Page 19 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

Rowdy O’Leary suffered multiple fractures to his lower legs, his back and occipital skull. I study photographs taken at the hospital. The accordion pattern of the car’s front grille is clearly visible behind his knees and lower thighs.

His tibias and fibulas were shattered in both legs, the bones protruding from the skin, and surgeons deliberated whether below-knee amputations might be necessary. The police speculated that what plowed into him wasn’t a truck or SUV. Something lower-slung than that, possibly a sports car.

A search of area body shops came up empty-handed. It was suspected that the driver was drunk and speeding with no headlights. This person had the ability to evade and conceal.

“Possibly someone who works in the automotive business, repairing the car himself,” Trad Whalen told a reporter.

I glance at photocopies of news stories, the headlines more buried and less emphatic over time:

Local Man Badly Injured While Jogging Late at Night

Marathon Runner Struck by Car

Reward Offered in Alexandria Hit & Run

Hope Fades in Hit & Run Case

Nothing I’m seeing suggests the police suspected Rowdy was run down intentionally, certainly not by his wife. In fact, Trooper Whalen quickly came around to blaming the victim, telling journalists that Rowdy was running late at night on a heavily trafficked road, placing himself at risk.

“Unfortunately, he ended up in the path of a drunk driver,” Whalen said, and there’s no proof of that.

Other information and diagrams indicate that when Rowdy was struck from behind, he flew into the air, the back of his head striking the car’s windshield.

His brain was contused, a coma induced to control the swelling.

After he was awake and alert, he had no memory beyond hearing a powerful engine behind him before everything went black.

In physical therapy for the better part of two years, he struggled to walk.

He began gaining weight and seeing a psychiatrist. He reported episodes of tachycardia and was hooked up to a Holter monitor.

A cardiologist early on diagnosed him with premature ventricular contractions due to extreme mental distress.

Other paperwork shows that Rowdy called the Virginia State Police now and then, checking on his case, Trad Whalen mentions in reports. When the Slasher murders began ten months ago, Rowdy’s interest shifted to them. He became more fearful and was obsessed with the investigation.

Based on what I’m seeing, the last time he contacted Whalen was only a month ago. Rowdy called in ref. to Phantom Slasher, I read.

“I asked if he had suspicions about who the Slasher might be,” Whalen wrote in a memo about his last phone call with Rowdy. “He started making wild accusations about the government. He impressed me as increasingly paranoid & unstable…”

Included in the article is a photograph of Trooper Whalen, and he looks familiar posed in his state police dress uniform, a lot of dark blue and brass.

His eyes are shadowed by a campaign hat as he smiles stiffly in front of an American flag.

He appeared to be in his thirties then and somewhat brutish with a crew cut, the flattened nose of a prizefighter.

I’m all but certain I saw him earlier in the year at Ivy Hill cemetery when I was there for the funeral of a former governor on a cold rainy day. If I’m right that it’s the same trooper, he was surly when directing me to park an unnecessary distance from the tent.

“Could you park me any farther away?” I joked but meant it.

“If you’re not careful, ma’am, I will,” was his aggressive answer.

I remember being taken aback by his overt hostility as if he had a personal beef with me, and decided he was a chauvinist, maybe a misogynist. It wasn’t the first time I’d encountered such uncivil behavior.

When I began my career, scarcely anyone wanted a woman to be a medical examiner, much less a chief.

Getting up from the bed, I stir the fire with a poker, sparks swarming up the chimney. I’m adding another log as I hear a car stopping at the gate, the engine quiet over the security camera microphones. My mood lifts as I see Benton’s Tesla SUV in the monitor across from the bed.

I watch him driving through the opening gate, stopping at the carriage house and climbing out. I can see his breath fogging and hear his feet crunching. I’m glad he put on boots before driving home, always keeping a pair in his car for when the weather takes a bad turn.

He kicks away crusty snow in front of the double wooden doors.

They scrape loudly as he swings them open, driving inside, getting out again to close and latch them.

He trudges along the driveway to the house, and I see no sign of the raccoon or owl.

Nothing growls or screams. The floating red lights are gone.

I head downstairs in my pajamas and slippers, keeping my eye out for Merlin. I hope he’s not in the basement, irritable or frightened. Knowing him, he’s pacing back and forth collarless in front of the cat door, upset that it won’t open as if he’s lost his magical powers.

