Страница 44 из 70
No one speaks of the women.
But we all know they were there, soft flesh and smooth skin, their perfume wafting through history’s pages. We all know, though we may not speak of it, that war’s savagery is not confined to the battlefield. That when the last enemy soldier has fallen, and one army stands victorious, it is toward the conquered women that the army next turns its attentions.
So it has always been, though the brutal reality is seldom mentioned in the history books. Instead, I read of wars that are as shiny as brass, with glory for all. Of Greeks battling under the watchful eyes of the Gods, and of the fall of Troy, which the poet Virgil tells us was a war fought by heroes: Achilles and Hector, Ajax and Odysseus, names now enshrined for eternity. He writes of clanging swords and flying arrows and blood-soaked earth.
He leaves out the best parts.
It is the playwright Euripides who tells us of the aftermath for the Trojan women, but even he is circumspect. He does not dwell on the titillating details. He tells us that a terrified Cassandra was dragged from Athena’s temple by a Greek chieftain, but we are left to fantasize about what comes next. The tearing open of her robes, the baring of her skin. His thrusts between her virgin thighs. Her shrieks of pain and despair.
Across the fallen city of Troy, such shrieks would have echoed from other women’s throats, as the victorious Greeks took what was due them, marking their victory in the flesh of conquered women. Were any men of Troy left alive to watch? The ancients do not mention it. But what better way to crow victory than to abuse the body of your enemy’s beloved? What more powerful proof is there that you have defeated him, humiliated him, than force him to watch as you take your pleasure, again and again?
This much I understand: triumph requires an audience.
I am thinking of the Trojan women as our car glides.along Commonwealth Avenue, steady with the flow of traffic. It is a busy road, and even at nine p.m., cars move slowly, giving me time to leisurely study the building.
The windows are dark; neither Catherine Cordell nor her new husband are at home.
That’s all I allow myself, that one look, and then the building slides out of view. I know the block is being watched, yet I could not resist that glimpse of her fortress, as impregnable as the walls of any castle. An empty castle, now, no longer of any interest to those who would storm it.
I look at my driver, whose face is hidden in shadow. I see only a silhouette and the gleam of eyes, like two hungry sparks in the night.
On the Discovery Cha
The same hunger he surely sees in mine.
I roll down my window and inhale deeply as the warm scent of the city wafts in. The lion, sniffing the air over the sava
FIFTEEN
They drove together in Dean’s car, heading west toward the town of Shirley, forty-five miles from Boston. Dean said little during the drive, but the silence between them only seemed to magnify her awareness of his scent, his calm assurance. She scarcely gave him a glance for fear he’d see, in her eyes, the turmoil he’d inspired.
Instead, she glanced down and saw dark-blue carpet at her feet. She wondered if it was nylon six, six, #802 blue, wondered how many cars had similar carpeting. Such a popular color; it seemed that everywhere she looked now, she saw blue carpets, and imagined countless shoe soles trailing #802 nylon fibers all over the streets of Boston.
The air conditioner was too cold; she shut the vent by her knees and stared out at fields of tall grass, longing to feel the heat outside this overcooled bubble. Outside, morning haze hung like gauze over green fields and trees stood motionless, their leaves unstirred by even the faintest breeze. Rizzoli seldom ventured into rural Massachusetts. She was a city girl, born and bred, and she felt no affinity for the countryside with its empty spaces and biting bugs. Nor did she feel its lure today.
Last night, she had not slept well. She had startled awake several times, had lain with heart pounding as she listened for footsteps, for the whisper of an intruder’s breath. At five A.M. she rose from bed feeling drugged and unrested. Only after two cups of coffee had she felt alert enough to call the hospital and ask about Korsak’s condition.
He was still in the ICU. Still on a ventilator.
She lowered the window a crack and warm air blew in, smelling of grass and earth. She considered the sad possibility that Korsak might never again enjoy such smells or feel the wind in his face. She tried to remember if the last words they’d exchanged were good ones, friendly ones, but she could not remember.
At Exit 36, Dean followed the signs to MCI-Shirley. Souza-Baranowski, the level-six security facility where Warren Hoyt had been housed, loomed off to their right. He parked in the visitors’ lot and turned to look at her.
“You feel the need to walk out any time,” he said, “just do it.”
“Why are you expecting me to bail?”
“Because I know what he did to you. Anyone in your position would have problems working this case.”
She saw genuine concern in his eyes, and she did not want it; it only reinforced how fragile was her courage.
“Let’s just do it, okay?” she said, and shoved open her car door. Pride kept her walking with grim determination into the building. It propelled her through the security check-in at the outer control desk, where she and Dean presented their badges and handed in their weapons. As they waited for an escort, she read the Dress Code, posted in the visitor process area:
The following items are not allowed to be worn by any visitor: Bare feet. Bathing suits or shorts. Any clothing that displays gang affiliation. Any clothing similar to that issued to an inmate or uniformed perso
The list was endless, proscribing everything from hair ribbons to underwire bras.
A corrections officer finally appeared, a heavyset man dressed in MCI summer blues. “Detective Rizzoli and Agent Dean? I’m Officer Curtis. Come this way.”
Curtis was friendly, even jovial, as he escorted them through the first locked door and into the pedestrian trap. Rizzoli wondered if he would be so pleasant if they were not law enforcement officers, part of the same brotherhood. He told them to remove their belts, shoes, jackets, watches, and keys and to place them on the table for his examination. Rizzoli took off her Timex and laid it down next to Dean’s gleaming Omega. Then she proceeded to shrug off her blazer, just as Dean was doing. There was something uncomfortably intimate about the process. As she unbuckled her belt and pulled it out of her trouser loops, she felt Curtis staring at her, the way a man watches a woman undress. She took off her low-heeled pumps, set them down beside Dean’s shoes, and coolly met Officer Curtis’s gaze. Only then did he avert his eyes. Next, she turned her pockets inside out and followed Dean through the metal detector.
“Hey, lucky you,” said Curtis as she stepped through. “You just missed being the patdown search of the day.”
“What?”
“Every day, our shift commander sets a random number for which visitor gets patted down. You just missed it. Next person who comes through’s go