“And who’s talking?”
“Yeah, I’m here, aren’t I? A hell of a lot longer than she’s been.”
“I believe Lucy can take care of herself,” Scarpetta said.
2
Lucy’s breathing was frosty blasts in perfect rhythm as she ran along Sulgrave Road in Windsor Farms, the sound of her Nikes light on pavement as she perspired in the night. Colonial lanterns and lit-up windows did not push back the darkness or show her the way, but she had run this route since high school during the many holidays and vacations spent with her aunt. After four miles Lucy was in a meditative state, her mind free to attach itself to whatever it would. This wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
Although she seemed cheerful enough, she was not in the best of spirits. Typically, she had spent the holidays avoiding her mother, who had not raised her, really, and had never made Christmas anything but an empty stocking wilted on the hearth. Lucy ran harder, sweat trickling beneath her turtleneck as anger heated her up and propelled her deeper into the black shadows of antebellum trees.
Her mother had sent her another scarf for Christmas, this one navy blue with fringe and once again, her initials monogrammed in a corner.
The monograms made it difficult for Lucy to donate the scarves to thrift shops or the Salvation Army, and, of course, this was her mother’s point. Her mother’s gifts were always self-centered and controlling. She did not care what Lucy wanted or who she was, and Lucy did not need another scarf for the rest of her life. She did not need another pocketbook or manicure kit or delicate watch with a stretch band. She was a federal agent who shot pistols and MP5’s and flew helicopters. She ran obstacle courses, lifted weights, worked arson cases, made arrests, and testified in court.
Her mother, Dorothy, was so different from her sister Kay that Lucy did not see how they could have come from the same parents. Certainly Dorothy’s IQ was more than adequate, but she had neither good sense nor judgment. She did not love herself and could not care for anybody else, no matter how hard she tried to fool people. Lucy would never forget her graduation from the Federal Law Enforcement Academy in Glynco, Georgia. Aunt Kay and Marino had been there. Lucy’s mother had driven halfway there before turning around. She had sped back to Miami as she and her latest lover fought on the car phone.
Lucy kicked up her pace to seven-minute miles, her long strides closing in on her aunt’s home. It bothered Lucy that Scarpetta was flying to Miami the following morning to visit her mother and Dorothy. Scarpetta would not return until the weekend, and Lucy would be alone through New Year’s. Maybe she could get caught up on some of her cases.
“You sure you don’t want to go with me? It’s never too late,” Scarpetta said, when Lucy walked into the kitchen, breathing hard, cheeks rosy.
“Oh, it’s too late, all right,” Lucy said, yanking off wool mittens.
“Taste this. Maybe a little more basil?”
Scarpetta dipped the wooden spoon in her special sauce and offered a taste to her niece. Lucy blew on the steaming sauce, touching it to her lips, taking her time as flavors played music on her tongue. She opened a bottle of Evian.
“I wouldn’t do another thing to it,” Lucy said with a heavy heart.
Her melancholy had intensified the instant she had walked into the house and noticed her Aunt Kay’s luggage by the front door. Apparently, Scarpetta had finished packing while Lucy was running.
“It’s not too late,” said Scarpetta, who knew exactly how her niece was feeling. “You’ve got another week off. I worry about you being by yourself. This house can be awfully empty sometimes. I should know.”
“I’m by myself all the time,” Lucy told her.
She opened the refrigerator. She spied Marino’s wicked eggnog and looked forward to being overcome by it.
“Being alone during the holidays is different,” Scarpetta went on. “And yes, you’ve done that before, all too often. And never with my blessing.”
She stripped more fresh basil from stems, sprinkling the herb into her sauce, stirring as she talked.