Page 50 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

It’s now almost six o’clock, the battlefields of Manassas as black as outer space. Then, closer to Dulles, dark forests are veined by bright highways. Minutes later we’re slower and lower as Lucy begins her approach to the airport, the roads, the runways a confusing circuitry of glaring lights.

“I’m not shutting down.” She’s back on the intercom. “Have to get the bird to Quantico and tuck her in bed.”

“Will we see you tonight?” I ask.

“I’m not sure,” she says.

“Tron, you’re welcome to have Christmas supper with us. Tacos,” I offer.

“Depending on what’s going on. But thanks for the offer.” Her voice in my headset as Lucy hover-taxis into the Signature Flight Service ramp.

She cuts the engines to flight idle as Benton and I climb out of the back cabin, the blades thudding. We trot away from the noise and downwash, making our way through the terminal, our car as cold as the outdoors when we climb in.

“Do you think Lucy recalls what she told Georgine Duvall?” I ask Benton now that we can talk without anyone overhearing.

“When does Lucy ever forget anything?” he says. “I know she must feel bad about it.”

“I can’t say that I’m surprised, Benton. I remember how unhappy and defensive she was back then.”

“It’s worse than you think,” he replies as we drive away from the airport.

Much of what Benton read in Georgine Duvall’s notes was truly awful. He begins giving me the details, and Lucy’s comments and complaints from long ago aren’t surprising but painful to hear.

She repeatedly referred to me as the Big Chief. She sniped that my aunt would rather hang out with dead people than the living.

Benton was a prick who thinks he’s the star of Silence of the Lambs.

Her mother, Dorothy, cares more about the shallow characters in her stupid books than she does real people.

Marino was a gunslinging homophobic redneck who has the hots for my aunt. As I’m hearing this I’m thinking about Dorothy, wondering how often Lucy might have made similar comments to her. It might explain why Janet parrots the accusation today, giving it mileage that’s causing trouble.

The real Janet and my niece met after college when they were new agents in training at Quantico. There’s no telling what Lucy may have mentioned back then, and whatever has been said and done in the past is open season for AI. Nothing is forgotten, the past never past.

“Quite the indictment.” I do my best to take it in stride.

“But for the most part true, let’s be honest, Benton.

I was the big chief. You were the hotshot criminal profiler.

Marino was a bigoted bully much of the time.

And in those days, Dorothy was writing children’s books and had become very successful.

Making a lot of money and a name for herself. ”

“And Lucy felt even more lost in the shuffle,” Benton says as we skirt Tysons Corner, the hotels and stores blazing with Christmas lights.

“It’s odd that she’d bring you up,” I reply. “We weren’t openly seeing each other when she was a freshman in college.”

“She’d been around me enough to decide she didn’t like me. Thought I was an elitist empty suit. An expensive one.”

“Quite the opposite,” I decide. “She must have been more threatened by you than I ever imagined. She somehow knew what we were terrified to admit. That we were important to each other. That we were meant to be together.”

“Were?”

“Still are, and I can’t imagine being with anyone else.” I reach for his hand as my smart ring vibrates, alerting me about another text from Marino.

We may get lucky, he writes.

He explains that swabbing under Georgine’s fingernails could pay off this time. The bleach didn’t destroy all the DNA this time. Clark Givens is finding a mixture of profiles. Hers and Zain Willard’s.

Also, an unknown donor, Marino adds. But the kid is screwed.

He means Zain is, and that seems to be a given.

“He’s on his way to being indicted for sure,” Benton says when I pass on the information.

“But as sensitive as the testing is,” I reply, “his DNA could have gotten under her nails in a number of ways.”

I recall the piles of dirty clothing in his room and on top of his bathroom hamper. When I looked at the washer and dryer, I could tell that someone recently had done laundry.

“If Georgine handled his clothing, picking up after him, as I have a feeling she did,” I’m saying, “she easily could have gotten his DNA under her nails. Georgine’s and Zain’s DNA are going to be all over the house. Other people’s as well.”

“It’s hugely problematic because they lived together, and had visitors like Graden Crowley and Calvin Willard,” Benton replies. “But when a grand jury hears that Georgine fought her attacker, and Zain’s DNA was under her nails, the nuances are lost. He’s going to be charged with her murder.”

We’ve reached Old Town, and now Cate Kingston is calling me. The lab conducting the genealogical DNA analysis finally got back to her last night. She’s been following up on the information since, and I call her.

