‘I don’t know why we’re in this crib,’ he said, handing her the stack. ‘I wish someone would tell me.’
‘There’s just one child here,’ the social worker went on. ‘So we don’t need all of these.’ She acted as if Marino hadn’t followed instructions as she took one folded blanket and handed the rest back.
‘There’s supposed to be four kids here. I’m telling you, this crib ain’t on the list.’ Marino grumbled.
A reporter came up to me. ‘Excuse me, Dr. Scarpetta? So what brings you out this night? You waiting for someone to die?’
He was with the city newspaper, which had never treated me kindly. I pretended not to hear him. Sheriff Santa disappeared into the kitchen, and I thought this odd since he did not live here and had not asked permission. But the grandmother on the couch was in no frame of mind to see or care where he had gone.
I knelt beside Trevi, alone on the floor, lost in the wonder of new toys. ‘That’s quite a fire truck you’ve got there,’ I said.
‘It lights up.’ He showed me a red light on the toy truck’s roof that flashed when he turned a switch.
Marino got down beside him, too. ‘They give you any extra batteries for that thing?’ He tried to sound gruff, but couldn’t disguise the smile in his voice. ‘You gotta get the size right. See this little compartment here? They go in there, okay? And you got to use size C . . .’
The first gunshot sounded like a car backfire coming from the kitchen. Marino’s eyes froze as he yanked his pistol from its holster and Trevi curled up on the floor like a centipede. I folded my body over the boy, gunshots exploding in rapid succession as the magazine of a semiautomatic was emptied somewhere near the back door.
‘Get downl GET DOWN!’
‘Oh my God!’
‘Oh Jesus!’
Cameras, microphones crashed and fell as people screamed and fought for the door and got flat on the floor.
‘EVERYBODY GET DOWN!’
Marino headed toward the kitchen in combat stance, nine-millimeter drawn. The gunfire stopped and the room fell completely still.
I scooped up Trevi, my heart hammering. I began shaking. Grandmother remained on the couch, bent over, arms covering her head as if her plane were about to crash. I sat next to her, holding the boy close. He was rigid, his grandmother sobbing in terror.
‘Oh Jesus. Please no Jesus.’ She moaned and rocked.
‘It’s all right,’ I firmly told her.
‘Not no more of this! I can’t stand no more of this. Sweet Jesusl’
I held her hand. ‘It’s going to be all right. Listen to me. It’s quiet now. It’s stopped.’
She rocked and wept, Trevi hugging her neck.
Marino reappeared in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, face tense, eyes darting. ‘Doc.’ He motioned to me.
I followed him out to a paltry backyard strung with sagging clotheslines, where snow swirled around a dark heap on the frosted grass. The victim was young, black and on his back, eyes barely open as they stared blindly at the milky sky. His blue down vest bore tiny rips. One bullet had entered through his right cheek, and as I compressed his chest and blew air into his mouth, blood covered my hands and instantly turned cold on my face. I could not save him. Sirens wailed and whelped in the night like a posse of wild spirits protesting another death.
I sat up, breathing hard. Marino helped me to my feet as shapes moved in the corner of my eye. I turned to see three officers leading Sheriff Santa away in handcuffs. His stocking cap had come off and I spotted it not far from me in the yard where shell casings gleamed in the beam of Marino’s flashlight.
‘What in God’s name?’ I said, shocked.
‘Seems Old Saint Nick pissed off Old Saint Crack and they had a little tussle out here in the yard,’ Marino said, very agitated and out of breath. ‘That’s why the parade got diverted to this particular crib. The only schedule it was on was the sheriff’s.’