Point of Origin (38 page)

'So as best we know, Benton calls the number this asshole left. Turns out to be a pay phone near the grocery that got burned,' he went on. 'My guess is, Benton met up with the guy -- Carrie's psycho partner. Has no idea who he's talking to until BOOM!'

I jumped.

'Benton's got a gun, maybe a knife to his throat. They cuff him, double-locking with the key. And why do that? Because he's law enforcement and knows that your average Joe don't know about double-locking. Usually, all cops do is click shut the jaws of the cuff when they're hauling somebody in. The prisoner squirms, the cuffs tighten. And if he manages to get a hairpin or something similar up there to override the ratchets, then he might even spring himself free. But with double-locking, no way. Can't get out without a key or something exactly like a key. It's something Benton would've known about when it was happening to him. A big bad signal that he was dealing with someone who knew what the shit he was doing.'

'I've heard enough,' I said to Marino. 'Go home. Please.'

I had the beginning of a migraine. I could always tell when my entire neck and head began to hurt and my stomach felt queasy. I walked Marino to the door. I knew I had wounded him. He was loaded with pain and had no place to shoot, because he did not know how to show what he felt. I wasn't even sure he knew what he felt.

'He ain't gone, you know,' he said as I opened the door. 'I don't believe it. I didn't see it, and I don't believe it.'

'They will be sending him home soon,' I said as cicadas sawed in the dark, and moths swarmed in the glow of the lamp over my porch. 'Benton is dead,' I said with surprising strength. 'Don't take away from him by not accepting his death.'

'He's gonna show up one of these days.' Marino's voice was at a higher pitch. 'You wait. I know that son of a bitch. He don't go down this easy.'

But Benton had gone down this easy. It was so often like that, Versace walking home from buying coffee and magazines or Lady Diana not wearing her seat belt. I shut the door after Marino drove away. I set the alarm, which by now was a reflex that sometimes got me into trouble when I forgot I had armed my house and opened a slider. Lucy was stretched out on the couch, watching the Arts and Entertainment network in the great room, the lights out. I sat next to her and put my hand on her shoulder.

We did not speak as a documentary about gangsters in the early days of Las Vegas played on. I stroked her hair and her skin felt feverish. I wondered what was going on inside that mind of hers. I worried greatly about it, too. Lucy's thoughts were different. They were distinctly her own and not to be interpreted by any Rosetta stone of psychotherapy or intuition. But this much I had learned about her from the beginning of her life. What she didn't say mattered most, and Lucy wasn't talking about Janet anymore.

'Let's go to bed so we can get an early start, Madame Pilot,' I said.

'I think I'll just sleep in here.'

She pointed the remote control and turned down the volume.

'In your clothes?'

She shrugged.

'If we can get to HeloAir around nine, I'll call Kirby from there.'

'What if they say don't come?' my niece asked.

'I'll tell them I'm on my way. New York City is Republican at the moment. If need be, I'll get my friend Senator Lord involved, and he'll get the health commissioner and mayor on the warpath, and I don't think Kirby will want that. Easier to let us land, don't you think?'

'They don't have any ground-to-air missiles there, do they?'

'Yes, they're called patients,' I said, and it was the first time we had laughed in days.

Why I slept as well as I did, I could not explain, but when my alarm clock went off at six A. M., I turned over in bed. I realized I had not gotten up once since shortly before midnight, and this hinted of a cure, of a renewing that I desperately needed. Depression was a veil I could almost see through, and I was beginning to feel hope. I was doing what Benton would expect me to do, not to avenge his murder, really, for he would not have wanted that.

His wish would have been to prevent harm to Marino, Lucy, or me. He would have wanted me to protect other lives I did not know, other unwitting individuals who worked in hospitals or as models and had been sentenced to a terrible death in the split second it took for a monster to notice them with evil eyes burning with envy.

Lucy went running as the sun was coming up, and although it unnerved me for her to be out alone, I knew she had a pistol in her butt pack, and neither of us could let our lives stop because of Carrie. It seemed she had such an advantage. If we went on as usual, we might die. If we aborted our lives because of fear, we still died, only in a way that was worse, really.

'I'm assuming everything was quiet out there?' I said when Lucy returned to the house and found me in the kitchen.

I set coffee on the kitchen table, where Lucy was seated. Sweat was rolling down her shoulders and face, and I tossed her a dishtowel. She took off her shoes and socks, and I was slammed with an image of Benton sitting there, doing the same thing. He always hung around the kitchen for a while after running. He liked to cool down, to visit with me before he took a shower and buttoned himself up in his neat clothes and deep thoughts.

'A couple people out walking their dogs in Windsor Farms,' she said. 'Not a sign of anybody in your neighborhood. I asked the guy at the guard gate if anything was going on, like any more taxi cabs or pizza deliveries showing up for you. Any weird phone calls or unexpected visitors trying to get in. He said no.'

'Glad to hear it.'

'That's chicken shit. I don't think she's the one who did that.'

'Then who?' I was surprised.

'Hate to tell you, but there are other people out there who are none too fond of you.'

'A large segment of the prison population.'

'And people who aren't in prison, at least not yet. Like the Christian Scientists whose kid you did. You think it might occur to them to harass you? Like sending taxis, a construction Dumpster, or calling the morgue early in the morning and hanging up on poor Chuck? That's all you need, is a morgue assistant who's too spooked to be alone in your building anymore. Or worse, the guy quits. Chicken shit,' she said again. 'Petty, spiteful, chicken shit generated by an ignorant, little mind.'

None of this had ever occurred to me before.

'Is he still getting the hang-ups?' she asked.

She eyed me as she sipped her coffee, and through the window over the sink, the sun was a tangerine on a dusky blue horizon.

