Four Scarpetta Novels (120 page)

T
HE FLUID WHITE
as light and brilliant with sparks. Page forty-seven! Who's there!”

“Jesus Christ!” Eyes flash in the barred window, different eyes this time.

Jean-Baptiste feels the heat of the eyes. They are nothing more than small, weak embers.

“Chandonne, shut up, goddamn it! Shut up with this page-number shit. Goddamn, I'm sick and tired of this page-number shit. You hiding some book in there?” The eyes dart around the cell like sparks scattered by the wind. “And get your filthy hand out of your pants, Mini-Me Dick!”

That familiar hateful laughter. “Mini-Dick, Mini-Dick! Mini-Dick, Mini-Dick . . . !” Beast's is a voice from hell.

Jean-Baptiste has been within twenty feet of Beast. That's how far away the barred window in Jean-Baptiste's door is from the indoor recreation area one floor below him.

There is nothing to do during the one hour a death row inmate with privileges is allowed to spend on the rectangular wooden floor that is securely enclosed by thick wire mesh, like a cage at the zoo. Shooting hoops is popular, or simply walking a mile, which by Jean-Baptiste's calculations
requires approximately seventy laps that no one but he is motivated to do. If Jean-Baptiste runs the laps, which is his habit during the one hour per week he is allowed recreation, he doesn't mind the other men on his cell block who leer out at him, their eyes small hot spots from sun shining through a magnifying glass. They make their usual insolent remarks. The recreation hour is the only opportunity inmates have to chat with and see one another from a distance. Many of these conversations are friendly and even funny. Jean-Baptiste is beyond caring that no one is friendly with him, and that all fun is at his expense.

He is familiar with every detail about Beast, who is not considered a model prisoner but, unlike Jean-Baptiste, has privileges, including daily recreation and, of course, his radio. The first time Jean-Baptiste experienced every detail of Beast's presence was when two guards escorted Beast to the indoor recreation area, where he directed his diseased energy up to Jean-Baptiste's cell door.

Jean-Baptiste's hairy face looked out the bars of his window. It was time to see. One day, Beast might be useful.

“Watch this, No Nuts!” Beast yelled at him, pulling off his shirt and flexing bulging muscles that, like his thick forearms, are almost black with tattoos. He dropped to the concrete floor and fell into one-arm push-ups. Jean-Baptiste's face disappeared from the barred window, but not before he studied Beast carefully. He is smooth-skinned with a blaze of light brown hair that runs from his muscular chest down his belly and disappears into his groin. He is handsome, cruelly so, rather much like a swashbuckler, with a strong jaw, large, bright teeth, a straight nose and intensely cold hazel eyes.

He keeps his hair shorn close to his scalp, and although he appears quite capable of rough sex and beating his woman, one wouldn't be likely to suspect that his preference is abducting young girls, torturing them to death and committing acts of necrophilia on their dead bodies, in some instances returning to the shallow graves where he buried them and
digging them up for further acts of perversion until they are too decomposed for even him to stand it.

Beast is called Beast not because he looks like a beast, but because he digs up carrion like a beast and is rumored to have cannibalized some of his victims, too. Necrophilia, cannibalism and pedophilia are transgressions that are repugnant to the typical violent offender on death row, who might have raped, strangled, slashed, dismembered or chained his victims in a basement (to mention but a few examples), but violating children or dead bodies and eating people are serious enough offenses that a number of the inmates on Beast's cell block would like nothing better than to kill him.

Jean-Baptiste doesn't bide his time imagining creative ways to smash Beast's bones or crush his windpipe—idle fantasies for those who can't get closer than ten feet to Beast. The necessity of keeping inmates separated is obvious. When people are sentenced to die, they obviously have nothing to lose by killing again, although in Jean-Baptiste's way of thinking, he has never had anything to lose, and with nothing to lose, there is nothing to gain, and life does not exist. References to those damned at birth are descriptive and dehumanizing and, in Jean-Baptiste's case, trace back as far as his earliest memories.

