PATRICIA CORNWELL. Unnatural Exposure

‘Listen,’ I said when she got to me. ‘Might there be a Bible around here somewhere.’

She hesitated, as if she’d never heard of such a thing. ‘Gee, now that I don’t know.’

‘Could you check?’

‘Are you feeling all right?’ She looked suspiciously at me.

‘Absolutely.’

‘They’ve got a library. Maybe there’s one in there somewhere. I’m sorry. I’m not very religious.’ She continued talking as she went out again.

She returned maybe half an hour later with a black leather-bound Bible, Cambridge Red Letter edition, that she claimed to have borrowed from someone’s office. I opened it and found a name in front written in calligraphy, and a date that showed the Bible had been given to its owner on a special occasion almost ten years before. As I began to turn its pages, I realized I had not been to Mass in months. I envied people with a faith so strong that they kept their Bibles at work.

‘Now you’re sure you’re feeling okay?’ said the nurse as she hovered near the door.

‘You’ve never told me your name,’ I said.

‘Sally.’

‘You’ve been very helpful and I certainly appreciate it. I know it’s no fun working on Thanksgiving.’

This seemed to please her a great deal and gave her enough confidence to say, ‘I haven’t wanted to poke my nose into anything, but I can’t help but hear what people are talking about. That island in Virginia where your case came from. All they do is crabbing there?’

‘Pretty much,’ I said.

‘Blue crab.’

‘And soft-shell crab.’

‘Anybody bothering to worry about that?’

I knew what she was getting at, and yes, I was worried. I had a personal reason to be worried about Wesley and me.

‘They ship those things all over the country, right?’ she went on.

I nodded.

‘What if whatever that lady had is transmitted through water or food?’ Her eyes were bright behind her hood. ‘I didn’t see her body, but I heard. That’s really scary.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I hope we can get an answer to that soon.’

‘By the way, lunch is turkey. Don’t expect much.’

She unplugged her air line and stopped talking. Opening the door, she gave me a little wave and went out. I turned back to the Concordance and had to search for a while under various words before I found the passage deadoc had quoted to me. It was Matthew 10, verse one, and in its entirety it read: And when he had called unto him his twelve disciples, he gave them power against unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to heal all manner of sickness and all manner of disease.

The next verse went on to identify the disciples by name, and then Jesus invoked them to go out and find lost sheep, and to preach to them that the kingdom of heaven was at hand. He directed his disciples to heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out devils. As I read, I did not know if this killer who called himself deadoc had a message he believed, if twelve referred to the disciples, or if he was simply playing games.

I got up and paced, looking out the window as light waned. Night came early now, and it had become a habit for me to watch people walk out to their cars. Their breath was frosted, and the lot was almost empty because of the furlough. Two women chatted while one held open the door to a Honda, and they shrugged and gestured with intensity, as if trying to resolve life’s big problems. I stood looking through blinds until they drove away.

I tried to go to sleep early to escape. But I was fitful again, rearranging myself and the covers every few hours. Images floated past the inside of my eyelids, projected like old movies, unedited and illogically arranged. I saw two women talking by a mailbox. One had a mole on her cheek that became eruptions all over her face as she shielded her eyes with a hand. Then palm trees were writhing in fierce winds as a hurricane roared in from the sea, fronds ripped off and flying. A trunk stripped bare, a bloody table lined with severed hands and feet.

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