Five Scarpetta Novels (58 page)

A tear slid down his cheek and he roughly wiped it with the backs of cuffed hands.

“One other thing I'm going to do,” I said as footsteps sounded on the stairs again. “I'm going to see what I can do about you. I don't believe you killed anyone, Keith. And I'm going to post your bond and make sure you have a lawyer.”

His lips parted in disbelief as the deputies loudly entered the room.

“You really are?” Pleasants asked as he almost staggered to his feet, his eyes wide on mine.

“If you swear you're telling the truth.”

“Oh yes, ma'am!”

“Yeah, yeah,” a deputy said. “You and all the rest of 'em.”

“It will have to be tomorrow,” I said to Pleasants. “I'm afraid the magistrate's gone home for the night.”

“Come on. Downstairs.” A deputy grabbed his arm.

Pleasants said one last thing to me. “Mama likes chocolate milk with Hershey's syrup. Not much else she keeps down anymore.”

Then he was gone, and I was led back downstairs and through the women's section of the jail again. Inmates were sullen this time, as if I no longer were fun. It occurred to me someone had told them who I was, when they turned their backs on me and someone spat.

S
heriff Rob Roy was a legend in Sussex County and ran uncontested every election year. He had been to my morgue many times, and I thought he was one of the finest law enforcement officers I knew. At half-past six, I found him at the Virginia Diner, where he was sitting at the local table, which literally was where the locals gathered.

This was in a long room of red-checked cloths and white chairs, and he was eating a fried ham sandwich and drinking coffee, black, his portable radio upright on the table and full of chatter.

“Can't do that, no sir. Then what? They just keep selling crack, that's what,” he was saying to a gaunt weathered man in a John Deere cap.

“Let 'em.”

“Let 'em?” Roy reached for his coffee, as wiry and
bald as he ever was. “You can't mean that.”

“I sure as hell can.”

“Might I interrupt?” I said, pulling out a chair.

Roy's mouth fell open, and for an instant he did not believe whom he was looking at. “Well, I'll be damned.” He stood and shook my hand. “What in tarnation are you doing out in these parts?”

“Looking for you.”

“If you'll excuse me.” The other man tipped his hat to me and got up to leave.

“Don't you tell me you're out here on business,” the sheriff said.

“What else would it be?”

He was sobered by my mood. “Something I don't know about?”

“You know,” I said.

“Well, what then? What do you want to eat? I recommend the fried chicken sandwich,” he said as a waitress appeared.

“Hot tea.” I wondered if I would ever eat again.

“You don't look like you're feeling too good.”

“I feel like shit.”

“There's this bug going around.”

“You don't even know the half of it,” I said.

“What can I do?” He leaned closer to me, his attention completely focused.

“I'm posting bond for Keith Pleasants,” I said. “Now this obviously won't happen before tomorrow, I'm sorry to say. But I think you need to understand, Rob, that this is an innocent man who has been set up. He's being
persecuted because Investigator Ring is on a witch hunt and wants to make a name for himself.”

Roy looked baffled. “Since when are you defending inmates?”

“Since whenever they aren't guilty,” I said. “And this guy is no more a serial killer than you or I. He didn't try to elude the police and probably wasn't even speeding. Ring's hassling him and lying. Look how high the bond was set for a traffic violation.”

He was silent, listening.

“Pleasants has an old, infirm mother who has no one to take care of her. He's about to lose his job. Now I know Ring's uncle is the secretary of public safety, and he's also a former sheriff,” I said. “And I know how that goes, Rob. I need you to help me out here. Ring has got to be stopped.”

Roy pushed his plate away as his radio called him. “You really believe that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“This is fifty-one,” he said into the radio, adjusting his belt and the revolver on it.

“We got anything on that robbery yet?” a voice came back.

“Still waiting for it.”

He signed off and said to me, “You got no doubt in your mind that this boy didn't commit any crime.”

