Body of Evidence. Patricia D Cornwell

It wasn’t until Mark and I were in our room, drinking wine together, that I asked the question.

“What next, Mark?”

“Washington,” he said, turning away to look out the window. “In fact, tomorrow. I’ll be debriefed, repro-grammed.”

He took a deep breath. “Hell, I don’t know what I’ll do after that.”

“What do you want to do after that?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Kay. Who knows where they’ll send me?”

He continued staring out at the night. “And I know you’re not going to leave Richmond.”

“No, I can’t leave Richmond. Not now. My work is my life, Mark.”

“It’s always been your life,” he said. “My work is my life, too. That leaves very little room for diplomacy.”

His words, his face were breaking my heart. I knew he was right. When I tried to speak again, the tears came.

We held each other tightly until he fell asleep in my arms. Gently disengaging myself, I got up and returned to the window, where I sat smoking, my mind obsessively turning over many things until dawn began to pink the sky.

I took a long shower. The hot water soothed me and reinforced my resolve. Refreshed and robed, I left the humid bathroom to find Mark up and ordering breakfast.

“I’m returning to Richmond,” I announced firmly, sitting next to him on the bed.

He frowned. “Not a good idea, Kay.”

“I’ve found the manuscript, you’re leaving, and I don’t want to wait here alone expecting Frankie, Scott Partin, or even Sparacino himself to show up,” I explained.

“They haven’t found Frankie. It’s too risky. I’ll arrange for your protection here,” he protested. “Or in Miami. That’s probably better. You could stay with your family for a while.”

“No.”

“Kay–”

“Mark, Frankie may already have left Richmond. They may not find him for weeks. They may never find him. What am I supposed to do, hide in Florida forever?”

Leaning back into the pillows, he didn’t respond.

I reached for his hand. “I won’t allow my life, my career to be disrupted like this, and I refuse to be intimidated any longer. I’ll call Marino and arrange for him to meet me at the airport.”

He wrapped both of his hands around mine. Looking into my eyes, he said, “Come back with me to D.C. Or you can stay at Quantico for a while.”

I shook my head. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, Mark.”

He pulled me close. “I can’t stop thinking about what happened to Beryl.”

Neither could I.

We kissed good-bye at the Miami airport, and I walked quickly away from him and did not look back. I was awake only during the interval when I changed planes in Atlanta. The rest of the time I slept in my seat, physically and emotionally drained.

Marino met me at the gate. For once he seemed to sense my mood and followed me patiently and in silence through the terminal. The Christmas decorations and merchandise in the airport’s shop windows only fed my depression. I wasn’t looking forward to the holidays. I wasn’t sure how or when Mark and I would see each other again. To make matters worse, when Marino and I got to the baggage area we spent an hour watching luggage make its lazy rounds on a carousel. It gave Marino an opportunity to debrief me while I got increasingly out of sorts. Finally, I reported my suitcase missing. After the tedium of filling out a detailed multiple-part form, I retrieved my car and, with Marino once again tailing me, drove home. The dark, rainy night blessedly obscured the damage to the front yard as we parked in my driveway. Marino had reminded me earlier that they’d had no luck locating Frankie while I was away. He wasn’t taking any chances.

After shining his flashlight over my property in search of broken windows or anything else hinting of an intruder, he took me through my house, turning on lights in each room, checking closets and even looking under the beds.

We were heading to the kitchen and thinking about coffee when we both recognized the code blaring out of his portable radio.

“Two-fifteen, ten-thirty-three–“