"There were physical findings that make it clear the cat's neck was wrung," I continued to explain very calmly.
"And I know it's awful for you to hear details like this, Mrs. Steiner, but you must know the truth if you are to help us find the person responsible."
"You got any idea who might have done something like that to your little girl's kitten?" Marino sat back down and leaned forward again, forearms resting on his knees, as if he wanted to assure her that she could depend on and feel safe with him. She silently struggled for composure. Reaching for her wine, she took several unsteady sips.
"I do know I've gotten some calls." She took a deep breath.
"You know, my fingernails are blue. I'm such a wreck." She held out a hand.
"I can't settle down. I can't sleep. I don't know what to do." She dissolved into tears again.
"Denesa, it's all right," Marino said kindly.
"You just take your time. We're not going anywhere. Now tell me about the phone calls." She wiped her eyes and went on.
"It's been men mostly. Maybe one woman who said if I'd kept my eye on my little girl like a good mother, this wouldn't have… But one sounded young, like a boy playing pranks. He said something. You know. Like he'd seen Emily riding her bike. This was after. So it couldn't have been. But this other one, he was older. He said he wasn't finished. " She drank more wine.
"He wasn't finished?" I asked.
"Did he say anything else?"
"I don't remember." She shut her eyes.
"When was this?" Marino asked.
"Right after she was found. Found by the lake." She reached for her wine again and knocked it over.
"I'll get that." Marino abruptly got up.
"I need to smoke."
"Do you know what he meant?" I asked her.
"I knew he was referring to what happened. To who did this to her. I felt he was saying it wasn't the end of bad things. And I guess it was a day later I found Socks."
"Captain, maybe you could fix me some toast with peanut butter or cheese. I feel like my blood sugar's getting low," said Mrs. Steiner, who seemed oblivious to the glass on its side and the puddle of wine on the table by her chair. He left the room again.
"When the man broke into your house and abducted your daughter," I said, "did he speak to you at all?"
"He said if I didn't do exactly what he said, he'd kill me."
"So you heard his voice." She nodded as she rocked, her eyes not leaving me.
"Did it sound like the voice on the phone that you were just telling us about?"
"I don't know. It might have. But it's hard to say."
"Mrs. Steiner…?"
"You can call me Denesa." Her stare was intense.
"What else do you remember about him, the man who came into your house and taped you up?"
"You're wondering if he might be that man in Virginia who killed the little boy." I said nothing.
"I remember seeing pictures of the little boy and his family in People magazine. I remember thinking back then how awful it was, that I couldn't imagine being his mother. It was bad enough when Mary Jo died. I never thought I'd get past that."
"Is Mary Jo the child you lost to SIDS?" Interest sparked beneath her dark pain, as if she were impressed or curious that I would know this detail.
"She died in my bed. I woke up and she was next to Chuck, dead."
"Chuck was your husband?"
"At first I was afraid he might have accidentally rolled on top of her during the night and smothered her. But they said no. They said it was SIDS."
"How old was Mary Jo?" I asked.
"She'd just had her first birthday." She blinked back tears.
"Had Emily been born yet?"
"She came a year later, and I just knew the same thing was going to happen to her. She was so colicky. So frail. And the doctors were afraid she might have apnea, so I had to constantly check on her in her sleep. To make sure she was breathing. I remember walking around like a zombie because I never had a night's sleep. Up and down all night, night after night. Living with that horrible fear." She closed her eyes for a moment and rocked, brow furrowed by grief, hands clenching armrests. It occurred to me that Marino did not want to hear me question Mrs. Steiner because of his anger, and that was why he was out of the room so much. I knew then his emotions had wrestled him into the ropes. I feared he would no longer be effective in this case. Mrs. Steiner opened her eyes and they went straight to mine.
"He's killed a lot of people and now he's here," she said.
"Who?" I was confused by what I had been thinking.
"Temple Gault."
"We don't know for a fact he's here," I said.
"I know he is."
"How do you know that?"
"Because of what was done to my Emily. It's the same thing." A tear slid down her cheek.
"You know, I guess I should be afraid he'll get me next. But I don't care. What do I have left?"
"I'm very sorry," I said as kindly as I could.
"Can you tell me anything more about that Sunday? The Sunday of October first?"
"We went to church in the morning like we always did. And Sunday school. We ate lunch, then Emily was in her room. She was practicing guitar some of the time. I didn't see her much, really." She stared the wide stare of remembering.
"Do you recall her leaving the house early for her youth group meeting?"
"She came into the kitchen. I was making banana bread. She said she had to go early to practice guitar and I gave her some change for the collection like I always did."
"What about when she came home?"
"We ate." She was not blinking.
"She was unhappy. And wanted Socks in the house and I said no."
"What makes you think she was unhappy?"
"She was difficult. You know how children can get when they're in moods. Then she was in her room awhile and went to bed."
"Tell me about her eating habits," I said, recalling that Ferguson had intended to ask Mrs. Steiner this after he returned from Quantico. I supposed he'd never had the chance.
"She was picky. Finicky."
"Did she finish her dinner Sunday night after her meeting?"
"That was part of what we got into a fuss about. She was just pushing her food around. Pouting." Her voice caught.
"It was always a struggle… It was always hard for me to get her to eat."
"Did she have a problem with diarrhea or nausea?" Her eyes focused on me.
"She was sick a lot."
"Sick can mean a lot of different things, Mrs. Steiner," I said patiently.
"Did she have frequent diarrhea or nausea?"
"Yes. I already told Max Ferguson that." Tears flowed freely again.
"And I don't understand why I have to keep answering these same questions. It just opens up things. Opens up wounds."
"I'm sorry," I said with a gentleness that belied my surprise. When had she told Ferguson this? Did he call her after he left Quantico? If so, she must have been one of the last people to talk to him before he died.
"This didn't happen to her because she was sickly," Mrs. Steiner said, crying harder.
"It seems people should be asking questions that would help catch him."
"Mrs. Steiner-and I know this is difficult-but where were you living when Mary Jo died?"
"Oh God, please help me." She buried her face in her hands. I watched her try to compose herself, shoulders heaving as she wept. I sat numbly as she got still, little by little, her feet, her arms, her hands. She slowly lifted her eyes to me. Through their bleariness gleamed a strange cold light that oddly made me think of the lake at night, of water so dark it seemed another element. And I felt fretful the way I did in my dreams. She spoke in a low voice.
"What I want to know. Dr. Scarpetta, is do you know that man?"
"What man?" I asked, and then Marino walked back in with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on toast, a dish towel, and a bottle of chablis.
"The man who killed the little boy. Did you ever talk to Temple Gault?" she asked as Marino set her glass upright and refilled it, and placed the sandwich nearby.