Let's see.

He thinks from his magnetizing metal toilet seat. He remembers being three. He remembers his mother roughly ushering him into the bathroom, where he could see the Seine from the window, and inevitably at a very young age connecting the river to bathing. He remembers his mother lathering his frail body with perfumed soap and ordering him to sit as still as a stone while she scraped baby-fine hair from his face, arms, neck, back, legs, feet and on and on with his father's sterling silver–handled straight razor.

Sometimes she would scream at Jean-Baptiste if she accidentally nicked his finger or, occasionally, several fingers, as if her clumsiness was
his fault. Knuckles, in particular, are very difficult. Madame Chandonne's tremors and drunken rages put an end to shaving her ugly son when she almost sliced off Jean-Baptiste's left nipple, and his father had to summon the family physician, Monsieur Raynaud, who coaxed Jean-Baptiste to be
un grand garçon
as the little boy shrieked each time the needle flashed in and out of bloody flesh, reattaching the pale nipple, which dangled by a thread of tissue from Jean-Baptiste's downy breast.

His drunken mother wept and wrung her hands and blamed
le petit monstre vilain
for not sitting still. A servant mopped up the little monster's blood while the little monster's father smoked French cigarettes and complained about the burden of having a son who was born wearing
un costume de singe—
a monkey suit.

Monsieur Chandonne could talk, joke and complain freely with Monsieur Raynaud, the only physician allowed contact with Jean-Baptiste when he, the little monster,
une espèce d'imbecile,
born in a monkey suit, lived in the family
hôtel particulier,
where his bedroom was in the basement. No medical records, including a birth certificate, exist. Monsieur Raynaud made sure of this and ministered to Jean-Baptiste only in emergencies, which did not include the usual illnesses or injuries, such as severe earaches, high fevers, burns, sprained ankles or wrists, a stepped-on nail and other medical misfortunes that send most children to the family doctor. Now Monsieur Raynaud is an old man. He will not dare speak of Jean-Baptiste, even if the press will pay large fees for secrets about his notorious former patient.

S
HAME AND FEAR
overwhelm Lucy.

She has told Berger in detail what happened in room 511 at the Radisson Hotel, but not who actually shot Rocco.

“Who pulled the trigger, Lucy?” Berger insists on knowing.

“It doesn't matter.”

“Since you won't answer the question, I'll assume you did!”

Lucy says nothing.

Berger doesn't move as she looks out at dazzling city lights that give way to the darkness of the Hudson and become the flickering bright urban plains of New Jersey. The space between her and Lucy could not seem more impossible, as if Berger is on the other side of the expansive glass.

Lucy quietly steps closer, wanting to touch the curve of Berger's shoulder, terrified that should she dare, Berger might fall from reach forever, as if she is supported by nothing but air forty-five floors above the streets.

“Marino can't know. Not ever,” Lucy says. “My aunt can't know. Not ever.”

“I should hate you,” Berger says.

She smells faintly of perfume, a strong scent, lightly applied, and it
touches Lucy's thoughts that Berger didn't wear perfume for her husband. He isn't here.

“Call it what you want,” Berger continues. “You and Rudy committed murder.”

“Words,” Lucy replies. “The casualties of war. Self-defense. Judicial homicide. Home protection. We have words, legal excuses for committing acts that should be inexcusable, Jaime. I promise you, there was no joy in it, no delicious flavor of revenge. He was a pitiful coward, blubbering and sorry about only one thing in his entire cruel, worthless life: that it was his turn to pay the price. How could Marino have a son like that? What markers in the human genome came together to spew out Rocco?”

“Who else knows?”

“Rudy. Now you . . .”

“Anyone else? Were you given instructions?” Berger presses on.

Lucy thinks about Benton's staged murder, about many events and conversations that she can never tell Berger. A tyrant of anguish and rage has ruled Lucy for years.

