"We found the dog." Nic is standing in the doorway.
Scarpetta is startled back to a different dimension, one that isn't a hideous, dry red landscape behind a magnifying glass.
"Basil, her dog."
"That's not where most of these hairs are from. I'm finding dozens, different kinds, different colors. Dog hairs, possibly. Much coarser than cat hairs. But I'm not positive."
Dr. Lanier walks back inside the room, brushing past Nic, snapping on fresh gloves.
"What I'm seeing here makes me think the hairs were transferred from the perpetrator-perhaps from his clothing-directly to her upper body. Maybe if he got on top of her."
She pulls the pajama bottoms down an inch, just far enough to expose the indentations left by their elastic waistband. She sits back on her heels and stares, then takes off her mask.
"Why would someone get on top of her and not take her pajama bottoms off?" Dr. Lanier puzzles. "Why would someone transfer all these dog or doglike hairs to her naked upper body and nowhere else? And why the hell would anybody have all these dog hairs all the hell over them to begin with?"
"We found Basil," Nic says again. "Hiding under a house across the street. Just cowering and shaking. He must have run off when the killer left, I guess. Who's going to take care of him, of Basil?"
"I expect the boyfriend will," Dr. Lanier replies. "If not, Eric loves dogs."
He tears open two packets containing sterile, plasticized homicide sheets. While Scarpetta spreads one on the floor, Dr. Lanier and Eric grip the body under the arms and behind the knees, lifting it, centering it on the sheet. They spread the second sheet on top of her, rolling up the edges, wrapping her like a mummy so no trace evidence will be added or lost.
116
JAY LIFTS A HAND OFF the steering wheel to strike Bev, then changes his mind.
"You're stupid. You know that?" he says coldly. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"
"It didn't happen the way it was supposed to."
The radio inside his Cherokee continues with the six o'clock news as he drives toward Jacks Boat Landing.
"… Dr. Sam Lanier, coroner of East Baton Rouge Parish, has not completed the autopsy yet, but sources close to the investigation have confirmed that the victim is thirty-six-year-old Rebecca Milton of Zachary. The cause of death isn't official, but sources say she was stabbed to death. Police do not believe the murder is related to the women reported missing from Baton Rouge over the past year…"
"Fools." Jay turns off the radio. "Just lucky for you if they aren't assuming that."
Four small dogs, mixed breeds, sleep in sunlight shining through a back window of the SUV. Five cases of beer are stacked on the backseat. Bev worked hard today after dropping Jay off at the University Lake in the heart of LSU. He didn't say why he was going there or what he'd be doing all day, only to pick him up in the same spot where she dropped him off at half past five. Maybe he was looking for his escaped-convict brother. Maybe he was wandering around, enjoying being away from Bev and the fishing shack. He was probably trolling for pretty coeds. Bev imagines him having sex with one of them. Jealousy wakes up inside her. It smolders.
"You shouldn't have left me all day," she says to him.
"What were you thinking? You were going to abduct her in the middle of the day and take her back to the boat in broad daylight?"
"At first. Then I knew you wouldn't be happy."
He says nothing, his face hard as he drives, careful not to speed or commit any other traffic infraction that could get him pulled over.
"She didn't look like her. She had black hair. I don't know if she went to college."
Bev had been unable to resist the impulse. She had time on her hands, time enough to find that pretty lady she had fixed on at the Wal-Mart. Following her all night, she had learned that the lamb didn't live in the house in the Garden District but had a small place in Zachary. Her neighborhood was dark, and Bev started getting nervous that her lamb might get suspicious. Bev had turned off on a side street before getting a good fix on the address.
This morning, she cruised, looking for the green Ford Explorer, figuring just because it wasn't parked in the driveway didn't mean it wasn't in the garage. Obviously, she picked the wrong house. Once she was inside, she was committed.
What she never anticipated was that this particular lamb was going to fight like a wolf. The instant the black-haired woman answered the door, Bev reached inside her canvas bag and pulled out the gun and was shoved so hard it flew out of her hand. Bev rolled on the floor and slipped a buck tool out of the sheath on her belt. She managed to open what she thought was a blade, and the chase began. It seemed to go on and on for miles, with the woman running and yelling, and falling against a wall, which gave Bev the opportunity to grab her by her hair and slam her head against plaster, then kick her when she slid to the floor.
Damn if she didn't get back up and punch Bev in the shoulder, hard. It seems Bev was yelling, too, but she can't remember. There was a roaring in her head, like a freight train, and she stabbed and chased, blood flying in her face, on and on forever. It couldn't have lasted more than a minute or two. Bev pinned the woman to the bedroom floor and stabbed and stabbed, and now she isn't sure if any of it really happened.
Until she keeps hearing it on the radio. Until she remembers the buck knifes bloody bottle opener. She stabbed the woman with a bottle opener. How could that have happened?
She looks at Jay, passing by pawnshops and car dealers, and aTaco Bell that makes her want to stop.
Nachos with sour cream, cheese, chili and jalapeсos.
Pizza places, auto shops and car dealers, and then the road narrows and is lined with mailboxes as they move along back to Jack's, then the bayou.
"Maybe we could stop and get us some peanut brittle," Bev says.
Jay won't speak to her.
"Well, have it your way. You and your fucking Baton Rouge. Going back there because of your mangy brother. Well, wait 'til dark when its easier."
"Shut up."
"What if he's not there?"
A stony silence.
"Well, if he is, he's probably in that damn creepy cellar, hiding, maybe getting the money stashed down there. We could use some more money, baby. All that beer I've been buying…"
"I told you to shut up!"
The colder he gets, the prouder she is of the red bruises and deep scratches on her arms, legs, chest and other parts of her body where she must have been injured during what she refers to as a tussle.
"They'll swab under her fingernails." Jay finally speaks to her. "They'll get your DNA."
"They don't have my DNA in any of their fancy databases," Bev replies. "No one ever took my DNA before you and me got the hell out of Dodge. I was just a nice lady running a campsite near Williamsburg, remember that?"
"Nice my ass."
Bev smiles. Her injuries are badges of courage and power. She didn't know she had it in her to fight like that. Why, one of these days, she might just go after Jay. Her bravado deflates. She could never overcome Jay. He could kill her with one punch to her temple. He's told her that. One punch and he'd fracture her skull, because women don't have very thick skulls. "Even stupid ones" like Bev, he says.
"What did you do to her? You know what I mean," he says. "You're blood-soaked down the front of your clothes. You get on top of her like a man?"
"No." It's none of his business.
"Then how did your clothes get bloody from the neck to your crotch, huh? You climb on top of some girl who's bleeding to death and jerk off?"