Boldt inched his way up to the edge of his chair. We tear people's lives apart right down to the bone, he thought, all in an effort to explain their deaths. "Who is she?" he asked impatiently.
Dixon snapped his head away from the screen. Light flashed from his excited eyes. Once again, he worked with the keyboard and mouse. The photograph of Shulte disappeared, replaced by a different, even more innocent,face. She had a number below her face. How many missing each year? Boldt wondered, knowing that it was so many that the police and FBI flushed their active files after twelve months to make room for the new. Too many for milk cartons. You counted these people-mostly young women in graves.
Sliding the color photo over the skull, Dixon said, "She was number eight of eleven." Remarkably, the two images-the face and the skull-joined like a hand inside a glove. Dixon described the fit in technical detail, his finger spitting static sparks as he touched the screen. Boldt wasn't listening. This picture was indeed worth a thousand words: one and the same woman. Dixon concluded proudly, "This woman went missing while working in the Seattle area fifty-one months ago-which fits our window of time. Furthermore, her dental records, faxed to us this morning, show fillings in the exact same uppers that had been chiseled out from our victim's remains. This guy would have been smarter to knock out a few other teeth as well. As it is, in a roundabout way he's actually helped us to identify her."
"By knocking out a few teeth? How so?"
"By knocking out the same nine teeth." Dixon pointed at him. "I knew you would ask me about this. Picky, picky. But I'm prepared for you." He fished a piece of note-paper out of his chest pocket. "I called a mathematician friend at the U-Dubasked him the probability of the same nine teeth, and only nine teeth, having had dental work. You ready for this?" He slipped on some glasses and read: "One in twenty-eight million, forty-eight thousand, eight hundred. Ergo: Odds are there's only one of her in this city." He added, "Lou Boldt, meet Anna Ferragot. "Anna," Boldt said, leaning forward. He placed a hand on Dixon's back. "Always a thorough bastard, aren't you?"
"Goes with the turf." Dixon pressed his face close to the screen. In a tired but proud voice he said, "The harvester kept you around for four days and then buried you-why? He harvested your liver-for whom? Can you help us? Did you know your killer? Was he a stranger?"
Anna Ferragot's photo showed her to be an attractive young woman with sandy hair and gentle eyes. Boldt said, "I bet you thought we had forgotten all about you." "Guess again," said Dr. Ronald Dixon.
Elden Tegg hugged his wife and kissed her hello. Despite his ongoing concerns, he felt calm. He would not allow himself to lose control. That was for the little people. When he began to feel unstable, he fought against it and overcame it. Strength was everything. "I like your haircut," Peggy told him. "It's better for the party." Her eyes sparkled. He knew what this party meant to her. Even a few days earlier, it had still seemed important to him on some level. But now?
For the past few years, every cent of his share of the harvest money had been donated to the city arts-dance and music mostly. Large sums of money. it made him feel even better about the work. Save lives and give something back to society. What could be better?
This money from the heart harvest was something altogether different. He was at a crossroads now, an intersection of past and future where the present took on a dreamlike, transitional quality. There was so much money at stake: hundreds of thousands of dollars. Enough to buy him a practice if placed in the proper hands. His past and present the interdiction of the police-pushed him toward this future now as surely as the wind pushed a sailboat toward untraveled waters. There were calls to be made, plans to be finalized. A future set in motion. With each step forward, his present identity slipped further behind, as if he had divided into two people and could actually see his former self receding in the distance. Growth is change, he reminded, steeling himself for the immediate challenges that lay ahead. This woman, this house, this existence, belonged to that other man now, a person he hardly knew at all.
She said something to him, but he missed it. He was thinking.
Maybeck had called the office with the message that the "truck was fixed." It meant' that the laptop was taken care of. Good news in itself. But not enough to convince him that things would work out. Change was in the wind. A quick exit was called for. All predicated on the harvest taking place.
He snagged a few pieces of leftover New York steak and tore off bites with his teeth, carefully brushing at his beard for errant food particles. Beards could be dirty and foul if you did not groom properly. "Have you decided a menu?" he asked, attempting to be that other man, the other Elden Tegg he planned to leave behind. He didn't care about the menu; he cared about the disposal of Michael Washington's body, but he had a role to play-certain attitudes were expected of him. "It's being catered. Remember? Same people as the animal benefit. Nothing to worry about," she informed him. "I'm handling the flowers, that's all. They're taking care of everything else."
"And the kids?"
"What about them?" she asked. She was a nervous creature. He found it irritating. "They'll be introduced, of course. After drinks, but before dinner. Allow a few minutes in the schedule for that." ."Do they have to?" she asked. "They're your children. They're a reflection on us -both. You want this seat on the board, don't you?" He stood there impassively. "of course they have to!" she said. "What am I saying. "Of course they do," he agreed. "You look so tired," she said, studying him. "The color of that tie is all wrong. You've been working too hard. You might want a new pair of shoes. At the very least you'd better have those shined. Are you getting enough sleep? All those trips out to the farm. I feel as if I haven't seen you in weeks. What are you working on, anyway?"
"Nothing much," he mumbled. That body had to be dealt with. No question about it. But how to do it? "What's that?"
She never seemed to hear anything he said, always making him repeat himself. He felt it coming then-one of his tics. He didn't want it to happen in front of her, because it was worse lately and even the small ones terrified her. But there it was: His head snapped toward his shoulder. He recovered quickly, but not without an ungainly effort. She had the frightened eyes of a stranger. Would she dare mention it? He gained an unusual sense of power from this tic because no one mentioned it. "Have you seen a doctor?" she asked.
"I am a doctor!" He was thinking: I could burn it. I could bury it. "If you do that at the party-"
"Of course I won't." Dismember it-bring it to the incinerator as contaminated waste.
"As if you can control it. You really should see-"
"I am a doctor. It's nothing. A little nervosa is all-fatigue. Besides, it's not so bad." It should be done soon. Tonight, if possible. "You should stay home tonight. You should rest," she recommended warmly, touching him. "We could ... you know. It's been a long time."
"Tonight?" he gasped. Other plans!
Oh, God, here came another one. Worse than the last. Triggered by her suggestion, no doubt. Her fault. He charged himself with a manufactured anger: "Don't look at me like that!" he shouted. The tic never came. He had overpowered it.
He straightened himself out. She was crying. She looked pitiful with bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. "I'll see someone," he lied. Bury it! he thought. He believed it best to comfort her before going. He might not be back until morning. "The party will be just fine. We're both just under some undue pressures, that's all. Nothing we can't handle." "If you do that at the party ... Can't you take something for it?" she asked.
She fueled his anger with such talk. "Drugs?" he asked.
"Medication?" Oddly enough, he hadn't considered such a thing.