“Don’t worry. And you’d better get hold of Dr. Mant.”
I tried the number for his mother’s flat in London, but there was no answer, and I left an urgent message. There were so many calls to make, and I was drained. I sat next to Lucy on the couch.
“How are you doing?” I said.
“Well, I looked at the catechism but I don’t think I’m ready to be confirmed.”
“I hope someday you will be.”
“I have a headache that won’t go away.”
“You deserve one.”
“You’re absolutely right.” She rubbed her temples.
“Why do you do it after all you’ve been through?
could not help but ask.
“I don’t always know why. Maybe because I have to be such a tight-ass all the time. Same thing with a lot of the agents. We run and lift and do everything right. Then we blow it off on Friday night.”
“Well, at least you were in a safe place to do that this time.”
“Don’t you ever lose control?” She met my eyes. “Because I’ve never seen it.”
“I’ve never wanted you to see it,” I said. “That’s all you ever saw with your mother, and you’ve needed someone to feel safe with.”
“But you didn’t answer my question.” She held my gaze.
“What? Have I ever been drunk?”
She nodded.
“It isn’t something to be proud of, and I’m going to bed.” I got up.
“More than once?” Her voice followed me as I walked off.
I stopped in the doorway and faced her. “Lucy, throughout my long, hard life there isn’t much I haven’t done. And I have never judged you for anything you’ve done. I’ve only worried when I thought your behavior placed you in harm’s way.” I spoke in understatements yet again.
“Are you worried about me now?”
I smiled a little. “I will worry about you for the rest of my life.”
I went to my room and shut the door. I placed my Browning by my bed and took a Benadryl because otherwise I would not sleep the few hours that were left. When I awakened at dawn, I was sitting up with the lamp on, the latest Journal of the American Bar Association still in my lap. I got up and walked out into the hall where I was surprised to find Lucy’s door open. her bed unmade. She was not in the gathering room on the couch, and I hurried into the dining room at the front of the house. I stared out windows at an empty expanse of frosted brick pavers and grass , and it was obvious the Suburban had been gone for some time.
“Lucy,” I muttered as if she could hear me. “Damn you, Lucy,” I said.
I WAS TEN MINUTES LATE FOR STAFF MEETING, WHICH WAS unusual, but no one commented or seemed to care. The murder of Danny Webster was heavy in the air as if tragedy might suddenly rain down on us all. My staff was slowmoving and stunned, no one thinking very clearly. After all these years, Rose had brought me coffee and had forgotten I drink it black.
The conference room, which had been recently refurbished, seemed very cozy with its deep blue carpet, long new table and dark paneling. But anatomical models on tables and the human skeleton beneath his plastic shroud were reminders of the hard realities discussed in here. Of course, there were no windows, and art consisted of portraits of previous chiefs, all of them men who stared sternly down at us from the walls.
Seated on either side of me this morning were my chief and assistant chief administrators, and the chief toxicologist from the Division of Forensic Science upstairs. Fielding, to my left, was eating plain yogurt with a plastic spoon, while next to him sat the assistant chief and the new fellow, who was a woman.
“I know you’ve heard the terrible news about Danny Webster,” I somberly proceeded from the head of the table.
where I always sat. “Needless to say, it is impossible to describe how a senseless death like this affects each one of us.
“Dr. Scarpetta,” said the assistant chief, “is there anything new?”