Page 33 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

The sun is brighter as haze continues burning off, the temperature nearing fifty. Water drips from trees, snow sliding off the roof and thudding to the puddled yard. As we near the portico, the front door swings open, Marino stepping out on the covered stone porch.

He’s wearing the same cargo pants and long-sleeved shirt he had on yesterday, the clothing wrinkled, his face stubbly. His eyes look tired and unhappy after fighting with Dorothy and getting no sleep. As far as I know, she’s not kicked him out of the house before last night.

“Lucky for you, the drones are gonzo,” he announces.

“Swatted out of the sky,” Benton replies as we climb wet stone steps that are worn and pitted.

“Love it when that happens.” Marino steps aside to let us enter.

The foyer’s hardwood floor is covered with blue sticky mats to trap anything tracked in and out. Bright yellow evidence markers trail through the house.

“Nothing I like better than Lucy drone hunting,” Marino chortles, and he has on black nitrile gloves and white Tyvek shoe covers.

I look around at the familiar exposed dark oak beams and white plaster walls, the stained glass glowing in primary colors when touched by the sun.

A skylight was added when the chapel was renovated, the foyer bright and welcoming.

But I remember the former chapel seemed to echo remembered suffering.

“I hope someone got photographs and swabs of the blood before it mostly washed away,” I say to Marino as he closes the door, returning a chilled quiet inside old thick walls.

“Fruge and I did the best we could,” he says. “But it was raining.”

I take off my coat, placing it and my Kevlar briefcase on top of sticky mats in a corner of the foyer.

“Where’s Fruge?” I ask.

“At the hospital with one of the FBI agents, trying to find employees who will talk.” Marino clearly isn’t happy about it. “I’ve sent her a text, telling her to get her ass back here to watch the door.”

He offers boxes of gloves and surgical face masks, making sure we don’t leave our DNA or anything else. There are cartons of PPE, evidence markers and other crime scene necessities.

“Do we know Zain Willard’s condition?” Marino asks.

“The latest update I’ve gotten is he’s out of surgery and in a private room.” It’s Benton who answers. “I understand he had to have a blood transfusion. Two units.”

“A class four hemorrhage that could have been fatal if not treated,” I decide. “A vein must have been cut. Or possibly an artery was nicked.”

“Risky business if he did that to himself.” Benton is looking around, no doubt remembering when we were here house hunting.

Both of us were annoyed with our Realtor.

We’d flown from Boston to spend a weekend looking at properties in Alexandria and made the mistake of riding with her.

We didn’t know Mercy Island was on the list until she was driving across the bridge.

Had we been in our own car, we would have turned around.

It’s not possible Benton and I could live on the grounds of a psychiatric hospital or any other public institution.

Lucy couldn’t either. But Mercy Island most of all would be off-limits.

Deranged killers we’ve been instrumental in catching have been locked up in the forensic unit here to be evaluated while awaiting trial.

“Just so you know, I’ve yet to see anything to make me think someone else was inside the house except Zain and the dead lady.” Marino yanks off his gloves.

He drops them into a red biohazard bag, pulling on a fresh pair that barely fit his big hands.

“Maybe he had a sick obsession with Georgine Duvall or some other reason to whack her and stage everything to make us think the Slasher did it.” Marino continues spinning his theories.

“What about the hologram when you and Fruge first pulled up to the scene?” I ask him. “How do you explain that if we’re talking about a copycat murder?”

“The videos of the hologram are on the internet,” Benton offers. “But it wouldn’t be an easy feat making a copy and deploying such a thing. You’d need a sophisticated drone like the one the Slasher uses. A technology that’s unknown to most people outside the intelligence community.”

“Zain Willard’s a techie nerd,” Marino says. “You’ll see that when you look around. He even has a robot dog in his bedroom upstairs. Dead as a doornail because the Wi-Fi wasn’t working.”

“How do you know it’s dead as a doornail?” I ask. “And why were you tampering with it?”

“I couldn’t get it to turn on,” is Marino’s answer. “Didn’t see a switch anywhere. I tried the remotes lying around but no dice.”

“As I’ve mentioned, I’ve seen the robot before,” Benton replies. “Zain often has it at the White House and other places.”

“What I’m trying to say is we don’t know what he’s capable of,” Marino goes on. “Give me an hour alone with him in his freakin’ private hospital room, and I’ll get the truth out of him.”

“Not happening,” Benton tells him.

“That’s not what we do.” I remind Marino that he’s not a police detective anymore.

Now that he carries his gun on the job, he’s been lulled into believing we’ve time traveled back to a better life. He’s never stopped missing who he once was.