“We got a Christmas present. We know who she is,” Cate says through our SUV’s speakers, a current of excitement in her voice.

She explains that the skeletal remains of the young woman disinterred from the Mercy Island cemetery have been identified.

She was the sister of a soldier at Quantico Marine Corps Base.

He’s still stationed there, and Cate talked to him a few minutes ago.

The murdered young woman’s name was Susan Villani.

“She was twenty-five when she vanished nine years ago on the Friday after Thanksgiving while shopping at Pentagon City Mall,” Cate’s voice sounds. “Her Honda Accord was found in the parking lot.”

“And then she ended up buried in the cemetery on Mercy Island? I wonder why the killer would think of that location unless he was familiar for some reason,” Benton deliberates. “Was Susan Villani ever a patient there?”

“I asked her brother that. He said no,” Cate explains. “But he told me what he remembers and sent me scans of the investigative reports.”

At the time of Susan Villani’s murder, she was taking veterinary classes at a community college while working as a volunteer at the local zoo.

Several days before she disappeared, she confided in her brother that she’d met someone special.

She was feeding the giraffes when a man started talking to her.

“She described him as super smart and a little older than her,” Cate goes on.

“She planned to see him again but didn’t offer details.

To this day her brother doesn’t know who she was talking about.

Security camera images from inside the mall show her shopping alone and heading out to her car after dark. ”

“What about cameras in the parking lot?” Benton asks, the shops and restaurants in Old Town crowded, some of the partying crowd enjoying drinks on the sidewalks.

“That’s where it gets interesting,” Cate replies. “The camera where she was parked wasn’t working. What a coincidence, right?”

“Let me guess. They were wireless,” Benton suggests.

“Yes. All the other cameras were working fine. But not that one, and the police found a homemade signal jamming device nearby.”

“Sounds tragically familiar,” I reply as my thoughts continue landing on the Phantom Slasher.

We don’t know when he started killing and possibly committing other violent crimes. We have no clue how long he’s been in and out of the Northern Virginia area. I suggest we compare the cut marks to bone in Susan Villani’s case with the Slasher murder victims.

“We’re on the same page,” Cate replies. “I’ll get going on that tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Benton says as we drive through our neighborhood. “If you could email us those reports from the brother it would be greatly appreciated.”

We end the call, having reached our property, stopping in front of the gate.

The lights of the house shine through trees, the moon pale and distant.

I look around at the dark woods, and the iron lamps glowing.

I listen for strange animal sounds. But all is quiet, just the rushing of the wind, the tree branches and shrubbery stirring.

As we follow the driveway, I find myself glancing everywhere, expecting the glowing red orbs to reappear.

I have my window cracked, listening for growling or screaming.

I feel a mixture of emotions when we pass Lucy’s dark cottage.

Guilt. Regret. And sadness. I don’t expect to see her again tonight.

“You all right?” I look at Benton’s somber profile, and I suspect he’s obsessing about Lucy’s file the same way I am.

“It wasn’t easy reading all that,” he admits. “It sounds like she hated us.”

“That was half her life ago, Benton. She wouldn’t say those things now.”

“I’m sorry she ever said them at all.”

“I imagine she’s even sorrier,” I reply. “Knowing her, she feels exposed and embarrassed. And that might be why she’s not coming over tonight.”

We park next to Marino’s truck and Dorothy’s red Jaguar SUV. My spirits lift as I look out at a home I couldn’t love more. Electric candles are bright in every window, the holly wreath welcoming. Smoke drifts up from one of four chimneys, promising a cheery fire on the hearth in the kitchen.

“Silent Night” is playing as the front door opens, Dorothy all smiles in a Santa onesie. She’s red from head to toe with puffs of white fluff around the cuffs and plunging neckline, a cottony ball on the tip of her cap.

“I never knew Santa had so much cleavage.” I give her a hug.

My sister may be in a better mood. But I know when she harbors one of her grudges. I hang up coats while she pulls Benton close like a long-lost lover as Marino appears with a drink in each hand.

Let the games begin, I can’t help but think.

“Pappy Van Winkle, which is only impossible to find. Two double shots on the rocks.” Marino presents us with the cut glass tumblers, a large round ice cube in each. “The best bourbon on the planet. That’s my Christmas present to Benton.”