Body of Evidence
Patricia D Cornwell
Body of Evidence
Patricia D Cornwell
Kay Scarpetta #2
PROLOGUE
August 13
KEY WEST
Dear M,
Thirty days have passed in measured shades of sunlit color and changes in the wind. I think too much and do not dream.
Most afternoons I’m at Louie’s writing on the porch and looking out at the sea. The water is mottled emerald green over the mosaic of sandbars, and aqua as it deepens. The sky goes on forever, clouds white puffs always moving like smoke. A constant breeze washes out the sounds of people swimming and sailboats anchoring just beyond the reef. The porch is covered and when a sudden storm whips up, as it often does late afternoon, I stay at my table smelling the rain and watching it turn the water nappy like fur rubbed the wrong way. Sometimes it pours and the sun shines at the same time.
Nobody bothers me. By now I am part of the restaurant’s family, like Zulu, the black Lab who splashes after Frisbees, and the stray cats who silently wander up to politely wait for scraps. Louie’s four-legged wards eat better than any human. It is a comfort to watch the world treat its creatures kindly. I cannot complain about my days.
It is the nights I dread.
When my thoughts creep back into dark crevices and spin their fearful webs I pitch myself into crowded Old Town streets, drawn to noisy bars like a moth to light. Walt and PJ have refined my nocturnal habits to an art. Walt returns to the rooming house first, at twilight because his silver jewelry business in Mallory Square grinds to a halt after dark. We open bottles of beer and wait for PJ. Then out we go, bar to bar, usually ending up at Sloppy Joe’s. We are becoming inseparable. I hope the two of them will always be inseparable. Their love no longer seems out of the ordinary to me. Nothing does, except the death I see.
Men emaciated and wan, their eyes windows through which I see tormented souls. AIDS is a holocaust consuming the offerings of this small island. Odd I should feel at home with the exiled and the dying. I may be survived by all of them. When I lie awake at night listening to the whirring of the window fan I’m seized by images of how it will happen.
Every time I hear a telephone ring, I remember. Every time I hear someone walking behind me, I turn around. At night I look in my closet, behind the curtain and under my bed, then prop a chair in front of the door.
Dear God, I don’t want to go home.
Beryl
September 30 KEY WEST
Dear M,
Yesterday at Louie’s, Brent came out to the porch and said the phone was for me. My heart raced as I went inside and was answered by long distance static and the line going dead.
The way that made me feel! I’ve been telling myself I’m too paranoid. He would have said something, and delighted in my fear. It’s impossible he knows where I am, impossible he could have tracked me here. One of the waiters is named Stu. He recently broke off with a friend up north, then moved here. Maybe his friend called and the connection was bad. It sounded like he asked for “Straw” instead of “Stu,” and then when I answered he hung up.
I wish I had never told anyone my nickname. I am Beryl. I am Straw. I am frightened.
The book isn’t finished. But I’m almost out of money, and the weather has turned. This morning it’s dark and there’s a fierce wind. I’ve stayed in my room because if I tried to work at Louie’s the pages would blow out to sea. Streetlights have blinked on. Palm trees are struggling against the wind, fronds like inside-out umbrellas. The world moans outside my window like something wounded, and when the rain hits the glass it sounds as if a dark army has marched in and Key West is under siege.
I must leave soon. I will miss the island. I will miss PI and Walt. They have made me feel cared for and safe. I don’t know what I’ll do when I get back to Richmond. Perhaps I should move right away, but I don’t know where I will go.