“There are others involved, indirectly involved. I can't talk about it. Really,” Lucy says.

Berger doesn't know that Benton isn't dead.

“Oh, fuck. What
others
?”

“I said
indirectly.
I can't tell you anything else. I won't.”

“People who give secret orders tend to vanish in the light of exposure. Are these your
others
? People who have given secret orders?”

“Not directly about Rocco.” She thinks about Senator Lord, about the Chandonne cartel. “Let me just say that there are people who wanted Rocco dead. I just never had enough information to do anything about it until now. When Chandonne wrote to me, he told me what I needed to know.”

“I see. And Jean-Baptiste Chandonne is credible. Of course, all psychopaths are. Whoever else is
indirectly
involved has already vanished. You can count on that.”

“I don't know. There are instructions about the Chandonne cartel. Oh, yes. There have been for a long time. Years. I did what I could while I was ATF, down in Miami. But it wasn't working. Rules.”

“That's right. You and rules,” Berger says coldly.

“Until Rocco, I have been ineffective.”

“Well, you certainly were effective this time. Tell me something, Lucy. Do you think you'll get away with it?”

“Yes.”

“You and Rudy made mistakes,” Berger says. “You left your tactical baton and had to go back to get it, and you were seen by several people. Never good, never good. And you staged the death scene—quite expertly, quite cleverly. Maybe too expertly, too cleverly. I would wonder about a room, a gun, a champagne bottle, et cetera, so clean that only Rocco's fingerprints are on them. I would wonder about advanced decomposition that seems to conflict with time of death. And flies, so damn many flies. Blow flies aren't terribly fond of cool weather.”

“In Europe, they are more accustomed to cooler weather. As low as forty-eight degrees. The common bluebottle variety, blow fly. Of course, warmer temperatures are better.”

“You must have learned that from your aunt Kay. She would be proud of you.”

“You would wonder.” Lucy gets back to mistakes. “You wonder about everything. That's why you're who you are.”

“Don't underestimate the Polish authorities and medical experts, Lucy. You may not have heard the last of this. And if anything points back to you, I can't help you. I have to consider this conversation privileged. Right now, I am your lawyer. Not a prosecutor. It's a lie. But I will somehow live with it.

“But whoever has given you directives, I don't care how long ago, will not return your secret phone calls now, won't even know your name, will frown and shrug in some cabinet meeting or over drinks at the Palm, or worse, laugh it off. The story of some overzealous private investigator.”

“It won't happen like that.”

Berger slowly turns around and grabs Lucy's wrists. “Are you so goddamn sure of yourself that you're stupid? How can anyone so smart be so stupid?”

The blood rises to Lucy's cheeks.

“The world is full of users. They'll seduce you into the most outrageous acts for the sake of liberty and justice for all, and then they dissolve like mist. Prove to be fantasies. You begin to wonder if they were ever real, and as you rot away in a federal prison somewhere or, God forbid, are extradited to a foreign country, you will slowly but surely believe it was all a delusion, because everybody else believes you are delusional, some nutcase who committed murder because she was on some secret mission for the CIA, the FBI, the fucking Pentagon, Her Majesty's Secret Service, the Easter Bunny.”

“Stop it,” Lucy exclaims. “It's not like that.”

Berger's hands move up to Lucy's shoulders. “For the first time in your life,
listen
to someone!”

Lucy blinks back tears.

“Who?” Berger demands to know. “Who sent you on this goddamn horrific mission? Is it someone I know?”

“Please stop it! I can't and won't ever tell you! There's so much . . . Jaime, you're better off not knowing. Please trust me.”

“Jesus!” Berger's grip lightens, but she doesn't let go of her. “Jesus, Lucy. Look at you. You're shaking like a leaf.”

“You can't do this.” Lucy angrily steps away. “I'm not a child. When you touch me . . .” She steps back some more. “When you touch me, it means something different. It still does. So don't. Don't.”

“I know what it means,” Berger says. “I'm sorry.”