"Here, let me help with that." I took the dish towel from him and wiped up spilled wine.
"Tell me what he looks like." She shut her eyes again.
I saw Gault in my mind, his piercing eyes and light blond hair. He was sharp featured, small and quick. But it was the eyes. I would never forget them.
I knew he could slit a throat without flinching. I knew he had killed all of them with that same blue stare.
"Excuse me," I said, realizing Mrs. Steiner was still talking to me.
"Why did you let him get away?" she repeated her question as if it were an accusation, and began crying again. Marino told her to get some rest, that we were leaving. When we got into the car, his mood was horrible.
"Gault killed her cat," he said.
"We don't know that for a fact."
"I ain't interested in hearing you talk like a lawyer right now."
"I am a lawyer," I said.
"Oh yeah. Excuse me for forgetting you got that degree, too. It just slips my mind that you really are a doctor-lawyer-Indian chief."
"Do you know if Ferguson called Mrs. Steiner after he left Quantico?"
"Hell, no, I don't know."
"He mentioned in the consultation he intended to ask her several medical questions. Based on what Mrs. Steiner said to me, it sounds like he did, meaning he must have talked to her shortly before his death."
"So maybe he called her as soon as he got home from the airport."
"And then he goes straight upstairs and puts a noose around his neck?"
"No, Doc. He goes straight upstairs to beat off. Maybe talking to her on the phone put him in the mood." That was possible.
"Marino, what's the last name of the little boy Emily liked? I know his first name was Wren."
"Why?"
"I want to go see him."
"In case you don't know much about kids, it's almost nine o'clock on a school night."
"Marino," I said evenly, "answer my question."
"I know he don't live too far from the Steiners' crib." He pulled off on the side of the road and turned on his interior light.
"His last name's Maxwell."
"I want to go to his house." He flipped through his notepad, then glanced over at me. Behind his tired eyes I saw more than resentment. Marino was in terrific pain. The Maxwells lived in a modern log cabin that was probably prefabricated and had been built on a wooded lot in view of the lake. We pulled into a gravel drive lit by floodlights the color of pollen. It was cool enough for rhododendron leaves to begin to curl, and our breath turned to smoke as we waited on the porch for someone to answer the bell. When the door opened, we faced a young, lean man with a thin face and black-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a dark wool robe and slippers. I wondered if anyone stayed up past ten o'clock in this town.
"I'm Captain Marino and this is Dr. Scarpetta," Marino said in a serious police tone that would fill any citizen with dread.
"We're working with the local authorities on the Emily Steiner case."
"You're the ones from out of town," the man said.
"Are you Mr. Maxwell?" Marino asked.
"Lee Maxwell. Please come-in. I guess you want to talk about Wren." We entered the house as an overweight woman in a pink sweatsuit came downstairs. She looked at us as if she knew exactly why we were there.
"He's up in his room. I was reading to him," she said.
"I wonder if I might speak to him," I said in as nonthreatening a voice as possible, for I could tell the Maxwells were upset.
"I can get him," the father said.
"I'd rather go on up, if I might," I said. Mrs. Maxwell absently fiddled with a seam coming loose on a cuff of her sweatshirt. She was wearing small silver earrings shaped like crosses that matched a necklace she had on.
"Maybe while the doc does that," Marino spoke up, "I can talk to the two of you?"
"That policeman who died already talked to Wren," said the father.
"I know." Marino spoke in a manner that told them he didn't care who had talked to their son.
"We promise not to take up too much of your time," he added.
"Well, all right," Mrs. Maxwell said to me.
I followed her slow, heavy progress up uncarpeted stairs to a second floor that had few rooms but was so well lit my eyes hurt. There didn't seem to be a corner inside or out of the Maxwells' property that wasn't flooded with light. We walked into Wren's bedroom and the boy was in pajamas and standing in the middle of the floor. He stared at us as if we'd caught him in the middle of something we weren't supposed to see.
"Why aren't you in bed, son?" Mrs. Maxwell sounded more weary than stern.
"} was thirsty."
"Would you like me to get you another glass of water?"
"No, that's okay."
I could see why Emily would have found Wren Maxwell cute. He had been growing in height faster than his muscles could keep up, and his sunny blond hair wouldn't stay out of his dark blue eyes. Lanky and shaggy, with a perfect complexion and mouth, he had chewed his fingernails to the quick. He wore several bracelets of woven rawhide that could not be taken off without cutting, and they somehow told me he was very popular in school, especially with girls, whom I expected he treated quite rudely.
"Wren, this is Dr." -she looked at me"-I'm sorry, but you're going to have say your last name again."
"I'm Dr. Scarpetta." I smiled at Wren, whose expression turned to bewilderment.
"I'm not sick," he quickly said.
"She's not that kind of doctor," Mrs. Maxwell told her son.
"What kind are you?" By now his curiosity had overcome his shyness.
"Well, she's a doctor sort of like Lucias Ray is one."
"He ain't a doctor." Wren scowled at his mother.
"He's an undertaker."
"Now you go on and get in bed, son, so you don't catch cold. Dr. Scarletti, you can pull up that chair and I'll be downstairs."
"Her name's Scarpetta," the boy fired at his mother, who was already out the door. He climbed into his twin bed and covered himself with a wool blanket the color of bubble gum. I noticed the baseball theme of the curtains drawn across his window, and the silhouettes of trophies behind them. On pine walls were posters of several sports heroes, and I recognized none of them except Michael Jordan, who was typically airborne in Nikes like some magnificent god. I pulled a chair close to the bed and suddenly felt old.
"What sport do you play?" I asked him.
"I play for the Yellow Jackets," he answered brightly, for he had found a co-conspirator in his quest to stay up past bedtime.
"The Yellow Jackets?"
"That's my Little League team. You know, we beat everybody around here. I'm surprised you haven't heard of us."
"I'm certain I would have heard of your team if I lived here. Wren. But I don't. " He regarded me as if I were some exotic creature behind glass in the zoo. "} play basketball, too. I can dribble between my legs. I bet you can't do that."
"You're absolutely right. I can't. I'd like you to tell me about your friendship with Emily Steiner." His eyes dropped to his hands, which were nervously fiddling with the edge of the blanket.
"Had you known her a long time?" I continued.
"I've seen her around. We're in the same youth group at church." He looked at me.
"Plus, we're both in the sixth grade but we have different homeroom teachers.
I have Mrs. Winters."
"Did you get to know Emily right after her family moved here?"
"I guess so. They came from California. Mom says they have earth shakes out there because the people don't believe in Jesus."
"It seems Emily liked you a great deal," I said.
"In fact, I'd say she had a big crush on you. Were you aware of that?" He nodded, eyes cast down again.
"Wren, can you tell me about the last time you saw her?"
"It was at church. She came in with her guitar because it was her turn."
"Her turn for what?"
"For music. Usually Owen or Phil plays the piano, but sometimes Emily would play guitar. She wasn't very good."
"Were you supposed to meet her at church that afternoon?" Color mounted his cheeks and he sucked in his lower lip to keep it from trembling.