Blow Fly (Kay Scarpetta #12)(89)
The 34th Street heliport is on the Hudson, midway between the Statue of Liberty and the Intrepid. Out on pad 2, Lucy walks around her bird for the fourth time, having already checked inside the cowling and sight glasses for oil levels, oil drips, pop-out buttons on filters or hydraulic leaks that always remind her of dark red blood. One of many reasons she is fanatical about lifting weights in the gym is if she ever lost her hydraulics in flight, she'd have to muscle the controls. A weak woman would have a hard time with that.
She runs her hand lovingly along the tail boom, squatting again to check antennas on the underside. Then she climbs into the pilot's seat and wishes Rudy would hurry up. Her wish is granted as the door to the FBO swings open and Rudy appears with a duffel bag and trots to the helicopter, a hint of disappointment crossing his face when he spots the empty left seat and, as usual, finds himself the copilot. Dressed in cargo pants and a polo shirt, he is the typical handsome hunk.
"You know what?" he says, clicking on his four-point harness as Lucy goes through a quick but thorough preflight, starting with circuit breakers and switches, working her way down to the instruments and the throttle. "You're damn greedy," he says. "A helicopter hog."
"That's because it's my helicopter, big guy." She switches on the battery. "Twenty-six amps. Plenty of juice. Don't forget, I've got more hours than you-more certifications, too."
"Shut up," he says good-naturedly, always in a genial mood when the two of them fly. "Clear on the left."
"Clear on the right."
89
FLYING IS AS CLOSE AS he'll ever get to experiencing euphoria with her.
Lucy never finishes what she rarely starts. Rudy might have felt used after they drove away from the Radisson in Szczecin, were it not for his understanding of what happened. Near-death experiences or anything else that is terribly traumatic cause a simple reaction in most people. They crave the warmth of human flesh. Sex is a reassurance that one is alive. He wonders if this is why he constantly thinks about sex.
He's not in love with Lucy. He would never allow that to happen. The first time he saw her God knows how many years ago, he had no intention of being interested in her. She was climbing out of a monster Bell 412, having gone through the usual show-and-tell maneuvers that the FBI expects when an important personage, especially a politician, is touring the Academy. Rudy supposed, since Lucy was the only woman on the Hostage Rescue Team, it was politically correct for the Attorney General or whoever he was to see a young, good-looking woman at the stick.
Rudy stared at her as she shut down the formidable twin-engine machine and climbed out, wearing a dark blue Battle Dress Uniform and soft black ankle-high boots. Rudy was surprised by her fiery beauty as he watched the way she walked with confidence and grace and not a trace of masculinity. He began entertaining the possibility that what he had heard about her wasn't true. Her body intrigued him as she moved. She seemed to ripple like an exotic animal, a tiger, he thought as she walked straight to the Attorney General, or whoever it was on that show-and-tell day, and politely shook his hand.
Lucy is athletic but definitely feminine and very pleasing to touch. Rudy has learned not to love her too much. He knows when to back away.
In minutes, the helicopter is up to full power, avionics and headsets on, the loud, fast beating of blades the music she and Rudy dance to and adore. He feels Lucy's spirits joyfully lift as the helicopter does.
"We're on the go," she says into her mike. "Hudson traffic, helicopter four-zero-seven Tango, Lima, Papa is southbound at thirty-fourth."
Hovering is what she likes most, and she can hold the chopper perfectly still, even in a stiff tailwind. Nosing around to the water, she pulls in power and takes off.
90
SCARPETTA CAUGHT THE EARLIEST FLIGHT to Houston's George Bush Intercontinental Airport and, factoring in the hour time difference, landed at 10:15 a.m.
From there, the drive almost due north to Livingston was a tense hour and forty minutes. She had no interest in renting a car and finding her way to the prison. That was a wise decision. Although she hasn't counted, the route has taken numerous turns, the longest stretch of US-59 that rolls on forever. Scarpetta's thoughts are clipped, as if she is a new recruit taking orders.
She is in her most dispassionate mode, a persona she steps into when she testifies in court as defense attorneys poise themselves like carnivores, waiting for the first scent of her blood. Rarely is she wounded. Never fatally. Deep inside the refuge of her analytical mind, she has remained silent throughout the trip. She hasn't spoken to the driver, except to give her instructions. The driver is the sort who wants to be chatty, and Scarpetta told her as she was climbing into the black Lincoln at the beginning of the trip that she didn't want to talk. She had work to do.
"You got it," said the woman, who is dressed in a black livery suit that includes a cap and tie.
"You can take your cap off," Scarpetta told her.
"Why, thank you," the driver said with relief, taking it off immediately. "I can't tell you how much I hate this thing, but most of my passengers want me to look like a proper chauffeur."
"I'd rather you didn't," Scarpetta said.
The prison looms ahead, a modern fortress that looks like a monstrous freighter built of concrete with a hatchmark of windows running below the flat roof, where two workmen are busy talking and gesturing and looking around. Surrounding the expansive grass grounds are thick coils of razorwire that shine like fine sterling in the sun. Guards high up in their towers scan with binoculars.