Cruel and Unusual - Cornwell Patricia (книги онлайн полные версии .txt) 📗

"Two for the price of one," Marino said bitterly over the phone later in the day.

"I know," I said, digging a bottle of aspirin out of my pocketbook.

"In court the damn jurors won't be told she was pregnant. It won't be admissible, don't count he murdered a pregnant woman.”

"I know," I said again. 'Wright's about done. Nothing significant turned up during her external exam. No trace to speak of, nothing that jumped out. What's going on at your end?”

"Susan was definitely going through something, Marino said.

"Problems with her husband?”

"According to him, her problem was with you. He claims you were doing weird shit like calling her a lot at home, hassling her. And sometimes she'd come home from work acting half crazy, like. she was scared shitless about something.”

"Susan and I did not have a problem.”

I swallowed three aspirin with a mouthful of cold coffee.

"I'm just telling you what the guy's saying. Other thing is - and I think you'll find this interesting - looks like we got us another feather. Not that I'm saying it links Deighton and this one, Doc, or that I'm necessarily thinking that way. But damn. Maybe we're dealing with some squirrel who wears down-filled gloves, a jacket. I don't know. It's just not typical. Only other time I've ever found feathers was when this drone broke into a crib by smashing out a window and cut his down jacket on broken glass.”

My head hurt so much I felt sick to my stomach.

"What we found in Susan's car is real small - a little piece of white down," he went on. "It was clinging to the upholstery of the passenger's door. On the inside, near the floor, a couple inches below the armrest"

"Can you get that to me?” I asked.

"Yeah. What are you going to do?”

"Call Benton.”

"I've been trying, dammit. I think he and the wife went out of town.”

"I need to ask him if Minor Downey can help us.”

"You talking about a person or a fabric softener?”

"Minor Downey with hairs and fibers at the FBI labs. His specialty is feather analysis.”

"And his name's Downey, it really is?” Marino was incredulous.

"It really is," I said.

8

The telephone rang for a long time at the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit, located in the subterranean reaches of the Academy at Quantico. I could envision its bleak, confusing hallways and offices cluttered with the mementos of polished warriors like Benton Wesley, who had gone skiing, I was told.

"In fact, I'm the only one here at the moment," said the courteous agent who answered the phone.

"This is Dr. Kay Scarpetta and it's urgent that I reach him.

Benton Wesley returned my call almost immediately.

"Benton, where are you?”

I raised my voice above terrible static.

"In my car," he said. "Connie and I spent Christmas with her family in Charlottesville. We're just west of there on our way to Hot Springs. I heard about what happened to Susan Story. God, I'm sorry. I was going to call you tonight"

"You're breaking up. I almost can't hear you.”

"Hold on.”

I waited impatiently for a good minute. Then he was back.

"That's better. We were in a low area. Listen, what do you need from me?”

"I need the Bureau's help with analysis of some feathers."

"No problem. I'll call Downey.”

"I need to talk," I said with great reluctance, for I knew I was putting him on the spot. "I don't feel it can wait.”

"Hold on.”

This time the pause was not due to static. He was conferring with his wife.

"Do you ski?” His voice came back.

"It depends on who you ask.”

"Connie and I are on our way to the Homestead for a couple of days. We could talk there. Can you get away?”

"I'll move heaven and earth to, and I'll bring Lucy.”

"That's good. She and, Connie can pal around while you and I talk. I'll see about your room when we check in. Can you bring something for me to look at?”

"Yes.”

"Including whatever you've got on the Robyn Naismith case. Let's cover every base and every imagined one.”

"Thank you, Benton," I said gratefully. "And please thank Connie.”

I decided to leave the office immediately, and offered little explanation.

"It will be good for you," Rose said, jotting down the Homestead's number. She did not understand that my intention was not to unwind at a five-star resort. For an instant, her eyes were bright with tears as I told her to let Marino know where I was so he could contact me immediately if there were any new developments in Susan's case.

"Please don't release my whereabouts to anyone else," I added.

"Three reporters have called in the last twenty minutes," she said. "Including the Washington Post.”

"I'm not discussing Susan's case right now. Tell them the usual, that we're waiting on lab results. Just tell them I'm out of town and unavailable.”

I was haunted by images as I drove west toward the mountains. I pictured Susan in her baggy scrubs, and the faces of her mother and father as Marino told them their daughter was dead.

"Are you feeling okay?”

Lucy asked. She had been looking at me every other minute since we left my house.

"I'm just preoccupied," I replied, concentrating on the toad. "You're going to love skiing. I have a feeling you'll be good at it.”

She silently gazed out the windshield. The sky was a washed-out denim blue, mountains rising in the distance dusted with snow.

"I'm sorry about this," I added. "It seems that every time you visit, something happens and I can't give you my full attention.”

"I don't need your full attention.”

"Someday you'll understand.”

"Maybe I'm the same way about my work. In fact, maybe I learned from you. I'll probably be successful like you, too.”

My spirit felt as heavy as lead. I was grateful that I was wearing sunglasses. I did not want Lucy to see my eyes.

"I know you love me. That's what counts. I know my mother doesn't love me," my niece said.

"Dorothy loves you as much as she is able to love anyone.”

"You're absolutely right. As much as she is able to, which isn't much because I'm not a man. She only loves men.”

"No, Lucy. Your mother doesn't really love men. They are a symptom of her obsessive quest of finding somebody who will make her whole. She doesn't understand that she has to make herself whole.”

"The only thing 'whole' in the equation is she picks assholes every time.”

"I agree that her batting average hasn't been good.”

"I'm not going to live like that. I don't want to be anything like her.”

"You aren't," I said.

"I read in the brochure they have skeet shooting where we're going.”

"They have all sorts of things.”

"Did you bring one of the revolvers?”

"You don't shoot skeet with a revolver, Lucy.”

"You do if you're from Miami.”

"If you don't stop yawning, you're going to get me started.”

"Why didn't you bring a gun?” she persisted.

The Ruger was in my suitcase, but I did not intend to tell her that. "Why are you so worried about whether I brought a gun?”

I asked: "I want to be good at it. So good I can shoot the twelve off the dock every time I try," she said sleepily.

My heart ached as she rolled up her jacket and used it as a pillow. She lay next to me, the top of her head touching my thigh as she slept. She did not know how strongly tempted I was to send her back to Miami this minute. But I could tell she sensed my fear.

The Homestead was situated on fifteen thousand acres of forest arid streams in the Allegheny Mountains, the main section of the hotel dark red brick with white-pillared colonnades. The white cupola had a clock on each of its four sides that always agreed on the time and could be read for miles, and tennis courts and golf greens were solid white with snow.