I nodded again. “No doubt. The killer who dismembered that lady communicates with me on the Internet. Pleasants doesn't even know what that is. There's a very big picture that I can't get into now. But believe me,
what's going on has nothing to do with this kid.”

“You're sure about Ring. I mean, you got to be if I'm going to do this.” His eyes were steady on mine.

“How many times do I have to say it?”

He slammed his napkin down on the table. “Now, this really makes me mad.” He scooted back his chair. “I don't like it when an innocent person's locked up in my jail and some cop's out there making the rest of us look bad.”

“Do you know Kitchen, the man who owns the landfill?” I said.

“Oh sure. We're in the same lodge.” He pulled out his wallet.

“Someone needs to talk to him so Keith doesn't lose his job. We have to make this thing right,” I said.

“Believe me, I'm going to.”

He left money on the table and strode angrily out the door. I sat long enough to finish my tea, looking around at displays of striped candy, barbecue sauce and peanuts of every description. My head hurt and my skin was hot when I found a grocery store on 460 and stopped for milk, Hershey's syrup, fresh vegetables and soup.

I charged up and down aisles, and next thing I knew my cart was full of everything from toilet paper to deli meats. Then I got out a map and the address Pleasants had given to me. His mother was not too far off the main route, and when I arrived she was asleep.

“Oh dear,” I said from the porch. “I didn't mean to get you up.”

“Who is it?” She peered blindly into the night as she unhooked the door.

“Dr. Kay Scarpetta. You have no reason . . .”

“What kind of doctor?”

Mrs. Pleasants was wizened and stooped, her face wrinkled like crepe paper. Long gray hair floated like gossamer, and I thought of the landfill and the old woman deadoc had killed.

“You can come on in.” She shoved open the door and looked frightened. “Is Keith all right? Nothing happened to him, did it?”

“I saw him earlier, and he's fine,” I assured her. “I brought groceries.” I had the bags in my hands.

“That boy.” She shook her head, motioning me into her small, tidy home. “What would I do? You know, he's all I've got in this world. When he was born I said, ‘Keith, it's just you.”'

She was scared and upset and didn't want me to know.

“Do you know where he is?” I gently said.

We entered her kitchen with its old, squat refrigerator and gas stove, and she did not answer me. She started putting groceries away, fumbling with cans and dropping celery and carrots to the floor.

“Here. Let me help,” I tried.

“He didn't do anything wrong.” She began to cry. “I know he didn't. And that policeman won't leave him be, always coming over, banging on the door.”

She stood in the middle of her kitchen, wiping her face with her hands.

“Keith says you like chocolate milk, and I'm going to
make you one. It's just what the doctor ordered.”

I fetched a glass and a spoon from the drain board.

“He'll be home tomorrow,” I said. “And I don't imagine you'll be hearing from Investigator Ring anymore.”

She stared at me as if I were a miracle.

“I just wanted to make sure you have everything you need until your son gets here,” I said, handing her the glass of chocolate milk mixed medium dark.

“I'm just trying to figure out who you are,” she finally said. “This is mighty good. Nothing in life any better.” She sipped and smiled and took her time.

I briefly explained how I knew Keith and what I did professionally, but she did not understand. She assumed I was sweet on him and issued medical licenses for a living. On my way home, I played CDs loudly to keep me awake as I drove through thick darkness, where for long stretches there was not a single light except stars. I reached for the phone.

Wingo's mother answered and told me he was sick in bed. But she got him on the line.

“Wingo, I'm worried about you,” I said with feeling.

“I feel terrible.” He sounded like it. “I guess you can't do anything for the flu.”

“You're immunosuppressed. When I talked to Dr. Riley last, your CD4 cell count was not good.” I wanted him to face reality. “Describe your symptoms to me.”

“My head's killing me, my neck and back are killing me. Last time my temperature was taken it was a hundred and four. I'm so thirsty all the time.”

