The Hornet’s Nest. Patricia Cornwell

coming had been enough.

‘i^b V9 West cruised past the Cadillac Grill, Jazzbone’s, and finally headed to Davidson,

deciding that Brazil might be hiding out in his own house and not answering the phone.

She pulled into the eroded driveway, and was crushed that only the ugly Cadillac was

home.

West got out of her police car. Weeds grew between cracks in the brick walk she

followed to the front door. She rang the bell several times, and knocked. Finally, she

rapped hard and in frustration with her baton.

“Police!” she said loudly.

“Open up!”

This went on for a while until the door opened and Mrs. Brazil blearily peered out. She

steadied herself by holding on to the door frame.

“Where’s Andy?” West asked.

“Haven’t seen him.” Mrs. Brazil pressed her forehead with a hand, squinting, as if the world was bad for her health.

“At work, I guess,” she muttered.

“No, he’s not and hasn’t been since Thursday,” West said.

“You’re sure he hasn’t called or anything?”

“I’ve been sleeping.”

“What about the answering machine? Have you checked?” West asked.

“He keeps his room locked.” Mrs. Brazil wanted to return to her couch.

“Can’t get in there.”

West, who did not have her tool belt with her, could still get into most things. She took

the knob off his door and was inside Brazil’s room within minutes. Mrs. Brazil returned

to the living room and settled her swollen, poisoned self on the couch. She did not want

to go inside her son’s room. He didn’t want her there anyway, which was why she had

been locked out for years, ever since he had accused her of taking money from the wallet

he tucked under his socks. He had accused her of rummaging through his school papers.

He had blamed her for knocking over his eighteen-and-under singles state championship tennis trophy, badly denting it and breaking off the little man.

The red light was flashing on the answering machine beside Brazil’s neatly made twin

bed with its simple green spread. West hit the play button, looking around at shelves of

brass and silver trophies, at scholastic and creative awards that Brazil had never bothered

to frame, but had thumbtacked to walls. A pair of leather Nike tennis shoes, worn out

from toe-dragging, was abandoned under a chair, one upright, one on its side, and the

sight of them pained West. For a moment, she felt distressed and upset. She imagined

the way he looked at her with blue eyes that went on forever. She remembered his voice

on the radio, and the quirky way he tested coffee with his tongue, which she had

repeatedly told him wasn’t a smart way to determine whether something was too hot. The

first three calls on his machine were hang-ups.

“Yo,” began the fourth one.

“It’s Axel. Got tickets for Bruce Hornsby .”

West hit a button.

“Andy? It’s Packer. Call me.”

She hit the button again and heard her own voice looking for him. She skipped ahead,

landing on two more hang-ups. West opened the closet door, and her fear intensified

when she found nothing inside. She, the cop, went into drawers and found them empty,

as well. He had left his books and computer behind, and this only deepened her

confusion and concern. These were what he loved the most. He would not abandon them

unless he had embarked upon a self-destructive exodus, a fatalistic flight. West looked

under the bed and lifted the mattress, exploring every inch of Brazil’s private space. She

did not find the pistol he had borrowed from her.

West drove around the city much of the night, mopping her face, popping Motrin, and

turning the air conditioner on and off as she vacillated between hot and cold. On South

College, she slowly passed street people, staring hard at each, as if she expected Brazil to

have suddenly turned into one of them. She recognized Poison, the young hooker from

Mungo’s videotape, undulating along the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and enjoying

being watched. Poison followed the dark blue cop car with haunted, glassy eyes, and

West looked back. West thought of Brazil, of his sad curiosity about bad people and

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