Blow Fly

34

"MON PETIT AGNEAU PRISЙ!"

My little treasured lamb, Scarpetta translates as her heart freezes at the sight of Chandonne's handwriting and she feels his presence in his letter to her.

She has been sitting in the same position for so long-in the straight-backed wooden chair by her bedrooms open door-that her lower back aches and the small glass table is sweating from the humid sea air. As she remembers to breathe, she realizes that every muscle is tense, her entire body like a clenched fist.

The letter, the letter, the letter.

It stuns her that his handwriting is beautiful, a practiced calligraphy penned in black ink, not a single word crossed through, not a single mistake that she can see at a glance. He must have spent a lot of time writing this letter to her, as if it was a loving endeavor, and the idea of that just adds to the horror. He thinks of her. He is telling her so by the very act of his artistic penmanship.

She reads his words:

Do you know about the Red Stick yet and that you must go there?

But not until you come to see me first. In the Longhorn State, as they say!

You see, I direct you.

You have no will of your own. You may think you do, but I am the current running through your body, every impulse coming from me. I am inside you. Feel it!

Do you remember that night? You eagerly opened your door and then attacked me because you could not face your longing for me. I have forgiven you for taking my eyes, but you could not take my soul. It follows you constantly. If you try, you can touch it.

Maintenant! Maintenant! It is time. The Red Stick awaits you.

You must come to me first or it will be too late to hear my stories.

Only for you will I tell them.

I know what you want, mon petit agneau prisй! I have what you want.

In two weeks I will be dead and have nothing to say. Ha!

Will you release me to the ecstasy?

Or will I release you? Sinking my teeth into your soft, round loveliness.

If you do not find me, I will find you.

Love and rapture,

Jean-Baptiste

In the old-style bathroom with its plain white toilet, its plain plastic shower curtain around the plain white tub, its mildew-stained white walls, Scarpetta vomits. She drinks a glass of water from the tap and returns to the bedroom, to the table, to that blighted piece of paper, which she suspects will offer her no evidence. He is too clever to leave evidence.

She sits in the chair, trying to fight the images of the filthy beast flying through her front door like an evil spirit crackling out of hell. Scarcely can she recall in detail the pursuit, that terrible pursuit around her living room, as he swung an iron hammer, the same iron hammer he had used before to shatter women's heads and bodies to battered flesh and splintered bone, especially their faces.

At the time she was the medical examiner for the Richmond murders, it never occurred to her that she might be the next one. Since that near-death experience, she struggles to will away her imagined destruction of her own body and face. He would not have raped her. He isn't capable of rape. Jean-Baptiste's revenge on the world is to cause death and disfigurement, to re-create others in his own image. He is the ultimate embodiment of self-hate.

If it is true that she saved her life by permanently blinding him, then he should be so lucky as to be spared his own reflection in the polished metal mirror he must look at every day inside his death row cell.

Scarpetta goes to a hallway closet and moves the vacuum cleaner out of the way. She rolls out a suitcase.