Pas la police . . .
Perhaps we were trying to make his modus operandi far too complicated.
Pas de probléme . . . Le Loup-Garou.
Perhaps it was as simple as a raging, murderous lust he could not control. Once the monster in him was aroused by someone, there was no escape. I was certain if he were still in France, Dr. Stvan would be dead. Perhaps when he fled to Richmond, he thought he could control himself for a while. And maybe he did for three days. Or maybe he had been watching Kim Luong the entire time, fantasizing until he couldn’t resist the evil impulse any longer.
I hurried back to my taxi and the windows were so fogged up I could not see through them as I pulled open the back door. Inside, the heater was blasting, my driver half asleep. He sat up with a start and swore.
38
Concorde flight 2 left Charles de Gaulle airport at eleven and arrived in New York at 8:45 A.M., Eastern Standard time, which was before we’d left; in a sense. I walked into my house mid-afternoon terribly out of, sorts, my body confused about time, my emotions screaming. The weather was getting bad, with predictions of freezing rain and sleet again, and I had errands to run. Marino went home. He had that big truck, after all.
Ukrops grocery store was mobbed because whenever sleet or snow was predicted, Richmonders lost their minds. They envisioned starving to death or having nothing to drink, and by the time I got to the bread section, there wasn’t a single loaf left. There was no turkey or ham in the deli. I bought whatever I could, because I expected Lucy to stay with me for a while.
I headed home a little past six and didn’t have the energy to negotiate a peace settlement with my garage. So I parked my car out front. Wispy white clouds over the moon looked exactly like a skull, then shifted and were formless, rushing on as the wind blew harder,’trees shivering and whispering. I felt achy and woozy as if I might be getting sick, and I got increasingly worried when once again Lucy didn’t call or come home.
I assumed she was at MCV, but when I contacted the Orthopedic Unit, I was told she hadn’t been there since yesterday morning. I began to get frantic. I paced the great room and thought hard. It was almost ten o’clock when I got back in my car and drove toward downtown, tension stringing me so tight I thought I might snap.
I knew it was possible Lucy had gone on to D.C., but I couldn’t imagine her doing that without at least leaving me a note. Whenever she disappeared without a word, it never meant anything good. I turned off on the Ninth Street exit and drove through downtown’s vacant streets and wandered through several levels of the hospital’s parking deck before I found a space. I grabbed a lab coat off the backseat of my car.
The orthopedic unit was in the new hospital, on the second floor, and when I got to the room I slipped my lab coat on and opened the door. A couple I assumed was Jo’s parents were inside, sitting by the bed, and I walked over to them. Jo’s head was bandaged, her leg in traction, but she was awake and her eyes immediately fixed on me.
“Mr. and Mrs. Sanders?” I said. “I’m Dr. Scarpetta.”
If my name meant anything to them, they didn’t acknowledge it, but Mr. Sanders politely stood and shook my hand.
“Nice to meet you,” he said.
He wasn’t at all what I’d envisioned. I suppoqed after Jo’s description of her parents’ rigid attitudes, I expected stern faces and eyes that judged everything they saw. But Mr. and Mrs. Sanders were overweight and frumpy, not formidablelooking in the least. They were very polite, even shy, as I asked them about their daughter. Jo continued to stare at me, a look in her eyes that called out to me to help.
“Would you mind if I speak to the patient in private for a moment?” I asked them.