At the bottom of the steps, I enter the code for the security system. I open the door for Benton, cold air rushing in.

“Thank God,” I tell him. “I was worried you’d never get here.”

“Nothing could keep me away,” he says as I reset the alarm instantly.

Benton smiles into my eyes, unbuttoning his black wool coat that accentuates his tall leanness, his striking chiseled features and platinum hair. The first time I laid eyes on him long ago when I was the new chief in Richmond, I found him impossibly handsome. I still do.

His cheeks and nose are red from the cold, and I take his briefcase, setting it on the entryway table.

“Hi.” He kisses me.

“I’m so glad you’re home safely.” I hold him tight, his coat damp, his skin chilled from the storm.

“Someone naughty has been in the liquor,” he teases.

“I had a finger of whisky.” I find his lips again, giving him another taste. “Did you notice anything unusual while you were walking up from the carriage house? I didn’t see anything on the monitor.”

“’Twas the night before, and nothing was stirring. Not even a mouse,” he says, and I think of Pinky, wondering if he was duped by Boursin cheese on a cracker.

“How about a drink?” I suggest. “After the day I’ve had, I’m ready for another one. Or two or three. And I know you must be. Or would you like to change first? Although I must confess you look irresistible in pinstripes.”

“I believe my dry gin martinis are in order. Shaken, not stirred. I can change later.”

“I don’t know… Gin after whisky, very risky,” I whisper into his ear.

“Since we’re all alone and don’t have to get up early? I think risky is what the doctor ordered.” He holds me close, resting his chin on top of my head, sniffing my hair. “You must have showered.”

“In my office before I headed home,” I reply. “And you should be grateful.”

“I always am.”

“I hope it’s okay that we’re leaving tomorrow.

” I confess my misgivings. “Dorothy and Marino aren’t getting along.

The weirdness on the driveway when I got home.

I worry the Slasher’s about to strike again and meanwhile Dana Diletti insists on staying alone in her house. There’s so much going on, Benton.”

“When isn’t there? And we always feel this way on the rare occasion we take time off,” he says, and it’s true.

“On top of that, Maggie is causing trouble,” I tell him as he hangs up his coat. “She’s demanding to know the details of the Rowdy O’Leary autopsy. I’ve not answered any of her questions.”

“Why would she be interested?” Benton takes off his boots.

“Somebody’s put a bug in her ear about that case and the skeletal remains from Mercy Island.” I continue updating him. “In other words, she’s playing politics and doing favors.”

Passing through the living room, I’m aware of familiar odors that make me feel at home. Bee’s Oil wood conditioner. Bayberry candles. Burnt logs. The ceiling-high artificial Christmas tree reminds me how much I don’t like glitzy lights and tacky ornaments.

But holiday decorations are a concession I make to my sister and Marino. As he explained to Reba O’Leary while we were in her home, Dorothy typically starts in right after Thanksgiving. Every year she feels compelled to outdo the last, adding something different and more outrageous.

This time it’s the life-size plastic Santa Claus in a hooded red velvet robe, waiting by the fireplace hearth with a sack of fake wrapped presents. As sensors detect Benton and me walking by, Santa lights up, moving his eyes. His puppet mouth opens and shuts as he shouts:

“MERRY CHRISTMAS! HO! HO! HO…!” Over and over.

Our feet are silent on antique rugs that have been in the Wesley family for generations. We maneuver around the rosewood baby grand piano that Dorothy and Lucy play by ear. It once belonged to Benton’s grandmother, and I’m reminded that it’s been a while since I had it tuned.

Beyond the dining room, I push open the saloon-style swinging door that leads into the kitchen.

I turn on the lights, the green-patinated copper sconces glowing on old bricks showing through plaster.

Polished copper pots and pans gleam from the rack over the wooden butcher block, and this time of year we enjoy the corner fireplace.

Benton finds the bottle of Boodles gin, the jar of fat green olives stuffed with pimento.

He opens a cabinet for two long-stemmed martini glasses and the copper shaker.

While he bartends, I begin defrosting bread dough, and meatballs I make in a savory tomato sauce. I find a cutting board and knife.

I dice the tomatoes and cucumbers, the sweet onions and peppers I picked this morning in the refurbished greenhouse that’s heated in the winter.

I keep remembering the crashing noises in the woods as Marino was leaving.

Wild animals would be interested in the produce I grow in the warm, moist air of the steel-and-glass enclosure.

