Blow Fly

Should anyone look out the window, the man in black may very well appear to be a Chando

120

SCARPETTA CANT RELEASE Albert Dard from her mind. She imagines the scars on his little body and is well aware that self-mutilation is an addiction, and if he continues hurting himself it seems likely that he will be committed to psychiatric hospitals again and again until he becomes as mentally ill as those patients whose diagnoses justify their being institutionalized.

Albert Dard doesn't need to be committed. He needs help. He needs for someone to at least attempt to find out why his anxiety increased so severely a year ago that he shut down, repressed his feelings and perhaps memories to such an extreme that now he needs self-inflicted pain to experience control, a brief release and an affirmation of his own existence. Scarpetta recalls the boy's almost dissociated state on the plane while he played with trading cards, violent ones relating to an ax. She envisions his extreme distress at the thought of no one meeting him, of an abandonment that she doubts is anything new.

With each passing moment, she becomes increasingly angry at those who are supposed to take care of him and frightened for his safety.

Digging inside her pocketbook as she drinks coffee in Dr. Laniers guest house, she finds the telephone number she wrote down when Albert waited for an aunt who did not intend to pick him up, but orchestrated events so that Scarpetta would take care of him. It no longer matters what manipulations or conspiracies were on Mrs. Guidon's mind. Perhaps it was all a lure to get Scarpetta to that house to see what she knows about Charlotte Dard's death. Perhaps Mrs. Guidon is now satisfied that Scarpetta knows nothing more about the death than has ever been known.

She dials the number and is startled when Albert answers the phone.

"It's the lady who sat next to you on the plane," she says.

"Hi!" he greets her, surprised and very pleased. "How come you're calling me? My aunt said you wouldn't."

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. She went outside."

"Did she leave the house in her car?"

"No."

"I've been thinking about you, Albert," Scarpetta says. "I'm still in town, but I'm leaving soon, and wondered if I could come by for a visit."

"Now?" The thought seems to make him happy. "You'd come see just me?"

"Would that be all right?"

He eagerly says it would.

121

BENTON QUIETLY, CAREFULLY OPENS the wine cellar door, his Sig Sauer drawn and cocked as he stands to one side of the narrow opening.

The conversation just beyond stops, and a male voice says, "You didn't shut it all the way."

Feet sound on steps, maybe five steps, and a hand, most likely Weldon Wi

"Get up," Benton says to Wi

"I'm hurt." He looks up as Benton stands on the top step, shutting the door behind him, while he keeps the pistol pointed at Wi

"I don't give a goddamn if you're hurt. Get up."

Benton takes off his baseball cap and tosses it on top of Wi

"It can't be you," he says in awe. "It can't be!"

All the while this is going on, Benton listens for footsteps, for whoever escaped. He hears no one.

The small, windowless space has a cobweb-covered naked lightbulb overhead and a small, very old cypress table, covered with dark rings left by the countless bottles of wine that were tasted in here. Walls are damp stone, and attached to the one on the left of Benton are four iron rings in eyebolts. They are very old, but most of the rust is worn off. Nearby on the floor are coils of yellow nylon rope and an electrical receptacle.

"Get up," Benton says again. "Who else is down here? Who were you just talking to?"

The injured Weldon Wi

Benton shoots him twice, once in the chest, once in the head, before Wi

122

MARINO'S PERSONAL PAYLOAD is enough to slow the helicopter by five knots.

Lucy isn't concerned. In this weather, she wouldn't push her machine up to maximum speed. There is no point in rushing to run into an ante

"I don't like this," Marino's nervous voice sounds in Lucy's headset.

"You're not the one flying. Relax. Enjoy the flight. Can I get you anything, sir?"

"How 'bout a fucking parachute?"

Lucy smiles as both she and Rudy keep up their scan outside the cockpit.

"You mind if I let go of the controls for a minute?" she says to Rudy for Marino's benefit.

"You're shitting me!" Marino yells.

"Ouch." Lucy turns down the volume in her headset while Rudy takes the controls. "It's your ship." She repeats the standard line, ensuring that the other pilot knows for a fact that he's supposed to be flying at that precise moment.

Turning a small knob on her emergency watch, she changes the upper display to chronograph mode.

Nic has never been up in a helicopter, and she tells Marino to stop making matters worse.

"If we aren't safe with them," Nic says, "we aren't safe with anyone. Besides, you're more likely to get hit by a car than crash in this weather."

"That's a bunch of shit. There ain't no cars up here. And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't use the crash word."

"Concentrate," Lucy tells everyone, and she's not smiling now as she glances at the GPS.

Yesterday, when she and Marino flew here and found the northwesternmost edge of the lake, she entered the coordinates into the GPS.

"We're exactly on track."

Descending to three hundred feet and slowing to eighty knots, she catches a glimpse of Lake Maurepas between rolling fog. The water is almost below them. Thank God. No fear of ante

"Nic?" Lucy asks. "You hearing me?"

"Yes," her voice comes back.

"Recognize anything down there?"

Lucy slows to sixty knots. If she reduces her airspeed more than that, she'll go ahead and hover, but she prefers not to do so out of ground effect with such poor visibility.

"Can you go back a little ways so we can find Blind River?" she asks. "Dutch Bayou branches off it right at the edge of the lake."

"Which direction?" Lucy slowly banks the helicopter around, not thrilled about returning to land at this altitude, grateful that yesterday she was fastidious about noting the locations of any obstacles.

Nic pauses, then her voice returns. "Well, if you follow the river toward the lake, Dutch Bayou would be at about three o'clock. To your right," she tells Lucy.