Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(98)

Lucy pulls her pistol from the back of her sweatpants, placing it on a countertop. Her pump action shotgun is parked in a corner, and I ask her about it.

“I don’t walk back and forth to my place without protection,” she explains. “Not anymore with all that’s going on. Plus, Mom’s nervous, and nothing better for home protection than a shotgun.”

“That’s a scary thought.” I’m not eager to think what might happen if Dorothy decided to defend the fort. “I guess she’s planning on staying here for a while.” Opening a drawer, I get out napkins and silverware.

“Things are tough at Colonial Landing.” Lucy takes off her jacket, hanging it on the back of a chair. “The media’s all over the place, and people are showing up, gawking. Dana Diletti is still at it if you can believe that. I guess being a suspect in her own attempted home breakin doesn’t matter. If anything, she’s more popular, trending all over the Internet.”

“I’m sure she’ll say the police planted the evidence or something to that effect.”

“She’s already saying it. You ready for a drink?”

I couldn’t be readier, I tell her. But there’s one order of business I need to take care of first.

“The wine downstairs,” I explain as I think about what I just saw in the trace evidence lab. “I want to check just in case there’s any chance that bottle wasn’t the only one tampered with.”

“I think you’re worrying too much,” she says, wearing the bracelet I gave her.

“It looks nice on you.” I touch it while walking past to a cabinet, getting out plates. “And it’s not about my worrying. It’s about the evidence.”

Setting the breakfast table by the curtained window, I pass on what I discovered before coming home. It’s possible the microscopic debris inside the bottle of Bordeaux could have come from here.

“What if the wine was injected with poison inside our own basement?” I say to her. “There have been people in and out since I got back from France.”

“That’s true,” Lucy says. “But I found nothing on the security videos that would indicate someone was on the property who shouldn’t be.”

“I’m going to check, no way I wouldn’t after what happened.” Opening my briefcase, I pull out my magnifier glasses and a pair of nitrile gloves. “It shouldn’t be hard to tell if the other bottles have been tampered with now that I know we’re looking for an injection site.”

“You want some help?” She stirs the ground beef on the stove.

“No. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Maybe bring up another bottle of tequila while you’re at it.”

“You got it.” I head for the basement, and Merlin is on my heels, keeping me company.

Down the wooden stairs, I flip on lights as I go from one room to the next, feeling the same strange icy draft. Then I hear a faint noise from outside the door with its locked acrylic flap that clicks open when Merlin slinks past. The wind is starting up again, branches tap-tapping a window.

Lucy’s cat follows me like a shadow as I reach the refrigerator, putting on the exam gloves and magnifier glasses. I count fourteen bottles, beautiful Burgundies and Bordeaux. Robust Italian reds, and delicate whites, and I begin examining them one at a time. The foil-wrapped corks I’m looking at haven’t been perforated by a syringe or anything else.

“So far, so good,” I let Merlin know as he rubs my legs. “Maybe I won’t have to lose all these wonderful wines I’ve carried home for years,” I add as the cat door lock clicks free again, and he’s not close enough for that to happen.

Taking off the magnifier glasses, I freeze in shocked disbe lief. A muscular male hand covered with angry red scratches pushes through the flap, followed by a black sleeve–covered arm as Merlin hisses, arching his back. The man reaches up toward the inside door handle, and my response is automatic.

I kick his elbow with all my might in the opposite direction that it’s supposed to bend. The sound of the joint breaking is as loud as a stick snapping, and he howls and shrieks in furious pain. Hurrying through the basement, I’m yelling for Lucy as I thunder up the stairs, and there’s no sign of her anywhere.

I grab her pistol off the countertop, flying through the house, and out the front door, my heart hammering through my chest. Running through the near dark, I can hear the thudding before I see the source of it. My niece is caving in the man’s head with the butt of her shotgun. Lifting it and slamming it down again and again.

While our intruder lies motionless, his right arm bent at an unnatural angle. Nearby is a can of spray paint. Also, Merlin’s missing collar, and I get the impression of someone stocky dressed in dark clothing and boots.

“Lucy, it’s okay.” I’m careful not to startle her as she continues maniacally, and each time the sound is sickening. “Lucy, you can stop. It’s okay.”

Breathing hard, she turns around, her eyes wide and staring. I put my arms around her, smelling blood, her face wet with it.

“That’s enough,” I tell her, getting a closer look, and the man isn’t moving.

He never will again, and I take the shotgun from Lucy, the stock of it slippery. It vaguely occurs to me I’m still wearing exam gloves as I crouch by the body.