Everything he said was setting off alarms in my head,
for the symptoms also described the early stages of smallpox. But if his exposure was the torso, I was surprised he hadn't gotten sick before now, especially in light of his compromised condition.

“You haven't touched one of those sprays we got at the office,” I said.

“What sprays?”

“The Vita facial sprays.”

He was clueless, and then I remembered that he was out of the office much of today. I explained what had happened.

“Oh my God,” he said suddenly, as fear shot through both of us. “One came in the mail. Mom had it on the kitchen counter.”

“When?” I said in alarm.

“I don't know. A few days ago. When was that? I don't know. We'd never seen anything so fancy. Imagine, something sweet to cool your face.”

That made twelve canisters deadoc had delivered to my staff, and
twelve
had been his message to me. It was the number of full-time people in my central office, if I included myself. How could he know such trivia as the size of my staff, and even some of their names and where they lived, if he were far away and anonymous?

I dreaded my next question because I already thought I knew. “Wingo, did you touch it in any way?”

“I tried it. Just to see.” His voice was shaking badly and he was choking from coughing fits. “When it was sitting there. I picked it up one time, just to see. It smelled like roses.”

“Who else in your house has tried it?”

“I don't know.”

“I want you to make certain no one touches that canister. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” He was sobbing.

“I'm going to send some people to your house to pick it up and take care of you and your family, okay?”

He was crying too hard to answer.

When I got home, it was minutes past midnight, and I was so out of sorts and sick that I did not know what to do first. I called Marino and Wesley, and Fujitsubo. I told everybody what was happening and that Wingo and his family needed a team at their home immediately. My bad news was returned by theirs. The girl on Tangier who had gotten sick had died, and now a fisherman had the disease. Depressed and feeling like hell, I checked my e-mail, and deadoc was there in his small, mean way. I was glad. His message had been sent while Keith Pleasants was in jail.

mirror mirror on the wall where have you been
“You bastard,” I screamed at him.

The day was too much. All of it was too much, and I was achy and woozy and completely fed up. So I should not have gone into that chat room, where I waited for him as if this were the O.K. Corral. I should have left it for another time. But I made my presence known and paced in my mind as I waited for the monster to appear. He did.

 

DEADOC
: toil and trouble

SCARPETTA
: What do you want!

DEADOC
: we re angry tonight

SCARPETTA
: Yes, we are.

DEADOC
: why should you care about ignorant fishermen and their ignorant families and those inept people who work for you

SCARPETTA
: Stop it. Tell me what you want to make this stop.

DEADOC
: it s too late the damage is done it was done long before this

SCARPETTA
: What was done to you?

 

But he did not answer. Oddly, he did not leave the room, but he did not respond to any further questions from me. I thought of Squad 19 and prayed they were listening and following from trunk to trunk, tracing him to his lair. Half an hour passed. I finally logged off as my telephone rang.

“You're a genius!” Lucy was so excited she was hurting my ears. “How the hell have you managed to keep him on that long?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, amazed.

“Eleven minutes so far. You win the prize.”

“I was only on with him maybe two minutes.” I tried to cool my forehead with the back of my hand. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

But she didn't care. “We nailed the son of a bitch!” She was ecstatic. “A campground in Maryland, agents from Salisbury already en route. Janet and I gotta plane to catch.”

• • •

Before I got up the next morning, the World Health Organization put out another international alert about Vita aromatic facial spray. WHO reassured people that this virus would be eliminated, that we were working on the vaccine around the clock and would have it soon. But the panic began anyway.

The virus, dubbed by the press Mutantpox, was on the cover of
Newsweek
and
Time
, and the Senate was forming a subcommittee as the White House contemplated emergency measures. Vita was distributed in New York, but the manufacturer was actually French. The obvious concern was that deadoc was making good on his threat. Although there were yet no reports of the disease in France, economic and diplomatic relations were strained as a large plant was forced to shut down, and accusations about where the tampering was done were volleyed back and forth between countries.