Five Scarpetta Novels (141 page)

I tried to revive the fire, but it was stubborn because the wood I'd carried in was damp. I stared at the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table but didn't have the energy to light one up. I sat on the couch and buried my face in my hands until the spasms of grief subsided. When a sharp rapping sounded on the door again, my nerves ached but I was just so tired.

“Police,” a male voice said from outside as he rapped again with something hard like a nightstick or blackjack.

“I didn't call the police,” I said through the door.

“Ma'am, we've gotten a call about a suspicious person on your property,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes,” I said as I turned off the alarm and opened the door to let him in.

My porch light was out, and it had never occurred to me he might be able to speak without a French accent, and I smelled that dirty, wet doglike smell as he pushed his way in and shut the door with a back-kick. I choked on the scream in my throat as he smiled his hideous smile and reached out a hairy hand to touch my cheek, as if his feelings for me were tender.

Half of his face was lower than the other and covered with a fine blond stubble, and uneven, crazed eyes burned with rage and lust and mockery from hell. He tore off his long black coat to net it over my head and I ran and this all happened in a matter of seconds.

Panic hurled me into the great room and he was on my heels making guttural sounds that didn't sound human. I was too terrified to think. I was reduced to the childish impulse of wanting to throw something at him and the first thing I saw was the jar of formalin that held part of the flesh of the brother he had murdered.

I snatched it off the coffee table and jumped on the couch and over the back of it and fumbled with the lid, and he had out his tool now, that hammer with the coiled handle, and as he raised it and grabbed for me I dashed a quart of formalin in his face.

He shrieked and grabbed his eyes and throat as the chemical burned and made it difficult for him to breathe. He squeezed shut his eyes, shrieking and grabbing at his doused shirt to rip it off, gasping and burning like fire as I ran. I grabbed my gun off the dining-room table and hit the panic alarm as I fled out the front door into the snow. On
the steps my feet went out from under me and my left arm shot down like a brace to stop my fall. When I tried to get up, I knew I'd broken my elbow, and I was shocked to see him staggering after me.

He clutched the railing as he blindly made his way down, still screaming, and I was sitting at the bottom of the steps, panicking, pushing myself back as if I were crewing. His upper body was dense with long pale hair that hung from his arms and swirled over his spine. He fell to his knees, scooping up handfuls of snow and rubbing it into his face and neck again and again as he fought for breath.

He was within reach of me and I imagined him springing up any moment like a monster that wasn't human. I raised my pistol but couldn't pull back the slide. I tried and tried, but my fractured elbow and torn tendons wouldn't let me bend my arm.

I couldn't get up. I kept slipping. He heard my noise and crawled closer as I scooted back and slipped and then tried to roll. He gasped and then lay facedown in the snow, the way children make angels, as he tried to lessen the pain of his severe chemical burns. He dug up snow like a dog, piling it over his head and holding handfuls against his neck. He reached out a matted arm to me. I couldn't understand his French, but I believed he was begging me to help him.

He was crying. Shirtless, he was shivering from the cold. His nails were filthy and ragged, and he wore the boots and pants of a laborer, perhaps someone who worked on a ship. He writhed and screamed, and I almost felt sorry for him. But I wouldn't get close to him.

Tissue was hemorrhaging into my fractured joint. My arm was swelling and throbbing, and I didn't hear the car drive up. Then Lucy was running through the snow, almost losing her balance several times as she racked back the slide in the forty-caliber Glock she loved so much, and she
fell to her knees close to him, assuming a combat position. She pointed the stainless steel barrel at his head.

“Lucy, don't!” I said, trying to pull myself up to my knees.

She was breathing hard, her finger on the trigger.

“You goddamn son of a bitch,” she said. “You fucking piece of shit,” she said as he continued to moan and wipe his eyes with snow.

“Lucy, no!” I yelled as she gripped the pistol more tightly in both hands, steadying it.

“I'm going to put you out of your misery, you fucking son of a bitch!”

I crawled toward her as feet and voices sounded and car doors shut.

“Lucy!” I said. “No!
For God's sake no!”

It was as if she didn't hear me or anyone. She was in some hateful, angry world of her own. She swallowed hard as he writhed and held his hands over his eyes.

“Stop moving!” she yelled at him.

“Lucy,” I moved closer and closer, “put the gun down.”

But he couldn't stop moving, and she was frozen in her position, and then she wavered just a bit.

“Lucy, you don't want to do this,” I said. “Please. Put the gun down.”

She wouldn't. She didn't answer me or look my way. I became aware of feet all around me, of people in dark battle dress, of rifles and pistols all held in safe positions.

“Lucy, put the gun down,” I heard Marino say.

She didn't move. The pistol was shaking in her hands. This wretched man called Loup-Garou struggled for air and moaned. He was inches from her feet and I was inches from her.