“I don’t believe it was a deer, a coyote, a bear, anything real. The red orbs looked like the eyes of the hologram we’ve seen on video.” I bring it up again. “And that’s what Lucy thinks it was.”

“But you said you heard growling.” Benton fills the shaker with gin and ice.

“I’m thinking that could have been the raccoon. He was near the house when I saw him,” I reply. “He looked like he was limping. But then again, I don’t think that was what snorted and screamed. I don’t know what I was hearing except our property sounded like a jungle.”

“Anything injured can be aggressive,” Benton says over the loud rattle of the shaker he works. “I’ll do a walk around tomorrow before we head to the airport. But it’s not likely we can get anyone to help with injured wildlife on Christmas.”

“If all else fails, we’ll call Fabian. He can come over while we’re gone and help Marino take care of it,” I decide as Benton pours our drinks.

“Cheers.” He hands me a martini and we clink glasses.

Tossing the panzanella salad with cold pressed olive oil and Bordeaux red wine vinegar, I add creamy burrata cheese and thick croutons. I tear up fresh basil, adding capers and anchovies as Benton sets the café table overlooking the birdfeeders.

The window shades are down. Nothing can see in. But I continue feeling watched.

“What do you think?” I feed him a forkful of salad.

“Amazing but needs something.” He’s chewing. “God, I’m starved.”

“A little more garlic maybe.” I have a taste. “Yes, that will do the trick.”

“It sounds like there was more than one thing going on when Marino drove you home.” Benton places the fork in the sink.

“The red lights may not be related to the growling and screaming. I’m not aware of anything like that being heard when the Slasher’s hologram shows up. Nothing similar has been recorded.”

“Before it gets much later.” I raise my martini again. “Merry Christmas Eve. To us, Benton.”

We touch glasses again.

“There’s no one I’d rather spend it with,” he says.

It’s almost eleven when we sit down at the café table, the lights dimmed, a large candle burning. Rimsky-Korsakov’s Christmas Eve Suite is playing, a beautiful Barolo decanting, the bottle on the table so we can appreciate the label, 2016 a very good year.

The kitchen smells like garlic and baking bread, a fire burning on the hearth. Benton has changed into the Black Watch plaid pajamas I got him last Christmas. He looks wonderful in candlelight, his brow gathered in a perplexed frown as I continue passing along what Reba O’Leary told me.

I share what I learned from medical files and police reports, mentioning my misgivings about Trooper Trad Whalen. As Benton and I talk, we demolish plates of panzanella salad.

“I just think the Slasher task force needs to be aware of all this,” I’m saying.

“I always err on the side of passing along information even if it may not be credible. And based on what I saw inside Rowdy O’Leary’s office and learned from his wife?

I think he had major psychiatric problems. Clearly, he was fearful, and anxious.

He’d become obsessed with the Slasher murders. ”

“A lot of people are, and for good reason.” Benton reaches for his glass, the wine ruby red in candlelight.

“I’m sure you can guess the number of baseless tips we get daily on the Slasher hotline.

Many of them are from the same unbalanced people.

They leave rambling messages about government conspiracies. ”

“Apparently, the Slasher is why Rowdy started carrying his revolver when he went out to fish or run errands or whatever,” I explain. “He also became fastidious about setting the security system. And maybe it was more than just the murders all over the news. Maybe he was afraid of something else.”

“Depression with paranoid features could be the reason. But not necessarily.” Benton tears off a piece of crusty bread, dipping it into tomato sauce. “The question is whether he was like that before the hit-and-run.”

“According to him, it wasn’t an accident,” I explain. “His wife says he worried that someone ran him over deliberately.”

“It doesn’t mean much if he thought that.” Benton rests his fork on the edge of his salad plate. “People who aren’t well?” He taps his temple. “Sadly, they say all kinds of things.”

“He’d been working from home ever since the hit-and-run,” I reply. “He spent a lot of money, according to his wife. I’m wondering where he was getting it, paying cash for an expensive emerald ring. Did he really have clients?”

“Let’s see if Janet has any answers,” Benton says as sleet clicks against windows.

A draft shakes the candleflame as he gets up from the table, unplugging his tablet from the charger on the kitchen counter.

Sitting back down, he selects the Janet app and instantly the AI avatar’s familiar pretty face fills the computer screen.

Moving our chairs next to each other, Benton and I look on together.