Page 53 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

“It’s okay,” I say to him while envisioning the residue from Georgine Duvall’s murder.

He huffs and grunts, watching me activate the SOS features on my phone. I talk to him in a calm voice that belies what I’m feeling.

“Peanut, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m your friend.” I say that again and again.

He must weigh at least a hundred pounds and has sharp incisors. I don’t like the way he’s grinning at me. Now panting and hooting. My call to 911 begins to ring…

“I believe your name is Peanut.” I talk to him gently. “That’s what I heard on the news.”

He chatters and gestures.

“Don’t be afraid, Peanut.” My pistol is pointed down at the floor. “I’m here to help you.”

He swings closer on his front knuckles and back legs. The fluorescing red residue dims and vanishes as he moves away from the UV light.

My call to 911 continues to ring…

And ring…

Dear God, someone answer!

Peanut is no more than six feet away, sitting on his haunches, looking up at me, tilting his head side to side. He barks, making peculiar gestures that seem to be some sort of signing.

“This isn’t where you live, Peanut,” I tell him. “And you can’t stay here. We need to get you safely back to where you belong.”

He grunts and grumbles. Shaking his head and baring his teeth.

Please don’t make me hurt you. I’m aware of the gun in my hand.

“You escaped from your lab yesterday and ended up here on my property. A lot of people are very worried about you.”

He touches a finger to his lips, cocking his head.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency…?” a voice sounds from my phone.

Peanut gives me a raspberry, shaking his hands as if extremely agitated.

“They’re calling you a monkey on the news, Peanut.

But you look more like a small orangutan or maybe a reddish-orange chimpanzee,” I say for the benefit of the 911 operator listening.

“You escaped from a research lab and now you’re in my greenhouse.

At least it’s warm in here, and I’m glad you found something to eat… ”

“Help is on the way,” the 911 operator says in a cautious tone.

Peanut continues his grunting and huffing as I suddenly make a run for it. Slipping out of the greenhouse, I slam the steel bolt closed, locking the glass door. Peanut leaps to the top of a vegetable bed, standing up on two legs, his long fringy arms held high with indignation.

“We need animal rescue here right away,” I tell the 911 operator. “I’m all but certain the large monkeylike animal I just locked inside my greenhouse escaped from Primal Biodynamics yesterday, which is very close to here. His name is Peanut, and I’m looking at him as we speak…”

Making kissy squeaks, he’s jumping up and down on the other side of the glass. He shakes his hands like pompoms as I hear someone running.

“A car is on the way,” the 911 operator’s voice sounds.

I hear a siren wailing, and Benton is in front of me coatless, his gun in hand. He tucks it in the back of his waistband, staring at Peanut hooting and screaming.

“What the hell?” Benton is thunderstruck as I thank the operator, ending the call. “One of the escaped monkeys that’s been all over the news?”

I explain that the research lab Peanut ran away from is maybe a tenth of a mile from here near Point Lumley Park.

“He has a residue on him that fluoresces in UV like what we found in Georgine’s house and Zain’s hair. That doesn’t mean it’s the same thing, but what if it is?” I tell Benton as the siren gets louder.

He uses an app on his phone to open our front gate remotely for the police and rescuers.

The wailing stops and an Alexandria police SUV appears on the driveway, parking next to the brief footpath leading to the greenhouse.

Blaise Fruge climbs out, announcing that a scientist from Primal Biodynamics will be here any second.

“Lucky for us the lab is very close to here, and he was there working on finding this very monkey,” she says. “Except he doesn’t look like any monkey I’ve ever seen.”

She’s awed and unnerved, staring at Peanut inside the greenhouse eating a blood orange near the UV light, his hair flaring red.

“What’s he got all over him?” She’s fogging up the glass. “Why is he lighting up like that?”

She steps away from the greenhouse as an unmarked white van pulls up, a wire mesh covering the back windows. Peanut begins screaming. He hurls the orange, splatting it against glass as the driver’s door opens, a man in jeans and a ski jacket climbing out.

I recognize him as the scientist on the TV news yesterday, the same man I’ve noticed when running errands at the recycling center very close to his lab and also here.

“We’re sure glad to see you!” Fruge trots over to Duke Mansoni. “No way any of us can handle your hairy buddy.”

Mansoni fixes on me with a simper, his face a composite of features that don’t belong together.

I watch him open the back of the van, clacking free the clasps of a black Pelican case with Primal Biodynamics on it in big white letters.