“Lucy, look at me,” I said. “Look at me!”

She glanced in my direction and a tear slid down her cheek.

“There's been enough killing,” I said. “Please. No more.
This is a
bad
shooting, Lucy. This isn't self-defense. Jo's in the car waiting for you. Don't do this. Don't do this, please. We love you.”

She swallowed hard. I carefully reached out my hand.

“Give me the gun,” I said. “Please. I love you. Give me the gun.”

She lowered it and tossed it into the snow, where the steel shone like silver. She stayed where she was, her head bent, and then Marino was with her, saying things I couldn't focus on as my elbow throbbed like drums. Someone lifted me with sure hands.

“Come on,” Talley gently said to me.

He pulled me close and I looked up at him. It seemed so out of place to see him in ATF fatigues. I wasn't sure he was there. It was a dream or a nightmare. None of this could happen. There was no such thing as a werewolf and Lucy wouldn't shoot anyone and Benton wasn't dead and I was about to faint and Talley held me up.

“We need to get you to a hospital, Kay. Bet you could name a few around here,” Jay Talley said.

“We need to get Jo out of the car. She must be cold. She can't move,” I muttered.

My lips were numb. I could barely speak.

“She'll be fine. Everything will be taken care of.”

My feet were wood as he helped me down the walk. He moved as if snow and ice had no effect on him.

“I'm sorry for how I acted,” he said.

“I did it first,” I could barely push out words.

“I could get an ambulance, but I'd like to take you myself,” he said.

“Yes, yes,” I said. “I'd like that.”

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
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BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK

Dr. Kay Scarpetta, now freelancing from South Florida, returns to the city that turned its back on her five years ago. Richmond, Virginia's recently appointed chief medical examiner claims that he needs Scarpetta's help to solve a perplexing crime. When she arrives, however, Scarpetta finds that nothing is as she expected: Her former lab is in the final stages of demolition; the inept chief isn't the one who requested her after all; her old assistant chief has developed personal problems that he won't reveal; and a glamorous FBI agent, whom Scarpetta dislikes instantly, meddles with the case.

Deprived of assistance from colleagues Benton and Lucy, who are embroiled in what appears to be an unrelated attempted rape by a stalker, Scarpetta is faced with investigating the death of a fourteen-year-old girl, working with the smallest pieces of evidence—traces that only the most thorough hunters can identify. She must follow the twisting leads and track the strange details in order to make the dead speak—and to reveal the sad truth that may be more than even she can bear…

Trace

“In bringing her capital series back home,
Patricia Cornwell taps its core strengths.”

—New York Daily News

“Cornwell can generate willies with subtle poetic turns.”

—People

“Fun [and] flamboyant.”

—Entertainment Weekly

“[An] innovative series.”

—
The New York Times

“
Trace
is rich and satisfying,
with Cornwell sprinkling a trail of tantalizing bread crumbs for the Scarpetta faithful, who are always hungry for the next installment.”

—The Associated Press

“Will cheer fans…
the old Scarpetta comes through.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Traces of the smart, dynamic, yet vulnerable Scarpetta of the early novels are in evidence here,
and Cornwell has better control of her plot and characters…The mystery is intriguing, there's plenty of forensic detail, and the ending…opens the way for Scarpetta and her associates to proceed in any direction that calls to them.”

—Booklist

“Patricia Cornwell is one of today's best writers.”

—Bookreporter.com

Blow Fly

“[A] grisly fast-paced thriller…
utterly chilling.”

—Entertainment Weekly

“Patricia Cornwell is on target—and spectacularly so—
with her latest Kay Scarpetta thriller, a story so compelling that even longtime readers will be stunned by its twists and turns.”

—Chicago Tribune

“Gruesome and suspenseful.”

—New York Daily News

The Last Precinct

“Ignites on the first page…
Cornwell has created a character so real, so compelling, so driven that this reader has to remind herself regularly that Scarpetta is just a product of an author's imagination.”

—USA Today

“Plots within plots, fraught atmosphere and unrelenting suspense
keep readers on tenterhooks while one trap after another springs under unwary feet. Cunningly designed, ingeniously laid out, composed with Cornwellian skill, this far-from-the-
Last Precinct
is a model of the art.”

—Los Angeles Times

“The most unexpected of the Kay Scarpetta novels so far…
Compelling…Terrific.”

—The Miami Herald

Black Notice

“Brainteasing…
one of the most savage killers of her career…[a] hair-raising tale with a French twist.”

—People

“The author's darkest and perhaps best…
a fast-paced, first-rate thriller.”

—The San Francisco Examiner

Point of Origin

“Cornwell lights a fire under familiar characters—
and sparks her hottest adventure in years.”

—People

“Packed with action and suspense.”

—Rocky Mountain News