Hate destroys the vessel that holds it. To hate is to lose clarity of mind and vision. Throughout his life he has resisted hate, and it would be all too easy and appropriate to hate the hate-filled sadistic and unremorseful offenders he has relentlessly tracked and trapped beyond what was appropriate while he was with the FBI. Benton's gift at evasion and imperviousness would not be possible if he hated or gave in to any extreme of emotion.
He became Scarpetta's lover while he was still married, and perhaps that is his only sin he won't forgive. He can't bear to imagine the anguish Connie and their daughters suffered when they believed he was murdered. At times he considers his exile punishment for what he did to his family, because he was weak and gave in to an extreme of an emotion that he still feels. Scarpetta has that effect on him, and he would commit the same sin again-he knows it-were he to go back in time to when they first realized what they were feeling for each other. His only excuse-a weak one, he knows-is that their lust and falling in love wasn't premeditated by either one of them. It happened. It simply happened.
"I'll call 'em up for you," the doorman says, returning the fraudulent ID to Benton.
"Thank you… what is your name?" Jim.
"Thank you, Jim, but that won't be necessary."
Benton walks off, ignoring a Don't Walk sign, crossing 75th Street and becoming part of the anonymous flow of pedestrians along Lexington Avenue. Swerving under scaffolding, he pulls his cap lower, but behind his dark glasses, his eyes miss nothing. Were any of the same oblivious people to pass him again on another block, he would recognize their faces, always aware and on guard. Three times, and he will tail whoever it is and capture him or her on his pocket-size video camera. He has amassed hundreds of tapes in the past six years, and so far they mean nothing beyond demonstrating that he lives in a very small world, no matter how big the city.
Cops have an obvious presence in New York, sitting in their cruisers, talking to one another on sidewalks and street corners. Benton passes them, stoically looking straight ahead, his pistol strapped around his ankle, a violation so serious he would probably be tackled or slammed against a building, were a cop to spot the gun. He would be handcuffed, stuffed inside a police car, interrogated, run through the FBI computer system, fingerprinted and arraigned in court, all to no avail, really. When he worked crime scenes, his prints were stored in AFIS, the automated fingerprint identification system. After his alleged death, his prints-including his ten-print card in cold storage-were altered, swapped with a man who had died of natural causes and was surreptitiously fingerprinted in the embalming room of a Philadelphia funeral home. Benton's DNA profile is in no automated system anywhere on Earth.
He steps into a doorway and dials directory assistance on a cell phone that has the billing address of a phone number at the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. Programming the billing address was not so difficult. Benton has had years to become adept on the computer, using and violating cyberspace to his advantage. An occasional collect call added to the Texas penitentiary's telephone bills is likely to escape notice and could not be traced to anyone, certainly never to him.
Benton knows that when he makes his call to Lucy's office, the Texas penitentiary's name and number will show up on whatever sophisticated security system she has. Of course, all calls are taped. Of course, Lucy will have her own forensic voice analysis computer system. Of course, Benton has Jean-Baptiste's voice on tape and has had it for years, reaching back to the very dangerous days of an undercover operation that did not bring down the Chandonne cartel, but instead annihilated Bentons identity and life. For this, Benton has not yet forgiven himself. He doesn't believe he will ever be able to give up his guilt and humiliation. He underestimated those whose trust was synonymous with his life.
As a child, Benton and his magic ring made mistakes in his fantasy investigations. As an adult, he and his gold FBI ring have also made mistakes, errors in judgment, and flat-out wrong psychological assessments of murderers. But the one time in his career when he needed his acumen and wits the most, he slipped, and the thought of it still enrages him, sickens him, fills him with self-recrimination.
He tells himself during his most despondent moments, No one else is to blame. Not even the Chandonnes and their minions are to blame. You dug your pit, and now you must get out of it.
56
JUST PLAIN-JANE COPYING PAPER," Polunsky's public information officer, Wayne Reeve, explains to Scarpetta over the phone.
"We buy it by the ream and sell it to the inmates for a penny a sheet. Envelopes are cheap white dime-store variety, three for a quarter," he adds. "If you don't mind my asking, why are you interested?"
"Research."
"Oh." His curiosity lingers.
"Forensic paper analysis. I'm a scientist. What if the inmate doesn't have commissary privileges?" Scarpetta inquires from her office in Delray Beach.
She was rushing out of the house with her suitcase when the phone rang. Rose answered it. Scarpetta eagerly took the call. She will miss her flight to New York.
"He-or she-can get writing paper, envelopes, stamps and so on. No one is denied that privilege, no matter what. You can understand it. Lawyers," Reeve says.
Scarpetta doesn't ask him if Jean-Baptiste Chandonne is still on death row. She doesn't hint that she's gotten a letter from him and is no longer certain Chandonne is safely locked up.
Enough, you son of a bitch.
I've had enough, you son of a bitch.
You want to see me, you'll see me, you son of a bitch.
You want to talk, we'll talk all right, you son of a bitch.
If you've escaped, I'm going to find out, you son of a bitch.
If you did or didn't write this letter, I'm going to find out, you son of a bitch.
You're not going to hurt anybody else, you son of a bitch.
I want you dead, you son of a bitch.
"Can you send me samples of commissary paper?" she asks Reeve.
"You'll get them tomorrow," he promises.
57
TURKEY BUZZARDS SWOOP LOW in the blue sky, the smell of death and decay drawing them to the marsh beyond the gray, weathered pier.
"What'd you do, throw meat in the saw grass?" Bev complains to Jay as she loops a rope over a piling. "You know how much I hate those damn buzzards."
Jay smiles, his attention on the lamb cowering in the stern of the boat. She rubs her wrists and ankles, her clothing partially unbuttoned and in disarray. For an instant, relief passes through her terrified eyes, as if the handsome blond man on the dock couldn't possibly be evil. Jay wears nothing but threadbare cutoff jeans, the muscles in his sculpted, tan body popping out with every move he makes. He lightly steps down into the boat.
"Get inside," he orders Bev. "Hi," he says to the woman. "I'm Jay. You can relax now."
Her wide, glassy eyes are riveted to him. She keeps rubbing her wrists and wetting her lips.
"Where am I?" she asks. "I don't understand…"
Jay reaches out to help her up, and her legs won't work, so he grabs her around the waist.
"There we go. A little stiff, are we?" He touches the dried bloody clumps of hair matted to the back of her head and his eyes burn. "She wasn't supposed to hurt you. You're hurt, aren't you? Okay. Hold on. I'm going to pick you up, just like this." He lifts her as if she weighs nothing. "Put your arms around my neck. Good. He places her on the dock and climbs out after her. Helping her to her feet again, he picks her up and carries her inside the shack.