Autopsy(Kay Scarpetta #25)(35)

Determined to end the day on a more civilized note, I have just the thing in mind. Past the laundry room I open the door leading to the basement, flipping on the light, trailing my hand down the railing. My boots are loud on steep old wooden steps, the cool air damp and dusty.

The rough-hewn wooden ceilings and doorways are low, the walls exposed stone, and there’s scarcely space to navigate. It’s depressing when I’m reminded how many boxes we’ve yet to unpack, how many wooden crates to pry open. Also, furniture, tools, all sorts of odds and ends that we haven’t sorted through or put into storage.

I turn on another light that barely pushes back the shadows. Walking past the door leading outside, I almost come out of my shoes as the cat flap clicks unlocked, popping open. Merlin in his Ferrari-red collar pushes his way through, and I knew it. The little devil followed us.

“Sneaking up again, you’re going to take an inch off my life! How did you know I’d be here?” I bend down to pet him, and he starts purring to beat the band. “Well, at least you didn’t lose your collar again, but I was hoping you’d stay put.”

He follows me to the wine cellar such that it is, an old refrigerator I’ve repurposed by setting the temperature at fifty-five degrees. I lined glass shelves with foam to protect the bottles, each one having its own special story. Opening the door, I feel a waft of cold air, talking to Merlin as he rubs against my legs.

“Of course, you’re more than welcome to join in the festivities for Lucy’s birthday. We don’t want her to feel sad, now do we?” I survey my small collection that’s off-limits to everyone including Benton.

It’s a house rule that you don’t help yourself to special vintages that I’ve collected over the years, fifteen bottles left, most of them red. I pick out the 1996 premier grand cru Bordeaux I carried home from France last month. The secretary general of Interpol gave it to me, and I have no doubt it will be splendid.

Turning off lights as I walk through rooms, I’m touched by an arctic draft that I’ve felt in the past. It’s as if I’m moving through a cloud of ice crystals, and Merlin darts ahead of me like he sometimes does. Shadows move, and I catch a shape in the corner of my eye as he growls. Jumping up, he claws the air when nothing is there, as if attacking something spectral, and I’ve witnessed this before.

Then he bounds up the stairs, beating me back into the kitchen. By now Dorothy has reappeared in her Grinch onesie, explaining she’d lost a jingle bell. She hopes I didn’t mind her rooting through my bathroom drawers for needle and thread. Also checking all the cabinets to no avail.

“I had half a mind to dig into one of your scene cases,” she says as I carry the wine into the kitchen, and Benton takes an approving look at the label. “I figured I could use a suture if all else failed. Then I found what I needed, a little travel sewing kit in your makeup bag.”

“I’m hoping you really wouldn’t go into any of my scene cases.” I peel off the wine bottle’s heavy foil, pleased that the cork seems moist so far. “It would be most unfortunate if I didn’t have what I need.” What I’m saying nicely is I’d better never catch her doing something like that.

She and Lucy busy themselves finding cocktail napkins and filling small plates with antipasto. Benton carries over wineglasses while I open the bottle, the cork sliding out with a perfect pop. I hold it up to my nose, inhaling the Bordeaux’s rich nuances.

“Fingers crossed it’s as fantastic as I think it’s going to be.” I pour a sip. “Especially after it opens up. Would you like to do the honors?”

“You first,” he says, and I hold up the glass.

Swirling the wine, I admire its deep ruby legs, getting another noseful.

“By the time I’m done showering, it will be perfect.” I take a sip of Lucy’s birthday treat.

Swishing it around my tongue like a sommelier, savoring the full range of the sensuous terroir . . . detecting blackberries, crushed rocks and flowers as Benton looks on . . . And Lucy does . . . Then I’m seeing two of them . . .

“Whoa, what’s going on . . . ?” The floor is moving. “I feel weird . . . Something wrong . . .” Clumsily setting down the glass, I almost knock it over. “The wine . . . !”

“Aunt Kay . . . ?” Lucy’s voice is far away. “Are you all right . . . ?”

“KAY!” Benton shouts as I gasp for breath.

“My scene case . . . !” I struggle for air, my vision blurring.





CHAPTER 14

THUNDER CRACKS LIKE SHOTGUN blasts, and the moaning wind sounds wounded. Rain beats the roof like angry sticks, splashing and thrashing this place I’m in.

Faster . . . slower . . . harder . . . softer . . . The digital time flares a hellish red in the dark . . .

. . . 8:37 . . .

. . . 8:38 . . .

Minutes twitch past blearily. I don’t know where I am. Is it spring or summer? Winter or fall?

Why do I feel half dead?

As if I’ve been struck by a truck. How can I see when my eyes are shut?

. . . 8:40 . . .

. . . 8:41 . . .

What have I done?

. . . 8:42 . . .

. . . 8:43 . . .

What’s happened to me?

And the clock hovers eerily. Threateningly. Screaming like a Stryker saw grinding through a skull. Water drums into metal sinks, a stretcher dripping blood on tile. Hot bony dust is in the air, the stench of death everywhere. I taste it, smell it . . .