All That Remains - Cornwell Patricia (серия книг TXT) 📗

I glanced at my watch. It was eleven-fifteen.

Marino wasn't in, so I left a message on his pager. Then I called the Williamsburg police, and the phone rang forever before a secretary answered. I told her I needed to speak to one of the detectives immediately.

"They're all out on the street right now."

"Then let me speak to whoever's in."

She transferred me to a sergeant.

Identifying myself, I said, "You know who Steven Spurrier is."

"Can't work around here and not know that."

"A reporter is interviewing him at his house. I'm alerting you so you can make sure your surveillance teams know she's there, make sure everything's all right."

There was a long pause. Paper crinkled. It sounded as if the sergeant was eating something. Then, "Spurrier's not under surveillance anymore."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said our guys have been pulled off."

"Why?"

I demanded.

"Now, that I don't know, Doc, been on vacation for the past-"

"Look, all I'm asking is you send a car by his house, make sure everything's all right."

It was all I could do not to scream at him.

" "Don't you worry about a thing."

His voice was as calm as a spill pond. "I'll pass it along."

I hung up as I heard a car pull in.

Abby, thank God.

But when I looked out the window, it was Marino.

I opened the front door before he could ring the bell.

"Was in the area when I got your message on the beeper, so I - "

"Spurrier's house!"

I grabbed his arm. "Abby's there! She's got her gun!"

The sky had turned dark and it was raining as Marino and I sped east on 64. Every muscle in my body was rigid. My heart would not slow down.

"Hey, relax," Marino said as we turned off at the Colonial Williamsburg exit. "Whether the cops are watching him or not, he ain't stupid enough to touch her: Really, you know that. He ain't going to do that."

There was only one vehicle in sight when we turned onto Spurrier's quiet street.

"Shit," Marino muttered under his breath.

Parked on the street in front of Spurrier's house was a black Jaguar.

"Pat Harvey," I said. "Oh, God."

He slammed on the brakes.

"Stay here."

He was out of the car as if he had been ejected, running up the driveway in the pouring rain. My heart was pounding as he pushed the front door open with his foot, revolver in hand, and disappeared inside.

The doorway was empty when suddenly he filled it again. He stared in my direction, yelling something I could not hear.

I got out of the car, rain soaking my clothes as I ran.

I smelled the burnt gunpowder the instant I entered the foyer.

"I've called for help," Marino said, eyes darting around. "Two of them are in there."

The living room was to the left.

He was hurrying up the stairs leading to the second story as photographs of Spurrier's house crazily flashed in my mind. I recognized the glass coffee table and saw the revolver on top of it. Blood was pooled on the bare wood floor beneath Spurrier's body, a second revolver several feet away. He was facedown, inches from the gray leather couch where Abby lay on her side. She stared at the cushion beneath her cheek through drowsy, dull eyes, the front of her pale blue blouse soaked bright red.

For an instant I didn't know what to do, the roaring inside my head as loud as a windstorm. I squatted beside Spurrier, blood spilling and seeping around my shoes as I rolled him over. He was dead, shot through the abdomen and chest.

I hurried to the couch and felt Abby's neck. There was no pulse. I turned her on her back and started CPR, but her heart and lungs had given up too long ago to remember what they were supposed to do. Holding her face in my hands, I felt her warmth and smelled her perfume as sobs welled up and shook me uncontrollably.

Footsteps on the hardwood floor did not register until I realized they were too light to be Marino's.

I looked up as Pat Harvey lifted the revolver off the coffee table.

I stared wide-eyed at her, my lips parting.

"I'm sorry."

The revolver shook as she pointed it in my direction.

"Mrs. Harvey."

My voice stuck in my throat, hands frozen in front of me, stained with Abby's blood.

"Please…"

"Just stay there."

She backed up several steps, lowering the gun a little. For some bizarre reason it occurred to me she was wearing the same red windbreaker she had worn to my house.

"Abby's dead," I said.

Pat Harvey didn't react, her face ashen, eyes so dark they looked black. "I tried to find a phone. He doesn't have any phones."

"Please put, the gun down."

"He did it. He killed my Debbie. He killed Abby."

Marino, I thought. Oh, God, hurry! "Mrs. Harvey, it's over. They're dead. Please put the gun down. Don't make it worse."

"It can't be worse."

"That's not true. Please listen to me."

"I can't be here anymore," she said in the same flat tone.

"I can help you. Put the gun down. Please," I said, getting up from the couch as she raised the gun again.

"No," I begged, realizing what she was going to do.

She pointed the muzzle at her chest as I lunged toward her.

"Mrs. Harvey! No!"

The explosion knocked her back and she staggered, dropping the revolver. I kicked it away and it spun slowly, heavily, across the smooth wood floor as her legs buckled. She reached for something to hold on to, but nothing was there. Marino was suddenly in the room, exclaiming "Holy shit!"

He held his revolver in both hands, muzzle pointed at the ceiling. Ears ringing, I was trembling all over as I knelt beside Pat Harvey. She lay on her side, knees drawn, clutching her chest.

"Get towels!"

I moved her hands out of the way and fumbled with her clothing. Untucking her blouse and pushing up her brassiere, I pressed bunched cloth against the wound below her left breast. I could hear Marino cursing as he rushed out of the room.

"Hold on," I whispered, applying pressure so the small hole would not suck in air and collapse the lung.

She was squirming and began to groan.

"Hold on," I repeated as sirens wailed from the street.

Red light pulsed through blinds covering the living room windows, as if the world outside Steven Spurrier's house were on fire.

18

Marino drove me home and did not leave. I sat in my kitchen staring out at the rain, only vaguely aware of what was going on around me. The doorbell rang, and I heard footsteps and male voices.

Later, Marino came into the kitchen and pulled out a chair across from me. He perched on the edge of it as if he wasn't planning to sit long.

"Any other places in the house Abby might have put her things, beside her bedroom?" he asked.

"I don't think so," I murmured.

"Well, we've got to look. I'm sorry, Doc."

"I understand."

He followed my gaze out the window.

"I'll make coffee."

He got up. "We'll see if I remember what you taught me. My first quiz, huh?"

He moved about in the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and shutting, water running as he filled the pot. He walked out while coffee dripped, and moments later was back with another detective.

"This won't take very long, Dr. Scarpetta," the detective said. "Appreciate your cooperation."

He said something in a low voice to Marino. Then he left and Marino returned to the table, setting a cup of coffee in front of me.

"What are they looking for?"

I tried to concentrate.

"We're going through the notebooks you told me about. Looking for tapes, anything that might tell us what led up to Mrs. Harvey shooting Spurrier."

"You're sure she did it."

"Oh, yeah. Mrs. Harvey did it. Damn miracle she's alive. She missed her heart. She was lucky, but maybe she won't think so if she pulls through."