From Potter's Field - Cornwell Patricia. Страница 32

Windsor Farms was dark when we turned into it from Gary Street, and Marino did not want me entering my house alone. He pulled into my brick driveway and stared ahead at the shut garage door illuminated by his headlights.

'Do you have the opener?' he asked.

'It's in my car.'

'A lot of friggin' good that does when your car's inside the garage with the door shut.'

'If you would drop me off in front as I requested I could unlock my front door,' I said.

'Nope. You're not walking down that long sidewalk anymore, Doc.' He was very authoritative, and I knew when he got this way there was no point in arguing.

I handed him my keys. 'Then you go on in through the front and open the garage door. I'll wait right here.'

He opened his door. 'I got a shotgun between the seats.'

He reached down to show me a black Benelli twelve-gauge with an eight-round magazine extension. It occurred to me that Benelli, a manufacturer of fine Italian shotguns, was also the name on Gault's false driver's license.

'The safety's right there.' Marino showed me. 'All you do is push it in, pump it and fire.'

'Is there a riot about to happen that I've not been told about?'

He got out of the truck and locked the doors.

I cranked open the window. 'It might help if you knew my burglar alarm code,' I said.

'Already do.' He started walking across frosted grass. 'Your DOB.'

'How did you know that?' I demanded.

'You're predictable,' I heard him say before disappearing around a hedge.

Several minutes later the garage door began to lift and a light went on inside, illuminating yard and garden tools neatly arranged on walls, a bicycle I rarely rode, and my car. I could not see my new Mercedes without thinking of the one Lucy had wrecked.

My former 500E was sleek and fast with an engine partially designed by Porsche. Now I just wanted something big. I had a black S500 that probably would hold its own with a cement truck or a tractor trailer. Marino stood near my car, looking at me as if he wished I would hurry up. I honked the horn to remind him I was locked inside his truck.

'Why do people keep trying to lock me inside their vehicles?' I said as he let me out. 'A taxi this morning, now you.'

'Because it's not safe when you're loose. I want to look around your house before I leave,' he said.

'It's not necessary.'

'I'm not asking. I'm telling you I'm going to look,' he said.

'All right. Help yourself.'

He followed me inside, and I went straight to the living room and turned on the gas fire. Next I opened the front door and brought in the mail and several newspapers that one of my neighbors had forgotten I to pick up. To anybody watching my gracious brick house, it would have been obvious that I was gone over Christmas.

I glanced around as I returned to the living room, looking for anything even slightly out of order. I wondered if anyone had thought about breaking in. I wondered what eyes had turned this way, what dark thoughts had enveloped this place where I lived.

My neighborhood was one of the wealthiest in Richmond, and certainly there had been problems before, mostly with gypsies who tended to walk in during the day when people were home. I was not as worried about them, for I never left doors unlocked, and the alarm was activated constantly. It was an entirely different breed of criminal I feared, and he was not as interested in what I owned as in who and what I was. I kept many guns in the house in places where I could get to them easily.

I seated myself on the couch, the shadow from flames moving on oil paintings on the walls. My furniture was contemporary European, and during the day the house was filled with light. As I sorted mail, I came across a pink envelope similar to several I had seen before. It was note size and not a good grade of paper, the stationery the sort one might buy in a drugstore. The postmark this time was Charlottesville, December 23. I slit it open with a scalpel. The note, like the others, was handwritten in black fountain ink.

Dear Dr. Scarpetta,

I hope you have a very special Christmas!

CAIN

I carefully set the letter on my coffee table.

'Marino?' I called out.

Gault had written the note before he had murdered Jane. But the mail was slow. I was just getting it now.

'Marino!' I got up.

I heard his feet moving loudly and quickly on stairs. He rushed into the living room, gun in hand.

'What?' he said, breathing hard as he looked around. 'Are you all right?'

I pointed to the note. His eyes fell to the pink envelope and matching paper.

'Who's it from?'

'Look,' I said.

He sat beside me, then got right back up. 'I'm going to set the alarm first.'

'Good idea.'

He came back and sat down again. 'Let me have a couple pens. Thanks.'

He used the pens to keep the notepaper unfolded so he could read without jeopardizing any fingerprints I hadn't already destroyed. When he was finished, he studied the handwriting and postmark on the envelope.

'Is this the first time you've gotten one of these?' he asked.

'No.'

He looked accusingly at me. 'And you didn't say nothing?'

'It's not the first note, but it's the first one signed

cain; I said.

'What have the rest of them been signed?'

'There's only been two others on this pink stationery, and they weren't signed.'

'Do you have them?'

'No. I didn't think they were important. The postmarks were Richmond, the notes kooky but not alarming. I frequently get peculiar mail.'

'Sent to your house?'

'Generally to the office. My home address isn't listed.'

'Shit, Doc!' Marino got up and started pacing. 'Didn't it disturb you when you got notes delivered to your home address when it's not listed?'

