Patricia Cornwell - Four Scarpetta Novels (Book of the Dead, The Last Precinct, Blow Fly, Predator)

I am especially grateful to Dr. Staci Gruber, Assistant Professor of Psychiatry, Harvard Medical School, and Associate Director of the Cognitive Neuroimaging Laboratory, McLean Hospital.

W ater splashing. A gray mosaic tile tub sunk deep into a terracotta floor.

Water pours slowly from an old brass spout, and darkness pours through a window. On the other side of old, wavy glass is the piazza, and the fountain, and the night.

She sits quietly in water, and the water is very cold, with melting ice cubes in it, and there is little in her eyesnothing much there anymore. At first, her eyes were like hands reaching out to him, begging him to save her. Now her eyes are the bruised blue of dusk. Whatever was in them has almost left. Soon she will sleep.

Here, he says, handing her a tumbler that was handblown in Murano and now is filled with vodka.

He is fascinated by parts of her that have never seen the sun. They are pale like limestone, and he turns the spigot almost off, and the water is a trickle now, and he watches her rapid breathing and hears the chattering of her teeth. Her white breasts float beneath the surface of the water, delicate like white flowers. Her nipples, hard from the cold, are tight pink buds. Then he thinks of pencils. Of chewing off nubby pink erasers when he was in school, and telling his father and sometimes his mother that he didnt need erasers because he didnt make mistakes. When in truth, he liked to chew. He couldnt help it, and that also was the truth.

Youll remember my name, he says to her.

I wont, she says. I can forget it. Chattering.

He knows why she says it: If she forgets his name, her destiny will be rethought like a bad battle plan.

What is it? he asks. Tell me my name.

I dont remember. Crying, shaking.

Say it, he says, looking at her tan arms, pebbly with goose bumps, the blond hair on them erect, her young breasts and the darkness between her legs underwater.

Will.

And the rest of it?

Rambo.

And you think thats amusing, he says, naked, sitting on the lid of the toilet.

She shakes her head vigorously.

Lying. She made fun of him when he told her his name. She laughed and said Rambo is make-believe, a movie name. He said its Swedish. She said he isnt Swedish. He said the name is Swedish. Where did she think it came from? Its a real name. Right, she said. Like Rocky, she said, laughing. Look it up on the Internet, he said. Its a real name, he said, and he didnt like that he had to explain his name. This was two days ago, and he didnt hold it against her, but he was aware of it. He forgave her because despite what the world says, she suffers unbearably.

Knowing my name will be an echo, he says. It makes no difference, not in the least. Just a sound already said.

I would never say it. Panic.

Her lips and nails are blue, and she shivers uncontrollably. She stares. He tells her to drink more, and she doesnt dare refuse him. The slightest act of insubordination, and she knows what happens. Even one small scream, and she knows what happens. He sits calmly on the lid of the toilet, his legs splayed so she can see his excitement, and fear it. She doesnt beg anymore or tell him to have his way with her, if thats the reason shes his hostage. She doesnt say this anymore because she knows what happens when she insults him and implies that if he had a way it would be with her . Meaning she wouldnt give it willingly and want it.

You realize I asked you nicely, he says.

I dont know. Teeth chattering.

You do know. I asked you to thank me. Thats all I asked, and I was nice to you. I asked you nicely, then you had to do this, he says. You had to make me do this. You seehe gets up and watches his nakedness in the mirror over the smooth marble sinkyour suffering makes me do this, his nakedness in the mirror says. And I dont want to do this. So youve hurt me. Do you understand youve critically hurt me by making me do this? his nakedness in the mirror says.