Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(36)

Then gone, not there . . . Just the din of pouring rain . . . The wind howling like a legion of unsettled haunts about to spirit me away . . . While it drifts through my thoughts with queasy disbelief . . . The 1996 Bordeaux. . . . Sniffing, sipping dizzily . . . It’s coming back slowly, disjointedly . . .

You were careless! The voice in my thoughts won’t stop.

I’m under the covers in the upstairs bedroom, my head throbbing. My joints ache like a mother, and I’ve got to get going, should have hours ago. Lightning stutters, illuminating the window shades in the warm humid dark, and I remember the storm as Marino was driving me away from my office in his big pickup truck.

It must be Tuesday morning, the last day of November . . . My car is stranded at my office . . . I’ve missed the staff meeting . . . Won’t make the nine o’clock deposition . . . There’s much to check on in the labs. . . . What about any cases that may have come in during the night . . . ? Does Maggie know where I am . . . ?

“How are we doing?” Benton appears like a spirit, sitting down on the bed, warm and reassuring.

He kisses me good morning, and I can tell he’s in cargo pants, a sweater, wearing his fitness tracker. He has on a chro nograph timepiece with luminous hands and a carbon-fiber strap, and has been up for a while.

“Better?” He rubs my back, and I smell his musky aftershave, the coffee on his breath.

“Better than I deserve.” I prop myself up, grateful to be alive and at the same time furious that I would be so trusting.

You should have been more careful!

“What matters is that you’re still here. All of us couldn’t be more grateful. I am, most of all,” Benton says. “Are you ready for coffee?”

I shake my head no, I couldn’t possibly.

You could have killed everyone!

“But thanks, maybe a little later.” My mouth is as dry as paper. “Water, please.”

He reaches for the bottle on the bedside table, twisting off the cap, my memories of last night shattered and hazy. I feel shame, paranoia, anger simmering around my edges, and I remind myself it’s the aftermath of the drug. My chemistry is shot to hell, and I feel horrible for causing such a problem.

“Well, thank God for your scene case, and that you had the presence of mind to think of it.” Benton’s features are shadowed, his teeth indistinctly white in the near dark.

It’s fortuitous I mentioned the Narcan to him earlier, commenting that I needed to replace what had been in the scene case I carried home from work. He didn’t have to spend precious minutes rooting around. He knew exactly where to look, he says, and it was stupid of me to give all of the doses to Officer Fruge. What if I’d had none at home?

“The stars were lined up just right.” Benton strokes my arm. “And you’re going to be fine, good as new.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.” I chug more water.

“I don’t know when I’ve ever felt so helpless,” he admits. “If the Narcan hadn’t worked . . . ? Well, there was nothing more we could have done.”

“Is everyone else okay? Lucy, Dorothy?” For an instant I’m seized by searing panic, remembering their shocked faces.

“Everyone is safe and sound. I made sure no one else touched the wine,” he says, and there wasn’t enough of the antidote to go around.

I had only the two doses in my home scene case, and whatever I was exposed to was potent enough to require both. In fact, it was barely enough, and I have no recollection of Benton administering the nasal spray but know he did because that’s what he’s telling me. I also don’t remember Marino bringing extra doses to the house, and Benton giving me another one later.

He checked my vital signs throughout the night, all per my instructions, and it’s a blank in my memory. How unbearable to imagine what would have happened had I poured a taste of the poisoned wine for him, Lucy, Dorothy. When Marino finally showed up, he would have found all of us dead. Depending on what he did, he might have been next.

“I don’t remember the last time I felt this bad.” My head hurts like it’s clamped in a vise.

My pulse races, moods in flux, and my thinking is stream of consciousness at times. It’s as if I’m tripping, my hands shaky, my stomach lurching like a boat on rough seas.

“How about some Advil? Do you think you could hold it down?” Benton helps arrange more pillows behind me.

“Not this minute.” Massaging my temples, I take deep slow breaths, exhausted in a way that won’t be cured by sleep.

“What if I bring you toast?” He holds my hand, and I force myself to sit up straighter.

“I CAN’T,” I REPLY, not ready for food.

“A hot shower would be good. But one thing at a time,” Benton says as scenes flash behind my eyes like a psychedelic movie.

I remember setting down the wineglass with a loud clack, almost knocking it over . . . suddenly unsteady on my feet . . . Saying I felt strange, there was something wrong with the wine . . . as the room began to spin . . . I told Benton to get my scene case from the closet . . . but it was Lucy who did . . .

While he lowered me to the floor . . . and everything went black . . . Then Marino was there taking charge, gloved and masked, collecting my glass, the wine and all that went with it. Talking in his big voice with his strong New Jersey accent. Getting on the phone, waking up Rex Bonetta, exclaiming that someone just tried to poison the chief medical examiner of Virginia.