Blow Fly

4

NIC'S MEMORIES OF HER childhood in the Deep South are full of storms.

It seems the heavens threw terrible fits every week, exploding in rageful thunder and trying to drown or electrocute every living creature on the Earth. Whenever thunderheads raised their ugly warnings and boomed their threats, her papa preached about safety, and her pretty blonde mother stood at the screen door, motioning for Nic to hurry into the house, hurry into a warm, dry place, hurry into her arms.

Papa always turned off the lights, and the three of them sat in the dark, telling Bible stories and seeing how many verses and psalms they could quote from memory. A perfect recitation was worth a quarter, but her father wouldn't pay out until the storm passed, because quarters are made of metal, and metal attracts lightning.

Thou shalt not covet.

Nic's excitement had been almost unbearable when she learned that one of the Academy's visiting lecturers was Dr. Kay Scarpetta, who would teach death investigation the tenth and final week of training. Nic counted the days. She felt as though the first nine weeks would never pass. Then Scarpetta arrived here in Knoxville, and to Nic's acute embarrassment, she met her for the first time in the ladies room, right after Nic flushed the toilet and emerged from a stall, zipping up the dark navy cargo pants of her Battle Dress Uniform.

Scarpetta was washing her hands at a sink, and Nic recalled the first time she had seen a photograph of her and how surprised she had been that Scarpetta wasn't of dark Spanish stock. That was about eight years ago, when Nic knew only Scarpetta's name and had no reason to expect that she would be a blue-eyed blonde whose ancestors came from Northern Italy, some of them farmers along the Austrian border and as Aryan in appearance as Germans.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Scarpetta," her hero said, as if oblivious that the flushing toilet and Nic were related. "And let me guess, you're Nicole Robillard."

Nic turned into a mute, her face bright red. "How…"

Before she could sputter the rest of the question, Scarpetta explained, "I requested copies of everyone's application, including photographs."

"You did?" Not only was Nic stunned that Scarpetta would have asked for their applications, but she couldn't fathom why she would have had the time or interest in looking at them. "Guess that means you know my Social Security number," Nic tried to be funny.

"Now, I don't remember that," Scarpetta said, drying her hands on paper towels. "But I know enough."