Patricia Cornwell – Scarpetta11 – The Last Precinct

out the window with the butt of the shotgun and came inside.

He was gone. Apparently, he and Bev Kiffin went out the front and got on his motorcycle and fled. Lucy says she remembers hearing a motorcycle while she was trying to revive me.”

“Have you heard from Jay Talley since?” Berger pauses to meet my eyes.

“No,” I say, and for the first time this long day, anger stirs.

“What about from Bev Kiffin? Got any idea where she is?”

“No. No idea.”

“So they are fugitives. She leaves behind two children. And a dogthe family dog. The dog Benny White was so fond of. Perhaps even the reason he came to the motel after church. Correct me if my memory is failing me. But didn’t Sonny Kiffin, the son, say something about teasing Benny? Something about Benny’s calling the Kiffins’ house right be­fore church to see if Mr. Peanut had been found? That the dog had, quote, just been for a swim and if Benny came over he could see Mr. Peanut? Didn’t Sonny tell Detective Marino all this after the fact, after Jay Talley and Bev Kiffin tried to kill you and your niece and then escaped?”

“I don’t know firsthand what Sonny told Pete Marino,” I replynot that Berger really wants me to answer. She just wants the jury to hear the question. My eyes mist over as I think of that old, pitiful dog and what I know for a fact hap­pened to her.

“The dog hadn’t been for a swimnot voluntarilyright, Dr. Scarpetta? Didn’t you and Lucy find Mr. Peanut as you waited at the campground for the police to come?” Berger goes on.

“Yes.” Tears well up.

MR. PEANUT WAS BEHIND THE MOTEL, IN THE BOT-torn of the swimming pool. She had bricks tied to her back legs. The juror in the flower-printed dress begins to cry. An­other woman juror gasps and puts a hand over her eyes. Looks of outrage and even hate pass from face to face, and Berger lets the moment, this painful, awful moment stay in the room. The cruel image of Mr. Peanut is an imagined courtroom dis­play that is vivid and unbearable, and Berger won’t take it away. Silence.

“How could anybody do something like that!” the juror in the flower-printed dress exclaims as she snaps shut her pock-etbook and wipes her eyes. “What evil people!”

“Sons of bitches is what they are.”

“Thank God. The good Lord was looking after you, He sure was.” A juror shakes his head, the comment directed at me.

Berger paces three steps. Her gaze sweeps the jury. She looks a long moment at me. “Thank you, Dr. Scarpetta,” she quietly says. “There certainly are some evil, awful people out there,” she gently says for the jury’s benefit. “Thank you for spending this time with us when we all know you’re in pain and have been through hell. That’s right.” She looks back at the jury. “Hell.”

Nods all around.

“Hell is right,” the juror in the flower-printed dress tells me, as if I don’t know. “You’ve sure been through it. Can I ask a question. We can ask, can’t we?”

“Please,” Berger replies.

“I know what I think,” the juror in the flower-printed dress comments to me. “But you know what? I’ll tell you some­thing. The way I grew up, if you didn’t tell the truth you got your bottom spanked, and I mean hard.” She juts out her chin in righteous indignation. “Never heard of people doing the things you all have talked about in here. I don’t think I’ll sleep a wink ever again. Now, I’m no nonsense.”

“Somehow I can tell,” I reply.

“So I’m just going to come right out with it.” She stares at me, her arms hugging her big green pocketbook. “Did you do it? Did you kill that police lady?”

“No, ma’am,” I say as strongly as I have ever said anything in my life. “I did not.”

We wait for a reaction. Everyone sits very quietly, no more talking, no more questions. The jurors are done. Jaime Berger goes to her table and picks up paperwork. She straightens it and gets the edges flush by knocking them on the table. She lets things settle before she looks up. She picks out each juror with her eyes, then looks at me. “I have no further questions,” she says. “Ladies and gentlemen.” She goes right up to the railing, leaning into the jury as if she is peering into a great ship, and she is, really. The lady in the flower-printed dress and her colleagues are my passage out of troubled, dangerous waters.

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