Predator (48 page)

    
In his bag are a few things, not much. All he needs is a change of clothing, a few toiletries, different boots that fit better. He won’t need his old boots much longer. They are a biological hazard, and the thought amuses him. Now that he thinks about it as the boots walk toward the gate, maybe he should save the boots in perpetuity. They have quite a history, have walked in places as if he owned them, taken people away as if he owned them, have returned to places and climbed up on things to spy, walked right in, brazenly, the boots carrying him from room to room from place to place, doing what God says. Punishing. Confusing people. The shotgun. The glove. To show them.

    
God has an IQ of a hundred and fifty.

    
His boots carried him right into the house, and he had the hood on before they even knew what was happening. Stupid religious freaks. Stupid little orphans. Stupid little orphan walking into the pharmacy, Mom Number One holding his hand so he could get his prescription filled. Lunatic. Hog hates lunatics, fucking religious freaks, hates little boys, little girls, hates Old Spice. Marino wears Old Spice, the big, dumb cop. Hog hates Dr. Self, should have put her on the mattress, had fun with the ropes, gotten her good after what she did.

    
Hog ran out of time. God isn’t happy.

    
There wasn’t time to punish the worst offender of all.

    
You’ll have to go back, God said.This time with Basil.

    
Hog’s boots walk toward the gate, carry him to Basil. They’ll have their good times again, just like those times in the old days after Hog did the bad thing, was sent away, then sent back, then met Basil in a bar.

    
He was never afraid of Basil, not the least bit put off by him from the first moment they found themselves sitting next to each other, drinking tequila. They had several together, and there was something about him. Hog could tell.

    
He said, You’re different.

    
I’m a cop, Basil said.

    
This was in South Beach, where Hog often cruised and hung out, looking for sex, looking for drugs.

    
You’re not just a cop, Hog said to him. I can tell.

    
Oh, really?

    
I can tell. I know about people.

    
How about I take you somewhere, and Hog had a sense that Basil had figured him out, too. I’ve got something you can do for me, Basil said to Hog.

    
Why should I do anything for you?

    
Because you’ll like it.

    
Later that night, Hog was in Basil’s car, not his police car but a white Ford LTD that looked just like an unmarked police car but wasn’t. It was his personal car. They weren’t in Miami, and he couldn’t possibly drive a marked car with Dade County on it. Someone might remember seeing it. Hog was a little disappointed. He loves police cars, loves sirens and lights. All those lights lit up and flashing remind him of The Christmas Shop.

    
No way they’ll ever think twice if you talk to them, Basil said that first night they met, after they’d been riding around awhile, smoking crack.

    
Why me? Hog asked, and he wasn’t the least bit afraid.

    
Common sense would dictate that he should have been. Basil kills whomever he pleases, always has. He could have killed Hog. Easily.

    
God told Hog what to do. That’s what kept Hog safe.

    
Basil spotted the girl. It turned out later she was only eighteen. She was getting cash at an ATM, her car nearby, the engine running. Stupid. Never get cash after dark, especially if you are a young girl, a pretty one, all alone in shorts and a tight T-shirt. If you’re a young girl, a pretty one, bad things happen.

    
Give me your knife and your gun, Hog told Basil.

    
Hog tucked the gun in his waistband and cut his thumb with the knife. He smeared blood on his face and climbed over the seat, lying down in back. Basil rolled up to the ATM and got out of the car. He opened the back door, checking on Hog, looking appropriately distressed.

    
It will be all right, he said to Hog. To the girl he said, Please help us. My friend’s been hurt. Where’s the nearest hospital?

    
Oh my God. We should call nine-one-one,and she frantically dug her cell phone out of her bag and Basil shoved her hard into the backseat, and then Hog had the gun in her face.

    
They drove off.

    
Shit, Basil said. You’re good, he said, and he was high, laughing.Guess we’d better figure out where we’re going.

    
Please don’t hurt me, the girl was crying, and Hog felt something as he sat back there, holding the gun on her while she cried and begged. He felt like having sex.

    
Shut up, Basil told her. It won’t do any good. Guess we’d better find somewhere. Maybe the park. No, they patrol it.

    
I know somewhere, Hog said. Nobody will ever find us. It’s perfect. We can take our time, all the time in the world, and he was aroused. He wanted sex, wanted it something awful.

    
He directed Basil to the house, the house that is falling apart with no electricity or running water, and a mattress and dirty magazines in the back room. It was Hog who figured out how to tie them up so they couldn’t sit without their arms straight up.