'I'll find out,' I said.

I picked up the phone and dialed the number for the morgue. Chuck answered immediately.

'Morgue,' he said nervously.

It was not quite seven, and I suspected he was alone.

'It's Dr Scarpetta,' I said.

'Oh!' He was relieved. 'Good morning.'

'Chuck? What about the hang-ups? You still getting them?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Nothing said? Not even the sound of somebody breathing?'

'Sometimes I think I hear traffic in the background, like maybe the person's at a pay phone somewhere.'

'I've got an idea.'

'Okay.'

'Next time it happens, I want you to say, Good morning, Mr and Mrs Quinn.'

'What?' Chuck was baffled.

'Just do it,' I said. 'And I have a hunch the calls will stop.'

Lucy was laughing when I hung up.

'Touche,' she said.

AFTER BREAKFAST, I wandered about in my bedroom and study, deliberating over what to bring on our trip. My aluminum briefcase would go, because it was habit to take it almost everywhere these days. I also packed an extra pair of slacks and a shirt, and toiletries for overnight, and my Colt .38 went into my pocketbook. Although I was accustomed to carrying a gun, I had never even thought about taking one to New York, where doing so could land one in jail with no questions asked. When Lucy and I were in the car, I told her what I had done.

'It's called situational ethics,' she said. 'I'd rather be arrested than dead.'

'That's the way I look at it,' said I, who once had been a law-abiding citizen.

HeloAir was a helicopter charter service on the western edge of the Richmond airport, where some of the area's Fortune 500 companies had their own terminals for corporate King Airs and Lear Jets and Sikorskys. The Bell JetRanger was in the hangar, and while Lucy went on to take care of that, I found a pilot inside who was kind enough to let me use the phone in his office. I dug around in my wallet for my AT T calling card and dialed the number for Kirby Forensic Psychiatric Center's administrative offices.

The director was a woman psychiatrist named Lydia Ensor who was very leery when I got her on the line. I tried to explain to her in more detail who I was, but she interrupted.

'I know exactly who you are,' she said with a Midwestern tongue. 'I'm completely aware of the current situation and will be as cooperative as I can. I'm not clear, however, on what your interest is, Dr Scarpetta. You're the chief medical examiner of Virginia? Correct?'

'Correct. And a consulting forensic pathologist for ATF and the FBL'

'And of course, they've contacted me, too.' She sounded genuinely perplexed. 'So are you looking for information that might pertain to one of your cases? To someone dead?'

'Dr Ensor, I'm trying to link a number of cases right now,' I replied. 'I have reason to suspect that Carrie Grethen may be either indirectly or directly involved in all of them and may have been involved even while she was at Kirby.'

'Impossible.'

'Clearly, you don't know this woman,' I said firmly. 'I, on the other hand, have worked violent deaths caused by her for half of my career, beginning when she and Temple Gault were on a spree in Virginia and finally in New York, where Gault was killed. And now this. Possibly five more murders, maybe more.'

'I know Miss Grethen's history all too well,' Dr Ensor said, and she wasn't hostile, but defensiveness had crept into her tone. 'I can assure you that Kirby handled her as we do all maximum security patients . . .'

'There's almost nothing useful in her psychiatric evaluations,' I cut her off.

'How could you possibly know about her medical records . . . ?'

'Because I am part of the ATF national response team that is investigating these fire-related homicides,' I measured my words. 'And I work with the FBI, as I've already said. All of the cases we're talking about are my jurisdiction because I'm a consultant for law enforcement at a federal level. But my duty is not to arrest anyone or smear an institution such as yours. My job is to bring justice to the dead and give as much peace as possible to those they left behind. To do that, I must answer questions. And most important, I am driven to do anything I can to prevent one more person from dying. Carrie will kill again. She may already have.'

The director was silent for a moment. I looked out the window and could see the dark blue helicopter on its pad being towed out onto the tarmac.

'Dr Scarpetta, what would you like us to do?' Dr Ensor finally spoke, her voice tense and upset.

'Did Carrie have a social worker? Someone in legal aid? Anyone she really talked to?' I asked.

'Obviously, she spent a fair amount of time with a forensic psychologist, but he isn't on our staff. Mainly he's there to evaluate and make recommendations to the court.'

'Then she probably manipulated him,' I said as I watched Lucy climb up on the helicopter's skids and begin her preflight inspection. 'Who else? Anyone she may have gotten close to?'

'Her lawyer, then. Yes, legal aid. If you would like to speak to her, that can be arranged.'

'I'm leaving the airport now,' I said. 'We should be landing in approximately three hours. Do you have a helipad?'

'I don't remember anyone ever landing here. There are several parks nearby. I'll be happy to pick you up.'

'I don't think that will be necessary. My guess is we'll land close by.'

'I'll watch for you, then, and take you to legal aid, or wherever it is you need to go.'

'I would like to see Carrie Grethen's ward and where she spent her time.'

'Whatever you need.'

'You are very kind,' I said.

Lucy was opening access panels to check fluid levels, wiring, and anything else that might be amiss before we took to the air. She was agile and sure of what she was doing, and when she climbed on top of the fuselage to inspect the main rotor, I wondered how many helicopter accidents happened on the ground. It wasn't until I had climbed up into the copilot's seat that I noticed the AR-15 assault rifle in a rack behind her head, and at the same time, I realized the controls on my side had not been taken out. Passengers were not entitled to have access to the collective and cyclic, and the antitorque pedals were supposed to be cranked back far enough that the uninitiated did not accidentally push them with their feet.

'What's this?' I said to Lucy as I buckled my four-point harness.

'We've got a long flight.'

She cracked the throttle several times to make certain there was no binding and it was closed.