“ 'Fraid so, Doctor. Discovered in the wee hours again, with the cadaver disposed of in a body of water, St. James Park, and I can tell you now that if the Royals weren't taking an interest before, they bloody well are now.”
“The House of Windsor, you mean?”
“The Queen Mother herself, along with Parliament, the Prime Minister, you name it. Where's Sharpe?”
“In the shower.”
“I see.” Cozy, she thought she heard him mutter.
“Where is the body? Has Schuller and Raehael done an autopsy yet? Of course not. I spoke with Raehael only fifteen minutes ago, and he said absolutely nothing about it.”
“Most likely Dr. Raehael didn't know at the time, but he does by now. There appears a rift growing between Schuller and Raehael, one you may know something about?”
“No, I don't know anything about any problem between them,” she half-lied.
“In any case, the postmortem is being held up, Doctor, for your attention. We… that is, Scotland Yard, the Crown, are paying well for your expertise.”
Something definitely icy in Copperwaite's tone; perhaps Richard had him pegged right after all. “I'll be right there.”
“And Sharpe is requested in Boulte's office.”
“I'll pass that request along to him. Thank you.” She immediately hung up. Sharpe, stepping from the shower, looking into her wide eyes. Her mouth agape, he momentarily thought she might be gaping at him, until she divulged the facts, saying, “The Rat Boys, as you call them, will be released today.”
“Then there has been another killing!”
“While we ate and drank, while we made love, while we slept.”
“At least you know I'm as innocent of the crimes as the Rat Boys.”
“I never suspected you, Richard!”
“Don't lie to a detective, Jessica.”
“All right, I felt a strange sensation come over me when I saw that book, but I never truly entertained the notion you might be the Crucifier.”
“Not even one of them? Forget it. I'd be disappointed in you if you hadn't a healthy suspicion after seeing that book below my bed. So, tell me, has the Yard been beating the bushes for us?”
“Indeed they have. Boulte wants you to report directly to his office this morning. They're holding the body for me to do the postmortem.”
Richard dressed solemnly, and she nibbled at the food Richard had burned on the stove. Soon, together, they were pressing for Scotland Yard, Jessica without time for a change of clothes.
The latest victim, thought by some in the Yard to be a copycat killing-and hoped to be one by P. P. Ellen Sturgeon and Chief Inspector Boulte-had all the markings of the real Crucifier at work, down to the coal in the nails and the branded tongue.
At half-past three in the afternoon, Jessica declared the body, that of a slim, pathetic, silver-haired old woman, to be the fifth victim of the Crucifier. Without an identity, Jessica had to tag her toe as A.N. Other. Boulte had come down to the autopsy room, hoping against hope that Jessica would find cause to declare the latest victim a random copycat crime in which someone, wanting to kill another, masked his crime by mimicking the ongoing series of murders. Jessica's findings proved otherwise, proved that this was indeed the work of the Crucifier.
This meant that Periwinkle and Hawkins had to be set free. The press would report the foolishness of the Yard in making the grandiose statements of the day before, which had declared an end to the crucifixion murders in London. The Rat Boys were returned to the streets, likely to do mischief to someone somewhere for which they might legitimately find the sort of twisted fame they sought.
It had all made for a long and tiring day. Now Jessica said good night to Raehael, who had, unlike Schuller, stayed dll the very end of the postmortem examination. Raehael and she discussed the strange findings with respect to their Roman beetle. Dr. Raehael told her, “I informed Dr. Schuller of all result, which he do not at first believe until he look over my findings-that same coal dust was embedded into the wounds of the victims, not just Woodard-and that he should look for himself. I told him then, Doctor, that he owes apology to you.”
“ 'Fraid I got none.”
She thanked Raehael and they shook hands, and he waved her off to what he hoped would be a good night. Alone now in the scrub room, she stripped her surgical gloves and gown away, reached over and tore off paper booties protecting her shoes from blood and fluids, tossed all recyclables in one bin, all garb in another, and stretched, using a yoga position that relaxed her back and neck muscles. As she turned to leave the operating theater, she came face-to-face with Luc Sante's disembodied head framed in the surgical doorway. “God-damnit,” she cursed inwardly at her sudden fright. He smiled in at her and waved her forward.“I came as soon as I could get away,” he explained. 'Tragic, a fifth victim. Is it possible he is planning to kill seven? Seven is often a number people fixate on, given its biblical connotations, its mystical history.”
“At this point, I haven't a clue, and I'm extremely, extremely tired, Dr. Luc Sante.”
“Obviously, yes, and with good reason.”
She almost thought he meant something by the remark, he'd heard of her tryst with Sharpe and was attempting a small, secular joke. But no, her mind told her to think better of his remarks than that. Then she recalled Richard's words about tmsting one's own intuition and sense of jeopardy, that the subconscious often knew more than the conscious mind, and this led her to recall the remarkable workings of FBI psychic investigator, Kim Desinor, who would not allow a red-legged crow, a DIVERSION sign or any other “signal” to get past her conscious self, because a psychic like Kim Desinor kept in tune with her subconscious.
“You must be anxious for a shower, something to eat. I have my car. Allow me to see you to your hotel, and there I will wine and dine with you, my dear Jessica.”
She could find no reason to say no. He offered precisely what she needed at the moment, and she had truly wanted to speak with him again regarding the latest aspects of the case.
“Yes, yes,” she told him. “I would like that, Dr. Luc Sante, Father.”
“Good, very good, indeed.” His smile left a small gap in his teeth, and his teeth were yellowed from years of smoking, which he'd obviously given up. Likely due to doctor's orders. His wispy hair flew about his cranium where he stood below the air duct in the surgical scrub area. He reminded Jessica of Scrooge, looking as if he'd stepped out of that bygone era, despite his modem cloth and the cut of his vestments.
“I am told the latest victim was left like the others, in water?”
“Yes, St. James Park.”
“Dear me, close to the Queen's little cottage. This will have a ripple effect, indeed.”
“Let's get out of here, Father.”
Before leaving Scotland Yard, Jessica dropped off her postmortem report in the ops room with Copperwaite and Sharpe. The two men now were working under a cloud. She told Richard of her plans to spend the evening with Father Luc Sante, and after an initial frown bom of disappointment, he accepted this, wishing her a good night. Copperwaite added a “Cheerio,” while sdll studying her autopsy report. Once back at the York Hotel, Jessica scanned a brief message left at the desk for her by first Richard Sharpe, saying he missed her terribly, and one from J. T. in America, which simply read: Tattoo Man's case heating up. Call you when I can.
Jessica, with Father Luc Sante waiting in the lobby, needed her own heating up, so she showered to cleanse the sad postmortem of the day from her fingers and nasal cavities as well. She very much wanted to enjoy her time now with this fascinating “Father,” and she felt a desire to confess to him, or at least to bare her soul to him. She felt some senseless worm of guilt eating away at her regarding this case, the fact that it seemed to be moving at a snail's pace. Not to mention that while she and Richard had made love, another victim had been staked to a cross somewhere, her body thrown into a lake.
Still, if she could tell anyone of her painful doubts and fears, it would be Father Luc Sante.
As she showered for the second time this day, she decided that Luc Sante was a man of great magnetism and charisma, due in large part to the kindness of his eyes and the kindness with which he imparted information, even on the most gruesome of subjects. In fact, his eyes stroked those he reached out to help.
After showering and dressing in evening wear, Jessica met Luc Sante in the lobby, the priest telling her that he'd already taken the liberty of booking them into the York's exquisite lounge. “My treat this time,” he assured her. Quickly seated, they soon found themselves sipping a fine rose wine, a 1979 vintage, something Luc Sante had