He collects a tranquilizing dart pistol that looks like a futuristic Uzi, and already I don’t like him.

Fruge helps lift out a big steel mesh transport cage on wheels. She bumps it over the walkway as Peanut screams like a banshee. The scientist introduces himself as Dr. Duke Mansoni while Peanut howls and whoops, tearing up everything inside the greenhouse, Dorothy’s leafy plants sailing.

“I’m an animal behaviorist and Peanut’s handler. And as you can see, he’s a lot to manage.” Mansoni’s voice glints with arrogance, and I’m getting an incredulous feeling.

I try not to stare at the scratches barely visible on the left side of his face.

The four linear abrasions are parallel and vertical.

On his jaw and upper neck are slivered moon abrasions consistent with fingernails digging into his skin.

I can tell he’s tried to cover the injuries with beige concealer.

“Best thing is to make yourselves scarce while I take care of this,” he tells us in a demanding voice. “I don’t want to open the door with you standing here. As you’re seeing, he can be violent.”

Peanut bounds around the greenhouse, wringing his hands at the sight of his keeper. He’s barking and howling, his fur lighting up fiery red each time it’s touched by UV light. I remember what Marino said about trace evidence analysis of the powdered chlorophyll and calcite.

Mixed with it are fragments of hair that aren’t from an animal found in any database. Peanut’s vocalizations aren’t in any database either.

“As you can see, he has something on him.” I go ahead and mention it to Duke Mansoni as alarms are hammering in my head. “Some sort of powdery residue that fluoresces bright red when he’s near the UV light.”

“Probably the proprietary dietary supplement we mix with their food,” he condescends, his demeanor cold and unsettling. “Right before Peanut escaped yesterday morning, he pitched a fit, tearing open a drum of the stuff and throwing it on everything and everyone. He can be a real little shit.”

“Well, he tracked it inside the greenhouse. I’m wondering what’s in it. And most of all if it’s harmful.” I play clueless.

“It’s benign. Something we have compounded for the lab.” Duke Mansoni’s eyes dig into mine, and he knows who I am.

He deployed his drone here last night, projecting the red orbs over the driveway while he stalked and spied. He was watching me just as he did Dana Diletti and everyone he’s harassed and terrorized.

“Chlorophyll and calcite fluoresce in UV,” I explain, and I can tell he didn’t know that before now. “It looks exactly like what we’re seeing.”

His angry silence is my confirmation as he glares at Peanut muttering and grunting near the pot plants, his hair shining neon red. I can feel Benton’s tension as he’s making my same connections. Fruge is too, her hand near her gun.

“People usually aren’t aware of the microscopic fibers, particles and such they carry around with them,” I explain.

“And it gets transferred to other locations without the person realizing it,” Benton tells him. “It could end up at a homicide scene, for example.”

“Or on the victim’s body,” I add. “Seems like you have some explaining to do, Mister Mansoni.” I refuse to call him doctor.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stares at me, the dart pistol cradled in his arms.

“How did you get the scratches on your neck?” I face off with him, my pistol down by my side.

“I work with primates. Obviously, they can be violent. Not that it’s any of your concern.”

“DNA will tell us,” I answer, and it’s now or never.

Gripping my Glock in both hands, I point it at him while realizing the trouble I’m in if my suspicions are wrong.

“Get your finger away from the trigger, and put down the dart gun,” I tell him, my pistol aimed center mass.

“On your knees now!” Benton draws down on him.

“What the fuck?” Fear flashes in the scientist’s eyes, then rageful hate.

“NOW OR I’LL SHOOT!” Benton means it.

Mansoni drops to his knees, placing the dart gun on the sidewalk. It clatters over bricks as Fruge kicks it away.

“Hands behind your head!” she orders.

“I’m going to sue the shit out of you!” Duke Mansoni threatens.

“Don’t move!” Fruge has a pair of handcuffs ready.

“We know you were inside Georgine Duvall’s house on Mercy Island,” Benton tells him. “You left a residue of the dietary supplement inside.”

“And you left your DNA under her fingernails.” I state it as a fact while hoping for the best.

I hold the Glock steady, my finger ready. Two taps and he’d be done. Fruge grabs his arms one at a time, snapping on the heavy steel bracelets.

“I’m going to take you to court for everything you’ve got!” Duke Mansoni screams. “I want a lawyer!”

Peanut has gotten quiet, watching through glass. Maybe it’s my imagination, but he seems happy.