Blow Fly

104

THE LEARJET 35 BELONGS TO Homeland Security, and Benton is the only passenger on it.

Landing at Louisiana Air in Baton Rouge, he hurries down the steps, carrying a soft-sided bag, not looking at all like the Benton his people once knew: facial hair, a black Super Bowl baseball cap and tinted glasses. His black suit is off the rack from Saks, where he blitzed through the men's department yesterday. Shoes are Prada, black, rubber soles. His belt is also Prada, and he wears a black T-shirt. None of the clothes, except the shoes and T-shirt, are a perfect fit. But he hasn't owned a suit in years, and it did cross his mind in the dressing room that he missed the soft new wools, cashmere and polished cotton of the past, when tailors made chalk marks on sleeves and cuffs that needed to be hemmed.

He wonders who Scarpetta gave his expensive clothes to after his alleged death. Knowing her as well as he does, aware of her great powers of denial, he suspects that either she didn't clean out his closets at all and had someone else do it, or she was assisted, possibly by Lucy, who would have had an easier time disposing of his personal effects since she knew he wasn't dead. Then again, it depends on how much of an actress Lucy felt she should or could be at the time. Pain crushes him as for an instant he feels Scarpetta's pain, imagines the unimaginable, her grief and how poorly she probably handled it.

Stop! A waste of time and mental energy to speculate. Idle thoughts. Focus.

As he walks briskly across the tarmac, he notices a Bell 407 helicopter, dark blue or black with pop-out floats, a wire strike, and bold, bright stripes. He notes the tail number: 407TLP.

The Last Precinct.

A flight from New York to Baton Rouge is about a thousand miles. Depending on the winds and fuel stops, she could have made it here in ten hours if she was unlucky with a headwind, and much less time than that with a tailwind. In either scenario, if she left early this morning, she should have gotten here by late afternoon. He contemplates what she's been doing since and wonders whether Marino is with her.

Benton's car is a dark red Jaguar, rented in New Orleans and delivered here to the parking lot, one of the privileges for those who fly private. At the front desk of the FBO, or fixed base operation, as small private airports with only a unicorn are called, he speaks to a young lady. Behind her is a monitor showing the status of other incoming flights. There are few, his listed with the update that it has just landed. Lucy's helicopter isn't on the screen, indicating she arrived some time ago.

"I have a rental car that should be here." Benton knows it will be.

The senator will have made sure that all details have been handled.

The clerk looks through rental car folders. Benton catches the news and turns around to observe pilots watching CNN in a small corner lounge. On the screen is an old photograph of Jean-Baptiste Chandonne. Benton isn't surprised. Chandonne escaped early this afternoon after disguising himself as one of the two corrections officers he killed.

"God, talk about an ugly bastard," one of the pilots comments.

"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."