Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(61)
They’ll orbit the planet like other debris, maybe burning up if gravity pulls them down into the atmosphere eventually. But they could stay up there indefinitely, and as unthinkable as that may seem there’s no better alternative. Not at the moment and under the circumstances because space is unforgiving.
Already I’m dreading what might hit the news. It’s unnerving to think about how the public will react to the murders. I don’t like to think about astronomers spotting the pouched remains orbiting like cocoons, and next they’re labeled and included on satellite maps.
What’s done is done, and Anni and Chip pull off their gloves. Tearing off their Tyvek, they gather up their plastic containers of evidence, their medical bag, preparing to go. Before reentering the Dream Chaser, they resort to a combination of fans, vacuum hoses and electrostatic filters to remove the biohazardous particulate.
All of it must be sucked up and blown off their bodies, clothing and belongings to prevent it from being carried first into the spaceplane, and next into the Space Station. We watch them decon the same way astronauts will before they reenter their habitats or board lunar landers, making sure they don’t track in moon dust.
Single file, the French and American astronauts look like superheroes flying through the Dream Chaser’s hatch, closing it behind them. Back inside the cockpit, they put on their launch-entry suits, strapping themselves into their seats, and I thank them again.
“I know how hard that was.” I talk to them on the data wall. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” I add sincerely as the president gets up from the table.
“What you just did took real courage,” he says to them while people collect their paperwork, getting ready to leave. “Such a tragic ordeal, and we’re very grateful to you.”
“Thank you, Chip, Anni, and be safe.” The vice president pushes back her chair. “Godspeed.”
AT FOUR P.M. THE drizzle has stopped. The overcast is clearing out as Benton and I sit inside his quiet electric SUV.
We’re stuck midway across the George Mason Memorial Bridge spanning a half-mile stretch of the Potomac River. The four southbound lanes are a parking lot, the sun smoldering like molten lava, spreading electric orange and pink hues along the horizon. The waning light is reflected on the water, flickering in the lazy current.
At least we have a view. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a more dramatic sunset. But I’m feeling mounting pressure like an engine overheating, and am eager to get to the office. I need to change out of these clothes, to check with the labs before everyone leaves for the day. Work feels out of control, and has since I started this job.
I can’t even say what cases have come in today. Nothing newsworthy, I’m assuming, or someone would have let me know, I should hope. Definitely I’d hear from Marino as he monitors his police scanner around the clock, usually finding out about most fiascos before I do.
“Television news choppers.” Benton looks up at several of them hovering high in the distance, their lights bright in the gathering dusk. “Something’s going on in Pentagon City.”
According to the integrated navigation dash display, there’s police activity ahead, and at the moment that’s all we know. As we wait, busy with texts and e-mails, I send updates to Lucy, Maggie, Marino and others. I inform them that we left D.C. maybe twenty minutes ago, still not mentioning what we were doing there.
All I’m saying is we’re stuck in traffic on the bridge, and they’ll know which one, are well aware how slow it can be crossing the Potomac this time of day. I look out at night falling fast like a dark curtain dropping, counting four helicopters now in high hovers on the other side of the water.
The police must know what’s going on, and I text Marino and Lucy again, asking if they have an idea. While waiting for them to respond, I reach out to toxicology, trace evidence, and the firearms and tool marks labs. There are examiners I need to talk to before the day is done, and not all of them answer when off the clock.
“The problem is not everybody takes calls once they leave the office.” I say to Benton what I’ve said before, frustrated and feeling cornered. “That’s assuming I have their personal cell phone numbers. And I don’t yet for many of them even though crime doesn’t keep banker’s hours.”
“People have lives,” he replies.
“Of course they do, Benton. But for some of the scientists and doctors, the minute they walk out for the day, their time is their own, and it never used to be that way.”
“‘Used to be’s don’t count anymore,’ to quote Neil Diamond,” my secret agent husband sings badly, trying to make me lighten up.
“Well, you can thank Elvin Reddy for the attitudes I’m confronted with daily. But it doesn’t do any good to complain,” I reply, wishing the inside of Benton’s impeccable SUV didn’t smell like fried chicken.
The empty Styrofoam containers are in white plastic bags with big blue presidential seals, and I’m not keeping our takeout trash as a souvenir. It’s on the floor by my feet because we had no convenient place to toss it on the White House grounds. Public trash receptacles are scarce for security reasons, and I thought it rude to ask Tron to dispose of our takeout detritus.
Especially after she was kind enough to let us stay in our privileged parking spot long enough to wolf down a late lunch, and by then we were ravenous. The Mess Hall’s fried fare included biscuits and creamy coleslaw that hit the spot. I’m well fed and hydrated but feel traces of a headache again after our marathon session in the Situation Room.