    
Stick ’em up!

    
Like in cartoons.

    
Stick ’em up!

    
Like in campy Westerns.

    
Basil said Hog was brilliant, the most brilliant person he’d ever met, and after a few times of taking women there and keeping them until they smelled too bad, got too infected or just got too used up, Hog told Basil about The Christmas Shop.

    
Have you ever seen it?

    
No.

    
Can’t miss it. Right on the beach on A1A. The lady’s rich.

    
Hog explained that on Saturdays, it’s always just her and her daughter in there. Hardly anybody goes in there. Who buys Christmas stuff at the beach in July?

    
No shit.

    
He wasn’t supposed to do it in there.

    
Then before Hog knew what was happening, Basil had her in the back, raping, cutting, blood everywhere, while Hog watched and calculated how they were going to get away with it.

    
The lumberjack by the door was five feet tall, hand-carved. He carried a real ax, an antique one, a curved wooden handle and shiny steel blade, half of it painted blood red. It was Hog who thought of it.

    
About an hour later, Hog carried out the trash bags, made sure no one was around. He put them in the trunk of Basil’s car. No one saw them.

    
We were lucky, Hog told Basil when they were back at their secret place, the old house, digging a pit. Don’t do that again.

    
A month later, he did something again, tried to get two women at once. Hog wasn’t with him. Basil forced them into the car, then the damn thing broke down. Basil never told anybody about Hog. He protected Hog. Now it’s Hog’s turn.

    
They’re doing a study up there, Hog wrote to him.The prison knows about it and has been asked for volunteers. It would be good for you. You could do something constructive.

    
It was a pleasant, innocuous letter. No prison official thought twice about it. Basil got word to the warden that he wanted to volunteer for a study they were doing in Massachusetts, that he wanted to do something to pay for his sins, that if the doctors could learn something about what’s wrong with people like him, maybe it would make a difference. Whether or not the warden fell for Basil’s manipulations is a matter of speculation. But this past December, Basil was transferred to Butler State Hospital.

    
All because of Hog. God’s Hand.

    
Since then, their communications have had to be more ingenious. God showed Hog how to tell Basil anything he wants. God has an IQ of a hundred and fifty.

    
Hog finds a seat at gate twenty-one. He sits as far away from everybody as he can, waiting for the nine a.m. flight. It’s on time. He’ll land at noon. He unzips his bag and pulls out a letter Basil wrote to him more than a month ago.

    
I got the fishing magazines. Many thanks. I always learn a lot from the articles. Basil Jenrette.

    
P.S. They are going to put me in that damn tube again—Thursday, February 17. But they promise it will be quick. “In at 5 and out at 5:15 p.m.” Promises, promises.

    
Chapter 52

    
The snow has stopped and chicken broth simmers. Scarpetta measures two cups of Italian Arborio rice and opens a bottle of dry white wine.

    
“Can you come down?” She steps closer to the doorway, calling up to Benton.

    
“Can you come up here, please?” his voice returns from the office at the top of the back stairs.

    
She melts butter in a copper saucepan and begins to brown the chicken. She pours the rice into the chicken broth. Her cell phone rings. It’s Benton.

    
“This is ridiculous,” she says, looking at the stairs that lead up to his second-floor office. “Can’t you please come down? I’m cooking. Things are going to hell in Florida. I need to talk to you.”

    
She spoons a little broth on the browning chicken.

    
“And I really need you to take a look at this,” he answers.

    
How odd it is to hear his voice upstairs and over the phone at the same time.

    
“This is ridiculous,” she says again.

    
“Let me ask you something,” his voice says over the phone and from upstairs, as if there are two identical voices speaking. “Why would she have splinters between her shoulder blades? Why would anybody?”

    
“Wood splinters?”

    
“A scraped area of skin that has splinters embedded in it. On her back, between her shoulder blades. And I wonder if you can tell if it happened before or after death.”

    
“If she were dragged across a wooden floor or perhaps beaten with something wooden. There could be a number of reasons, I suppose.” She pushes the browning chicken around with a fork.

    
“If she were dragged and got splinters that way, wouldn’t she have them elsewhere on her body? Assuming she was nude when she was dragged across some old splintery floor.”

    
“Not necessarily.”

    
“I wish you’d come upstairs.”

    
“Any defense injuries?”

    
“Why don’t you come up?”

    
“As soon as lunch is under control. Sexual assault?”