Blow Fly (Kay Scarpetta #12)(62)
"Tell you what, honey," Bev says as she steers. "We're going to anchor right over there under those shade trees, and I'm gonna cover you good with skeeter spray, every inch of you, because my man ain't gonna want you swelled up and itching."
She laughs as her prisoner's eyes widen and tears flood her puffy red lids. This is the first the lamb's heard mention of a man.
"Now you quit your bawling, honey. You need to look pretty, and right now you're looking like shit."
The lamb blinks hard, the gag making wet noises with each agonizing, rapid, shallow breath. Bev steers the boat closer to shore, cuts the engine and drops anchor. She picks up the shotgun and scans the trees, checking for snakes. Satisfied that the only one in harm's way is her prisoner, she lays the pump-action shotgun on top of the tarp and places a boat cushion on the floor just inches from her "cute little catch of the day," as she continues to call her. Bev digs in her beach bag and pulls out a plastic squirt bottle of insect repellent.
"What I'm going to do now is take off your gag and untie you," Bev says. "You know why I can be that nice, honey? Because you ain't got nowhere to go but overboard, and if you think about what's in these waters, you ain't likely to want to go for a little swim. Or how about the fish box?"
Bev opens the lid of the coffin-sized fish box. It is filled with ice.
"That'll keep you nice and fresh if you decide to get rowdy. And you're not gonna do that, are you?"
The woman vigorously shakes her head and dryly says "No" as the gag comes off. "Thank you, thank you," she says in a shaking voice, wetting her lips.
"Bet your joints are hurting like hell," Bev says, taking her time untying her. "My man Jay tied me up once, my ankles and wrists tied up tight together behind my back until I was bent like a pretzel, just like you. It turned him on, you know." She tosses the rope on top of the tarp. "Well, you'll find out soon enough."
The woman rubs her raw ankles and wrists, trying to catch her breath. She reminds Bev of a cheerleader, one of those athletic blondes with pure prettiness, like those in Seventeen magazine. She wears small horn-rimmed glasses that make her look smart, and she's the right age, late thirties, maybe forty.
"You go to college?" Bev asks her.
"Yes."
"Good. That's real good." She disappears inside her thoughts for a moment, a slack expression on her fleshy, weathered face.
"Please take me back. We've got money. We'll pay you whatever you want."
Bev's meanness snaps back into her eyes. Jay's smart and has money. The woman is smart and has money. She leans close to the woman, the whine of mosquitoes loud beneath the trees. Not far away, a fish splashes.
The higher the sun gets, the hotter it is, and Bev's Hawaiian shirt is damp with sweat.
"Money's not what this is about," Bev says as the woman stares at her, hope fading from her light blue eyes. "Don't you know what this is about?"
"I didn't do anything to you. Please just let me go home and I'll never tell anyone. I won't ever do anything to get you into trouble. How could I, anyway? I don't know you."
"Well, you're getting ready to know me, honey," Bev says, laying a rough, dry hand on the woman's neck and stroking it with her thumb. "We're getting ready to know each other real good."
The woman blinks, wetting her chapped lips as Bev's hand works its way down, touching the hollow of her neck, then down lower, exploring wherever she pleases. The woman sits rigidly and shuts her eyes. She jerks when Bev reaches under her clothing, unhooking her bra in back. Bev starts squeezing the insect repellent, rubbing it on the lamb's naked body, feeling her luscious, firm flesh tremble like Jell-O. Bev thinks of Jay and the bleached area of the floor beneath the bed, and she shoves the lamb hard, slamming her head into the outboard motor.
55
AT THE CORNER OF 83RD and Lexington, a delivery truck struck. a pedestrian-an elderly woman.
Benton Wesley overhears excited talk in the gawking crowd as emergency lights flash, the block cordoned off in yellow crime-scene tape. The fatal accident occurred less than an hour earlier, and Benton has seen enough gore in his life to walk swiftly past and respectfully avert his eyes from the body trapped under one of the trucks back tires.
He catches the words brains and decapitated, and something about dentures lying on the street. If the public had its way, every death scene would be pay-per-view: Five dollars for a ticket, and you can stare at blood and guts to your hearts content. When he used to arrive at crime scenes and all the cops would move out of the way to allow his expert eye to take in every detail, he had the right to order unauthorized people to leave. He could vent his disgust as he pleased-sometimes calmly, sometimes not.
He surveys the area from behind his dark glasses, his lean body moving along the crowded sidewalk, cutting in and out with the agility of a lynx. A plain black baseball cap covers his shaved head, and he backtracks toward Lucy's headquarters, having gotten out of a taxi ten blocks north instead of directly in front of her building or even near it. Benton probably could walk right past Lucy and say "excuse me," and she would not recognize him. Six years it has been since he has seen or talked to her, and he is desperate to know what she looks like, sounds like, acts like. Anxiety presses him onward at his determined pace until he nears the modern polished granite building on 75th Street. A doorman stands in front, hands behind his back. He is hot in his gray uniform and shifts his weight from leg to leg, indicating that his feet hurt.