seeing Wesley today, I think you ought to know. There's a rumor in the Bureau that he and Connie have split.”

I did not know what to say.

“Obviously, I can't verify that this is true,” she went on. “But I've heard some of what's being said. And some of it concerns you.”

“Why would any of it concern me?” I said too quickly.

“Come on.” She met my eyes. “There have been suspicions ever since you started working so many cases with him. Some of the agents think that's the only reason you agreed to be a consultant. So you could be with him, travel with him, you know.”

“That's patently untrue,” I angrily said as I sat up. “I agreed to be the consulting forensic pathologist because the director asked Benton, who asked me, not the other way around. I assist in cases as a service to the FBI and . . .”

“Aunt Kay,” she interrupted me. “You don't have to defend yourself.”

But I would not be soothed. “That is an absolutely outrageous thing for anyone to say. I have never allowed a friendship with anyone to interfere with my professional integrity.”

Lucy got quiet, then spoke again. “We're not talking about a mere friendship.”

“Benton and I are very good friends.”

“You are more than friends.”

“At this moment, no, we are not. And it is none of your business.”

She impatiently got up from my bed. “It's not right for you to get mad at me.”

She stared at me but I could not speak, for I was very close to tears.

“All I'm doing is reporting to you what I've heard so you don't end up hearing it from someone else,” she said.

Still, I said nothing, and she started to leave.

I reached for her hand. “I'm not angry with you. Please try to understand. It's inevitable I'm going to react when I hear something like this. I feel certain you would, too.”

She pulled away from me. “What makes you think I didn't react when I heard it?”

I watched in frustration as she stalked out of my room, and I thought she was the most difficult person I knew. All our lives together we had fought. She never relented until I had suffered as long as she thought I should, when she knew how much I cared. It was so unfair, I told myself as I planted my feet on the floor.

I ran my fingers through my hair as I contemplated getting up and coping with the day. My spirit felt heavy, shadowed by dreams that were now unclear but I sensed had been strange. It seemed there had been water and people who were cruel, and I had been ineffective and afraid. In the bathroom I showered, then got a robe off a hook on the back of the door and found my slippers. Marino and my niece were dressed and in the kitchen when I finally appeared.

“Good morning,” I announced as if Lucy and I had not seen each other this day.

“Yo. It's good all right.” Marino looked as if he had been awake all night and was feeling hateful.

I pulled out a chair and joined them at the small breakfast table. By now the sun was up, the snow on fire.

“What's wrong?” I asked as my nerves tightened more.

“You remember those footprints out by the wall last night?” His face was boiled red.

“Of course.”

“Well, now we've got more of them.” He set down his
coffee mug. “Only this time they're out by our cars and were left by regular boots with a Vibram tread. And guess what, Doc?” he asked as I already feared what he was about to say. “The three of us ain't going anywhere today until a tow truck gets here first.”

I remained silent.

“Someone punctured our tires.” Lucy's face was stone. “Every goddamn one of them. With some kind of wide blade, it looks to me. Maybe a big knife or machete.”

“The moral of the story is that it sure as hell wasn't some misguided neighbor or night diver on your property,” he went on. “I think we're talking about someone who had a mission. And when he got scared off, he came back or somebody else did.”

I got up for coffee. “How long will it take to get our cars fixed?”

“Today?” he said. “I don't think it's possible for you or Lucy to get your rides fixed today.”

“It's got to be possible,” I matter-of-factly stated. “We have to get out of here, Marino. We need to see Eddings' house. And right now it doesn't seem all too safe in this one.”

“I'd say that's a fair assessment,” Lucy said.

I moved close to the window over the sink and could plainly see our vehicles with tires that looked like black rubber puddles in the snow.

“They're punctured on the sides versus the tread, and can't be plugged,” Marino said.

“Then what are we going to do?” I asked.

“Richmond's got reciprocal agreements with other police departments, and I've already talked to Virginia Beach. They're on their way.”

His car needed police tires and rims, while Lucy's and mine needed Goodyears and Michelins because, unlike
Marino, we were here in our personal vehicles. I pointed all this out to him.

“We got a flatbed truck on the way for you,” he said as I sat back down. “Sometime during the next few hours they'll load up your Benz and Lucy's piece of shit and haul them into Bell Tire Service on Virginia Beach Boulevard.”

