Blow Fly

90

SCARPETTA CAUGHT THE EARLIEST FLIGHT to Houston's George Bush Intercontinental Airport and, factoring in the hour time difference, landed at 10:15 a.m.

From there, the drive almost due north to Livingston was a tense hour and forty minutes. She had no interest in renting a car and finding her way to the prison. That was a wise decision. Although she hasn't counted, the route has taken numerous turns, the longest stretch of US-59 that rolls on forever. Scarpetta's thoughts are clipped, as if she is a new recruit taking orders.

She is in her most dispassionate mode, a persona she steps into when she testifies in court as defense attorneys poise themselves like carnivores, waiting for the first scent of her blood. Rarely is she wounded. Never fatally. Deep inside the refuge of her analytical mind, she has remained silent throughout the trip. She hasn't spoken to the driver, except to give her instructions. The driver is the sort who wants to be chatty, and Scarpetta told her as she was climbing into the black Lincoln at the beginning of the trip that she didn't want to talk. She had work to do.

"You got it," said the woman, who is dressed in a black livery suit that includes a cap and tie.

"You can take your cap off," Scarpetta told her.

"Why, thank you," the driver said with relief, taking it off immediately. "I can't tell you how much I hate this thing, but most of my passengers want me to look like a proper chauffeur."

"I'd rather you didn't," Scarpetta said.

The prison looms ahead, a modern fortress that looks like a monstrous freighter built of concrete with a hatchmark of windows running below the flat roof, where two workmen are busy talking and gesturing and looking around. Surrounding the expansive grass grounds are thick coils of razorwire that shine like fine sterling in the sun. Guards high up in their towers scan with binoculars.

"Schweeeew," the driver mutters. "I have to admit this makes me a little bit nervous."

"You'll be fine," Scarpetta assures her. "They'll show you where to park, and you'll stay in the car. I don't recommend you walk around at all."

"What if I have to use the ladies' room?" she worries, slowing at a guard booth that signals the beginning of maximum security and perhaps the most dreaded task Scarpetta has ever undertaken.

"Then I guess you'll have to ask someone," she absently replies, rolling her window down and handing a uniformed guard her driver's license and medical examiner's credentials, a bright brass shield and identification card inside a black wallet.

When she left her position in Richmond, she was as bad as Marino. She never turned in her badge. No one thought to ask for it. Or maybe no one dared. She may not literally be Chief anymore, but what Lucy said last night is right. No one can strip Scarpetta of who she is and how she performs in the work she still loves. Scarpetta knows how good she is, even if she would never say it.

"Who are you here to see?" the guard asks her, returning her license and credentials.

"Jean-Baptiste Chandonne." His name almost chokes her.

The guard is rather casual, considering his environment and responsibility. Based on his demeanor and age, he's probably been working in the prison system for a long time and scarcely notices the foreboding world he enters at the beginning of every shift. He steps back inside his booth and scans a list.

"Ma'am," he says, reemerging from his booth and pointing toward the glass front of the prison, "just drive up there and someone will tell you where to park. The PIO will meet you outside."

A Texas flag seems to wave Scarpetta on. The sky is blue glass, the temperature reminding her of autumn. Birds are having a conversation, nature going on, impervious to evil.