Trace - Cornwell Patricia. Страница 88

I doubt it, Dr. Philpott replied, busy and hardly listening to Pogue. I doubt you'll find influenza vaccine anywhere unless you're lucky, and if you're that lucky, you ought to play the lottery. There's a severe nationwide shortage this year. They just didn't make enough and it takes a good three or four months to make more, so that's it for the year. Truth is, you can get vaccinated for one strain of flu but catch another. Best thing is to avoid sick people and take good care of yourself. Don't get on airplanes, and stay out of gyms. You can get exposed to a lot in gyms.

Yes sir, Pogue replied, although he has never been on an airplane in his life and he hasn't gone inside a gym since he was in high school.

Edgar Allan Pogue coughs so hard his eyes water as he stands before a shelf of gun cleaning accessories, fascinated by all the little brushes and bottles and kits. He won't be cleaning guns today, and he strolls along the aisle, noticing everybody in the store. A few minutes later, he is the only customer, and at the counter he looks at a big man in black who is replacing a pistol in the showcase.

"Can I help you?" the man asks, and he's probably in his fifties, has a shaved head and looks like he could hurt someone.

"I hear you sell cigars," Pogue replies, stifling a cough.

"Huh." The man looks at him defiantly, then his eyes drift up to Pogue's wig, then back to Pogue's eyes, and there's something about the man that taps Pogue on the shoulder. "Oh really? And where'd you hear that?"

"I heard it," Pogue says, and something taps his shoulder, asking for his attention, and he starts coughing and his eyes tear up.

"Sounds like you don't need to be smoking," the man says from the other side of the glass showcase. He has a black baseball cap stuck in the back waistband of his cargo pants, but Pogue can't tell what kind of cap.

"I'll be the judge of that," Pogue replies, trying to catch his breath. "I'd like Cohibas. I'll pay twenty apiece for six of them."

"What the hell kind of gun is a Cohiba?" the man says with a straight face.

"Twenty-five then."

"I got no idea what you're talking about."

"Thirty," Pogue says. "That's as high as I go. They'd better be Cuban. I can tell. And I'd like to see a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight. That revolver right there." He points at one in the showcase. "I want to see it. Let me see the Cohibas and the thirty-eight."

"I hear ya," the man says, looking past him as if he sees something, and his tone changes, his face changes, and something about him taps Pogue's shoulder, keeps tapping it.

Pogue turns around as if something might be behind him, but nothing is, nothing but two aisles crowded with gun equipment and accessories and camouflage clothing and cases of ammunition. He fingers the six.38 caliber cartridges in his pocket, wondering how it will feel to shoot the big man in black, deciding it will probably feel good, and he turns back to the glass showcase and the man behind it is pointing a pistol right between Pogue's eyes.

"How ya doin', Edgar Allan," the man says. "I'm Marino."

58

Scarpetta sees Benton coming down the shoveled path that leads from his town home to the newly plowed road, and she stops beneath dark green fragrant trees and waits for him. She hasn't seen him since he came to Aspen. He quit calling her very often after Henri moved in, something Scarpetta knew nothing about at the time, and he didn't have much to say when they talked by phone. She understands. She has learned to understand and doesn't find it all that hard to understand, not anymore.

He kisses her and his lips taste like salt.

"What have you been eating?" she asks, holding him tight and kissing him again outside in the snow beneath the heavy branches of evergreens.

"Peanuts. You should have been a bloodhound with that nose of yours," he says, looking into her eyes and wrapping an arm around her.

"I said I taste something, not smell something." She smiles, walking with him up the shoveled path toward the town home.

"I was thinking about cigars," he replies, pulling her close, both of them trying to walk together as if their four legs are two legs. "Remember when I smoked cigars?"

"That didn't taste good," she says. "Smelled good but didn't taste good."

"Look who's talking. You smoked cigarettes back then."

"So I didn't taste good."

"I didn't say that. I sure as hell didn't."

He holds her tight and her arm is tight around his waist as they walk toward the lighted town home that is halfway in the woods.

"That was really smart. You and cigars, Kay," he says, digging in a pocket of his ski jacket for keys. "If I haven't made that clear, I want to make sure you know how smart that was."

"I didn't do it," she replies, wondering what Benton feels like after all this time and checking on her own feelings to see what they are. "Marino did."

"I'd like to have seen him buying Cuban cigars in that fancy tobacco shop in Richmond."

"That's not where they sell the illegal stuff, the Cuban stuff, and by the way, how stupid is that? Treating Cuban cigars like they're marijuana in this country," she says. "Someone in the fancy tobacco shop had a lead for him. Then the leads went on and on right down to that gun-and-pawn shop in Hollywood. You know Marino. He's something."

"Whatever," Benton says, and he isn't particularly intetested in the minutiae. She feels what he is interested in and isn't sure what she wants to do about it.

"Give Marino the credit, not me. That's all I'm saying. He's been through it. A little credit would be a good thing for him right now. I'm hungry. What did you cook for me?"

"I've got a grill. I like grilling in the snow on the patio out by the hot tub."

"You and the hot tub. In the cold in the dark with nothing on but a gun."

"I know. I still never use that damn hot tub." He stops at his front door and unlocks it.

They stomp snow off their feet, and there isn't much snow to knock loose because the walk is shoveled, but out of habit and maybe a little self consciousness they stomp their feet before going inside. Benton shuts the door and holds her close to him and they kiss deeply and she doesn't taste salt anymore, just feels his warm, strong tongue and his smooth-shaven face.

"You're letting your hair grow," she says into his mouth, and she runs her fingers through his hair.

"Been busy. Too busy to get it cut," he replies, and his hands are on her, all over her, and her hands are on him, but their coats are in the way.

"Busy shacking up with another woman," she says, helping him off with his coat as he helps her off with her coat, kissing, touching. "I heard."

"You did?"

"I did. Don't cut your hair."

She leans against the front door and cold air seeping in around the door frame doesn't bother her. She hardly notices it, and she holds him by the arms and looks at him, at his mussed-up silver hair and what is in his eyes. He touches her face as he looks at her, and what she sees in his eyes gets deeper and brighter at the same time, and for an instant she can't tell if he's happy or sad.

"Come in," he says with that look in his eyes, and he takes her hand and moves her away from the door and suddenly it is warmer. "I'll get you something to drink. Or to eat. You must be hungry and tired."

"I'm not that tired," she says.