“It's not a piece of shit,” Lucy said.

“Why the hell did you buy anything the color of parrot shit? That your Miami roots coming out, or what?”

“No, it's my budget coming out. I got it for nine hundred dollars.”

“What about in the meantime?” I asked. “You know they won't take care of this speedily. It's New Year's Day.”

“You got that right,” he said. “And it's pretty simple, Doc. If you're going to Richmond, you're riding with me.”

“Fine.” I wasn't going to argue. “Then let's get as much done now as we can so we can leave.”

“Starting with your getting packed,” he said to me. “In my opinion, you should boogie right on out of here for good.”

“I have no choice but to stay here until Dr. Mant returns from London.”

Yet I packed as if I might not be coming back to his cottage during this life. Then we conducted the best forensic investigation we could on our own, for slashing tires was a misdemeanor, and we knew the local police would not be especially enthused about our case. Ill-equipped to make tread-pattern casts, we simply took photographs to scale of the footprints around our cars, although I suspected the most we would ever be able to tell from them was that the suspect was large and wore a generic-type boot or shoe with a Vibram seal on the arch of the rugged tread.

When a youthful policeman named Sanders and a red
tow truck arrived late morning, I took two ruined radials and locked them inside the trunk of Marino's car. For a while I watched men in jumpsuits and insulated jackets twirl handjacks with amazing speed as a winch held the Ford's front end rampant in the air, as if Marino's car were about to fly. Virginia Beach officer Sanders asked if my being the chief medical examiner might possibly be related to what had been done to our vehicles. I told him I did not think so.

“It's my deputy chief who lives at this address,” I went on to explain. “Dr. Philip Mant. He's in London for a month or so. I'm simply covering for him.”

“And no one knows you're staying here?” asked Sanders, who was no fool.

“Certainly, some people know. I've been taking his calls.”

“So you don't see that this might be related to who you are and what you do, ma'am.” He was taking notes.

“At this time I have no evidence that there is a relationship,” I replied. “In fact, we really can't say that the culprit wasn't some kid blowing off steam on New Year's Eve.”

Sanders kept looking at Lucy, who was talking to Marino by our cars. “Who is that?” he asked.

“My niece. She's with the FBI,” I answered, and I spelled her name.

While he went to speak to her, I made one last trip inside the cottage, entering through the plain front door. The air was warmed by sunlight that blazed through glass, bleaching furniture of color, and I could still smell garlic from last night's meal. In my bedroom I looked around once more, opening drawers and riffling through clothes hanging in the closet while I was saddened by my disenchantment. In the beginning, I had thought I would like it here.

Down the hall I checked where Lucy had slept, then
moved into the living room where we had sat until early morning reading the
Book of Hand.
The memory of that unsettled me like my dream, and my arms turned to gooseflesh. My blood was thrilled by fear, and suddenly I could not stay inside my colleague's simple home a moment longer. I dashed to the screened-in porch, and out the door into the backyard. In sunlight I felt reassured, and as I gazed out at the ocean, I got interested in the wall again.

Snow was to the top of my boots as I drew close to it, footprints from the night before gone. The intruder, whose flashlight Lucy had seen, had climbed over the wall and then quickly left. But he must have showed up later, or someone else must have, because the footprints around our cars clearly had been made after snow had quit falling, and they hadn't been made by dive boots or surf shoes. I looked over the wall and beyond the dune to the wide beach below. Snow was spun-sugar heaped in drifts with sea oats protruding like ragged feathers. The water was a ruffled dark blue and I saw no sign of anyone as my eyes followed the shore as far as they could.

I looked out for a long time, completely absorbed in speculations and worries. When I turned around to walk back, I was shocked to find Detective Roche standing so close he could have grabbed me.

“My God,” I gasped. “Don't ever sneak up on me like that.”

“I walked in your tracks. That's why you didn't hear me.” He was chewing gum and had his hands in the pockets of a leather coat. “Being quiet's one thing I'm good at when I want to be.”

I stared at him, my dislike of him finding new depths. He wore dark trousers and boots, and I could not see his eyes behind their aviator's glasses. But it did not matter. I
knew what Detective Roche was about. I knew his type well.