The Hornet’s Nest. Patricia Cornwell

put a few bucks in the pot, when he didn’t have much to spare, and lived in a small house

far enough away from Lake Norman that he couldn’t see the water but could at least

watch the endless parade of trucks hauling boats along his dirt road. He spat again,

silently rolling the Cushman closer to the church, keeping his eye on the couple, to make

sure they were safe out here in the dark.

“What am I going to do with you?” West was saying to Brazil.

He had his pride and was in a humorless mood.

“For the record, I don’t need you to do a thing for me.”

“Yeah you do. You got serious problems.”

“And you don’t,” he said.

“All you got in your life is an eccentric cat.”

This surprised West. What else had he dug up about her?

“How’d you know about Niles?” she wanted to know.

West was aware they were being stalked by some security guard in a Cushman. He was

hanging back in shadows, certain West and Brazil

couldn’t see him creeping in the cover of boxwoods and magnolia trees. West couldn’t imagine how boring that job must be.

“I have a lot in my life,” she added.

“What a fantasy,” Brazil said.

“You know what? You’re a total waste of my time.” She meant it.

They walked on, moving away from the campus and cutting through narrow roads where

faculty lived in restored homes with cherished lawns and old trees. Brazil used to wander

these lanes as a boy, fantasizing about people inside expensive homes, imagining

important professors and their nice husbands and wives. Light filled their windows and

seemed so warm back then, and sometimes draperies were open and he could see people

moving inside, walking across the living room with a drink, sitting in a chair reading, or

at a desk working

Brazil’s loneliness was buried out of reach and unnamed. He did not know what to call

the hollow hurt that started somewhere in his chest and pressed against his heart like two

cold hands. He never cried when the hands pressed, but would tremble violently like a

distressed flame when he thought he might lose his tennis match or when he didn’t get an

A. Brazil could not watch sad movies, and now and then beauty overwhelmed him,

especially live music played by symphonies and string quartets.

West could feel rage building in Brazil as they walked. The mounting silence became

oppressive as they passed lighted homes and dark thick trees armored in ivy and kudzu.

She did not understand him and was beginning to suspect she’d made a big mistake

thinking she could. So what if she’d worked hostage negotiation, homicides, and was

experienced in talking people out of killing themselves or someone else? This didn’t

mean she was even remotely capable of helping a strange guy like Andy Brazil. In fact,

she didn’t have time.

“I want this killer,” Brazil started in, talking louder than was necessary or wise.

“Okay? I want him caught.”

He was obsessed, as if what this killer was doing was personal. West had no intention of

getting into his space on this. They walked on.

Brazil suddenly kicked a rock with a fancy black and purple Nike leather tennis shoe that

looked like something Agassi would endorse.

“What he does.” Brazil kicked more rocks.

“What do you think it must be like?” His voice got louder.

“Driving somewhere in a strange city, tired, away from home, a lot on your mind.

Getting lost, stopping to ask directions.” Another rock skittered across blacktop.

“Next thing, you’re being led to some Godforsaken place, behind an abandoned building.

A warehouse. A vacant lot.”

West stopped walking. She was staring at him as he furiously stomped ahead, wheeled

around.

“Hard cold steel against your head as you beg not to die!” he yelled as if the crime had happened to him.

“As he blows your brains out anyway!”

West was frozen as she watched something she had never seen before this moment.

Porch lights of nearby houses flipped on.

“He pulls your pants down and spray-paints this symbol! How would you like to die that

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