'The location of my home certainly isn't a secret. You know how often we've asked the media not to film or photograph it, and they do it anyway.'

'Tell me what the other notes said.'

'Like this one, they were short. One asked me how I was and if I was still working too hard. It seems to me the other was more along the lines of missing me.'

'Missing you?'

I searched my memory. 'Something like, "It's been too long. We really must see each other."'

'You're certain it's the same person.' He glanced down at the pink note on the table.

'I think so. Obviously, Gault has my address, as you predicted he would.'

'He's probably been by your crib.' He stopped pacing and looked at me. 'You realize that?'

I did not answer.

'I'm telling you that Gault has seen where you live.' Marino ran his fingers through his hair. 'You understand what I'm saying?' he demanded.

'This needs to go to the lab first thing in the morning,' I said.

I thought of the first two notes. If they, too, were from Gault, he had mailed them in Richmond. He had been here.

'You can't stay here, Doc.'

'They can analyze the postage stamp. If he licked it, he left saliva on it. We can use PCR and get DNA.'

'You can't stay here,' he said again.

'Of course I can.'

'I'm telling you, you can't.'

'I have to, Marino,' I said stubbornly. 'This is where I live.'

He was shaking his head. 'No. It's out of the question. Or else I'm moving in.'

I was devoted to Marino but could not bear the thought of him in my house. I could see him wiping his feet on my oriental rugs and leaving rings on yew wood and mahogany. He would watch wrestling in front of the fire and drink Budweiser out of the can.

'I'm going to call Benton right now,' he went on. 'He's going to tell you the same thing.' He walked toward the phone.

'Marino,' I said. 'Leave Benton out of this.'

He walked over to the fire and sat on the sandstone hearth instead. He put his head in his hands, and when he looked up at me his face was exhausted. 'You know how I'll feel if something happens to you?'

'Not very good,' I said, ill at ease.

'It will kill me. It will, I swear.'

'You're getting maudlin.'

'I don't know what that word means. But I do know Gault's going to have to waste my ass first, you hear me?' He stared intensely at me.

I looked away. I felt the blood rise to my cheeks.

'You know, you can get whacked like anybody else. Like Eddie, like Susan, like Jane, like Jimmy Davila. Gault's fixed on you, goddam it. And he's probably the worst killer in this friggin' century.' He paused, watching me. 'Are you listening?'

I lifted my eyes to his. 'Yes,' I said. 'I'm listening. I'm hearing every word.'

'You got to leave for Lucy's sake, too. She can't come see you here ever. And if something happens to you, just what do you think is going to happen to her?'

I shut my eyes. I loved my home. I had worked so hard for it. I had labored intensely and tried to be a good businesswoman. What Wesley had predicted was happening. Protection was to be at the expense of who I was and all that I had.

'So I'm supposed to move somewhere and spend my savings?' I asked. 'I'm supposed to just give all of this up?' I swept my hand around the room. 'I'm supposed to give that monster that much power?'

'You can't drive your ride, either,' he went on, thinking aloud. 'You got to drive something he won't recognize. You can take my truck, if you want.'

'Hell no,' I said.

Marino looked hurt. 'It's a big thing for me to let someone use my truck. I never let anybody.'

'That's not it. I want my life. I want to feel Lucy is safe. I want to live in my house and drive my car.'

He got up and brought me his handkerchief.

'I'm not crying,' I said.

'You're about to.'

'No, I'm not.'

'You want a drink?' he asked.

'Scotch.'

'I think I'll have a little bourbon.'

'You can't. You're driving.'

'No, I'm not,' he said as he stepped behind the bar. 'I'm camping on your couch.'

Close to midnight, I carried in a pillow and blanket and helped him get settled. He could have slept in a guest room, but he wanted to be right where he was with the fire turned low.

I retreated upstairs and read until my eyes would no longer focus. I was grateful Marino was in my house. I did not know when I had ever been this frightened. So far Gault had always gotten his way.

So far he had not failed in a single evil task he had set out to accomplish. If he wanted me to die, I had no confidence I could evade him. If he wanted Lucy to die, I believed that would happen, too.

It was the latter I feared most. I had seen his work. I knew what he did. I could diagram every piece of bone and ragged excision of skin. I looked at the black metal nine-millimeter pistol on the table by my bed, and I wondered what I always did. Would I reach for it in time? Would I save my life or someone else? As I surveyed my bedroom and adjoining study, I knew Marino was right. I could not stay here alone, I drifted to sleep pondering this and had a disturbing dream. A figure with a long dark robe and a face like a white balloon was smiling insipidly at me from an antique mirror. Every time I passed the mirror the figure in it was watching with its chilly smile. It was both dead and alive and seemed to have no gender. I suddenly woke up at one a.m. I listened for noises in the dark. I went downstairs and heard Marino snoring.