"You gotta be kidding me! No human being looks like that."
The photograph is a mug shot taken in Richmond, Virginia, where Chandonne was arrested three years ago. He was not clean-shaven at the time, and his face, even his forehead, was horrifмcally covered with baby-fine hair. Showing the old photograph is a shame. Chandonne could not have escaped from prison unless he is clean-shaven. When he is hairy, he is a conspicuous freak. For the public to see this old mug shot isn't helpful, especially if he wears caps or sunglasses, or employs other means of disguising his grotesquely deformed face.
The clerk is frozen behind the desk, staring with her mouth open at the TV across the room.
"If I saw him, I'd die of a heart attack!" she exclaims. "Is he for real, or is that weirdo hair fake and everything?"
Benton glances at his watch, the successful businessman in a hurry. His protective law-enforcement instincts, however, are impossible to suppress.
"He's real, I'm afraid," he tells the clerk. "I remember hearing about his murders a few years back. I guess we'd better be on the lookout with him on the loose."
"You can say that again!" She hands him the rental envelope. "I guess I need to run your charge card."
He pulls a platinum American Express card out of his wallet, which also holds two thousand dollars, mostly in hundred-dollar bills. More cash is tucked into various pockets. Not knowing how long he'll be here, he has come prepared. He initials the rental car form and signs it.
"Thank you, Mr. Andrews. Drive carefully," the clerk says with a bright smile that goes with the job. "And I hope you enjoy your stay in Baton Rouge."
105
SCARPETTA'S TENSION MOUNTS AS SHE and Albert watch baggage go by on the carousel inside Baton Rouges main terminal.
The time is almost seven p.m., and she is beginning to entertain real worries that no one has come to meet him. He collects one suitcase and clings to Scarpetta's side as she reclaims her own bag.
"Looks like you found yourself a new friend." Weldon Winn is suddenly behind her.
"Come on," she says to Albert. They walk through automatic glass doors. "I'm sure your aunt will drive up any minute. She's probably having to circle because cars aren't allowed to park at the curb."
Armed soldiers in camouflage patrol inside the baggage area and outside on the sidewalk. Albert seems oblivious to the unsmiling military presence, to their fingers resting on the trigger guards of assault rifles. His face is bright red.
"You and me are going to talk, Dr. Scarpetta," U.S. Attorney Winn finally says her name and dares to wrap an arm around her shoulder.
"I think it would be a very good idea for you to keep your hands off me," she quietly warns him.
He removes his arm. "And I think it might be a good idea for you to learn how things are done down here." He watches cars pull up to the curb. "We're going to meet, all right. Any information about ongoing investigations is important. And if someone's an informant…"
"I am no informant," she interrupts his outrageous intimation that if she doesn't fully cooperate with him, he'll subpoena her for deposition. "Who told you I was coming to Baton Rouge?"
Albert begins to cry.
"Let me let you in on a little secret, pretty lady. Nothing much happens around here that I don't know about."
"Mr. Winn," she says, "if you have a legitimate need to talk to me at some point, I'll be happy to do so. But in an appropriate venue-which a sidewalk outside an airport clearly isn't."
"And I'll certainly look forward to that." He holds up a hand and snaps his fingers, signaling his driver.
She slings her bag over her shoulder and takes Albert's hand. "Don't worry. It's all right," she tells him. "I'm sure your aunt's on her way. But if she's been delayed for some reason, I'm not going to leave you all by yourself, okay?"
"But I don't know you. I'm not supposed to go anywhere with strangers," he whines.
"We sat together on the plane, didn't we?" she replies as Weldon Winn's white stretch limousine pulls up to the curb. "So you know me a little bit, and I promise you're safe, perfectly safe."
Winn climbs into the backseat and shuts the door, disappearing behind dark tinted glass. Cars and taxis stop for pickups, trunks popping open. People hug loved ones. Albert's wide, runny eyes dart around furtively, his fears quickly broaching hysteria. Scarpetta senses Winn looking out at her as the limousine drives off, and her thoughts are scattered like marbles dashed to the floor. It is hard for her to sort through what she should do next, but she starts with dialing directory assistance on her cell phone and finds out in short order that there is no listing for a Weldon Winn or anyone with the last name of Winn in New Orleans, where he claims to have a place in the French Quarter. His number in Baton Rouge is unlisted.
"Why am I not surprised," she mutters, and all she can suppose is that someone told the U.S. Attorney she was arriving here in the early evening, and he flew to Houston and made sure he was on her connecting flight and seated next to her.
Added to that disturbing and enigmatic development is her responsibility for a child she doesn't know, whose family seems to have abandoned him.
"You have your aunt's phone number, don't you?" she says to Albert. "Come on, let's call her. And by the way," it occurs to her, "you haven't told me your last name."
"Dard," Albert says. "I have my own cell phone, but the battery's dead."
"I beg your pardon? What did you say your last name is?"
"Dard." He hunches a shoulder to wipe his face.
106
ALBERT DARD STARES DOWN AT the dirty sidewalk, focusing on dried gum, gray and shaped like a small cookie.
"Why were you in Houston?" Scarpetta asks him.
"To change planes." He begins to sob.
"But where were you first, where did you leave from?"
"Miami," he replies, increasingly distraught. "I was with my uncle for spring break, and then my aunt said I had to come home right away."
"When did she say that?" Having given up on his aunt, Scarpetta takes Albert's hand, and they walk back inside the baggage area, headed for the Hertz rental car desk.
"This morning," he replies. "I think I did something bad. Uncle Walt walked into my bedroom and woke me up. He said I was going home. I was supposed to be with him another three days."
Scarpetta squats and looks him in the eyes, gently holding his shoulders. "Albert, where's your mother?"
He bites his bottom lip. "With the angels," he says. "My aunt says they're around us all the time. I've never seen even one."
"And your father?"
"Away. He's very important."
"Tell me your home phone number, and let's find out what's going on," she says. "Or maybe you have your aunt's cell number? And what is her name?"
Albert tells her his aunt's name and his home number. Scarpetta calls. After several rings, a woman answers.
"Is Mrs. Guidon in, please?" Scarpetta asks as Albert holds her hand tightly.
"May I ask who's calling?" The woman is polite, her accent French.
"I'm not someone she knows, but I'm with her nephew, Albert. At the airport. It appears there is no one to pick him up." She hands the phone to Albert. "Here," she says to him.
"Who is it?" he asks, oddly. After a pause, he says, "Because you're not here, that's why. I don't know her name." He scowls, his tone snippy.
Scarpetta does not volunteer her name to him. Albert lets go of her hand and balls up his fist. He begins smacking it against his thigh, punching himself.
The woman talks fast, her voice audible but unintelligible. She and Albert are speaking French, and Scarpetta stares at Albert with renewed bewilderment as he angrily ends the call and returns the cell phone to her.
"Where did you learn French?" she asks him.
"My mom," he gloomily says. "Aunt Eveline makes me talk it a lot." Tears fill his eyes again.