Cruel and Unusual - Cornwell Patricia - Страница 29

I did not reply.

“Very thorough of you, Dr. Scarpetta. Perhaps you learned something new about those injuries we discussed, the abrasions to the inner aspects of Mr. Waddell's arms? The antecubitalfossas?”

“Please give me your fax number again,” I said quietly.

He recited it for me. The number matched the one on my list.

“Is the fax machine in your office or do you share it with other attorneys, Mr. Grueman?”

“It's right next to my desk. No need to mark anything for my attention. Just send it on - and do put a rush on it please, Dr. Scarpetta. I was thinking of going home soon.”

I left the office a little later, frustration having driven me out the door. I could not get Marino. There was nothing more I could do. I felt caught in a web of bizarre connections, clueless as to the point in common they shared.

On impulse I pulled into a lot of West Cary where an old man was selling wreaths and Christmas trees. He looked like a lumberjack from a fable as he sat on a stool in the midst of his small forest, the cold air fragrant with evergreen. Perhaps my shunning of the Christmas spirit finally had gotten to me. Or maybe I simply wanted a distraction. At this late date, there wasn't much of a selection, those trees passed over, misshapen or dying, each destined to sit out the season, I suspected, except for the one I chose. It would have been lovely were it not scoliotic. Decorating it proved more an orthopedic challenge than a festive ritual, but with ornaments and strands of lights strategically hung and wire straightening the problem places, it stood proudly in my living room.

“There,” I said to Lucy as I stepped back to admire my work. “What do you think?”

“I think it's weird that you suddenly decided to get a tree on Christmas Eve. When was the last time you had one? “I suppose when I was married.”

“Is that where the ornaments came from?”

“Back then I went to a lot of trouble at Christmas.”

“Which is why you don't anymore.”

“I'm much busier than I was back then,” I said.

Lucy opened the fireplace screen and rearranged logs with the poker. “Did you and Mark ever spend Christmas together?”

“Don't you remember? We came down to see you last Christmas.”

“No, you didn't. You came for three days after Christmas and flew home on New Year's Day.”

“He was with his family on Christmas Day.”

“You weren't invited?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Mark came from an old Boston family. They had certain ways of doing things. What did you decide about this evening? Did my jacket with the black velvet collar fit?”

“I haven't tried anything. Why do we have to go to all these places?”

Lucy sail. “I won't know anybody.”

“It's not that bad. I simply have to drop off a present to someone who's pregnant and probably not coming back to work. And I need to show the flag at a neighborhood party. I accepted the invitation before I knew you were going to be visiting. You certainly don't have to come with me.”

“I'd rather stay here,” she said. “I wish I could get started on AFIS.”

“Patience,” I told her, though I did not feel patient at all.

In the late afternoon, I left another message with the dispatcher and decided that either Marino's pager wasn't working or he was too busy to find a pay phone. Candles glowed in my neighbors' windows, an oblong moon shining high above trees. I played that Christmas music of Pavarotti and the New York Philharmonic, doing what I could to get into the proper frame of mind as I showered and dressed. The party I was to attend did not begin until seven. That gave me enough time to drop off Susan's gift and have a word with her.

She surprised me by answering the phone, and sounded reluctant and tense when I asked if I could drop by.

“Jason's out,” she said, as if that mattered somehow. “He went to the mall.”

“Well, I have a few things for you,” I explained.

“What things?”

“Christmas things. I'm supposed to go to a party, so I won't stay long. Is that all right?”

“I guess. I mean, that's nice.”

I had forgotten she lived in Southside, where I rarely went and was inclined to get lost. Traffic was worse than I had feared, the Midlothian Turnpike choked with last minute shoppers prepared to run you off the road as they ran their Happy Holidays errands. Parking lots swarmed with cars, stores and malls so garishly lit up it was enough to make you blind. Susan's neighborhood was very dark and twice I had to pull over and turn on the interior light to read her directions. After much riding around, I finally found her tiny ranch-style house sandwiched between two others that looked exactly like it.

“Hi,” I said, peering at her through leaves of the pink poinsettia in my arms.

She nervously locked the door and showed me to the living room. Pushing books and magazines aside, she set the poinsettia on the coffee table.

“How are you feeling?”

I asked.

“Better. Would you like something to drink? Here, let me take your coat.”

“Thanks. Nothing to drink. I can't stay but a minute.”

I handed her a package. “A little something I picked up when I was in San Francisco last summer.”

I sat on the couch.

“Wow. You really do your shopping early.”

She avoided my eyes as she curled up in a wing chair. “You want me to open it now?'

“Whatever you'd like.”

She carefully sliced through tape with a thumbnail and slipped off the satin ribbon intact. Smoothing the paper into a neat rectangle, as if she planned to reuse it, she placed it in her lap and opened the black box.

“Oh,” she said under her breath, unfolding the red silk scarf.

“I thought it would look good with your black coat,” I said. “I don't know about you, but I don't like wool against my skin.”

“This is beautiful. It's really thoughtful of you, Dr. Scarpetta. I've never had anybody bring me something from San Francisco before.”

The expression of her face pricked my heart, and suddenly my surroundings came into sharper focus. Susan was wearing a yellow terry cloth robe, frayed at the cuffs, and a pair of black socks that I suspected belonged to her husband. Furniture was scarred and cheap, upholstery shiny. The artificial Christmas tree near the small TV was scanty decorated and missing several limbs. There were few presents underneath. Propped against a wall was a folded crib that was dearly secondhand.

Susan caught me glancing around and looked ill at ease.

“Everything is so immaculate,” I said.

“You know how I am. Obsessive-compulsive.”

“Thankfully. If a morgue can look terrific, ours does.”

She carefully folded the scarf and returned it to its box. Pulling her robe more tightly around her, she stared silently at the poinsettia.

“Susan,” I said gently, “do you want to talk about what's going on?”

She did not look at me.

“It's not like you to get upset as you did the other morning. It's not like you to miss work and then quit without so much as calling me.”

She took a deep breath. “I'm really sorry. I just can't seem to handle things too well these days. I really react. Like when I was reminded of Judy.”

“I know your sister's death must have been terrible for you.”

“We were twins. Not identical. Judy was a lot prettier than me. That was part of the problem. Doreen was jealous of her.”

I liked Susan and I felt hurt and deeply troubled. She was not being honest with me.

“Is there anything else you'd like to tell me about?”

I asked, my eyes not leaving her.

She glanced at me and I saw fear. “I can't think of anything.”

I heard a car door shut.

“Jason's home,” she barely said.

Our conversation had ended, and as I got up I said quietly to her, “Please contact me if you need anything, Susan. A reference, or just to talk. You know where I am.”