He lights a cigarette, his hands shaking badly. “It’s everything. I know there’s no excuse. I’ve been half crazy. It’s everything, and I know it doesn’t matter. She came back with the ring and I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I should never have e-mailed Dr. Self. She fucked with my head. Then Shandy. Medications. Booze. It’s like this monster moved inside of me,” Marino says. “I don’t know where it came from.”
Disgusted, Lucy gets up, tosses the revolver on the couch. She walks past him toward the door.
“Listen to me,” he says. “Shandy got me this stuff. I’m not the first guy she’s handed it out to. Last one had a hard-on for three days. She thought it was funny.”
“What stuff?” Even though she knows.
“Hormone gel. It’s been making me crazy, like I want to fuck everyone, kill everyone. Nothing’s ever enough for her. I never been with a woman who can’t get enough.”
Lucy leans against the door, crosses her arms. “Testosterone prescribed by a dirtbag proctologist in Charlotte.”
Marino looks baffled. “How did you…” His face darkens. “Oh, I get it. You’ve been in here. That fucking figures.”
“Who’s the asshole on the chopper, Marino? Who’s the jerk you almost killed in the Kick ’N Horse parking lot? The one who supposedly wants Aunt Kay dead or out of town?”
“I wish I knew.”
“I believe you do.”
“I’m telling the truth, I swear. Shandy must know him. She must be the one trying to run the Doc out of town. The jealous fucking bitch.”
“Or maybe it’s Dr. Self.”
“Hell if I know.”
“Maybe you should have checked out your jealous fucking bitch,” Lucy says. “Maybe e-mailing Dr. Self to make Aunt Kay jealous was poking a snake with a stick. But I guess you were too busy having testosterone sex and raping my aunt.”
“I didn’t.”
“What do you call it?”
“The worst thing I ever did,” Marino says.
Lucy won’t take her eyes off his. “How about that silver-dollar necklace you got on? Where’d you get it?”
“You know where.”
“Shandy ever tell you about her potato-chip daddy’s house getting burglarized not long before she moved here? Burglarized right after he died, matter of fact. Had a coin collection, some cash. All gone. Police suspect an inside job but couldn’t prove it.”
“The gold coin Bull found,” Marino says. “She’s never said nothing about a gold coin. The only coin I’ve seen is this silver dollar. How do you know Bull didn’t lose it? He’s the one who found that kid, and the coin’s got the kid’s print on it, right?”
“What if the coin was stolen from Shandy’s dead daddy?” Lucy says. “What does that tell you?”
“She didn’t kill the kid,” Marino says with a hint of doubt. “I mean, she’s never said nothing about having kids. If the coin has anything to do with her, she probably gave it to somebody. When she gave me mine, she laughed, said it was a dog tag to remind me I was one of her soldiers. Belonged to her. I didn’t know she meant it literally.”
“Getting her DNA’s a fine idea,” Lucy says.
Marino gets up and walks off. He comes back with the red panties. Puts them in a sandwich bag. Hands it to Lucy.
“Kind of unusual you don’t know where she lives,” Lucy says.
“I don’t know nothing about her. That’s the damn truth of it,” Marino says.
“I’ll tell you exactly where she lives. This same island. A cozy little place on the water. Looks romantic. Oh. I forgot to mention, when I checked it out, I happened to notice a bike was there. An old chopper with a cardboard license tag, under a cover in the carport. Nobody was home.”
“I never saw it coming. I didn’t use to be like this.”
“He’s not going to come within a million miles of Aunt Kay again. I’ve taken care of him, because I don’t trust you to do it. His chopper’s old. A piece of junk with ape-hanger handlebars. I don’t think it’s safe.”
Marino won’t look at her now. He says, “I didn’t use to be like this.”
She opens the front door.
“Why don’t you just get the hell out of our lives,” she says from his porch, in the rain. “I don’t give a shit about you anymore.”
The old brick building watches Benton with empty eyes, many of its windows broken out. The abandoned cigar company has no lights, its parking lot completely dark.
His laptop computer is balanced on his thighs as he logs in to the port’s wireless network, hijacks it, and waits inside Lucy’s black Subaru SUV, a car not generally associated with law enforcement. Periodically, he looks out the windshield. Rain slowly slides down the glass, as if the night is crying. He watches the chain-link fence around the empty shipyard across the street, watches the shapes of containers abandoned like wrecked train cars.
“No activity,” he says.
Lucy’s voice sounds in his earpiece. “Let’s hold tight as long as you can.”
The radio frequency is a secure one. Lucy’s technological skills are beyond Benton, and he’s not naive. All he knows is she has ways of securing this and that, and scramblers, and she thinks it’s great she can spy on others and they can’t spy on her. He hopes she’s right. About that and a lot of things, including her aunt. When he asked Lucy to send her plane, he said he didn’t want Scarpetta to know.
“Why?” Lucy asked.
“Because I’ll probably have to sit in a parked car all night, watching the damn port,” he said.
It would make matters worse if she knew he was here, just a few miles from her house. She might insist on sitting here with him. To which Lucy offered that he was insane. There was no way Scarpetta would stake out the port with him. In Lucy’s words, that’s not her aunt’s job. She’s not a secret agent. She doesn’t particularly like guns, even though she certainly knows how to use them, and she prefers to take care of the victims and leave it to Lucy and Benton to take care of everybody else. What Lucy really meant was that sitting out here at the port could be dangerous, and she didn’t want Scarpetta doing it.
Funny that Lucy didn’t mention Marino. That he could have helped.
Benton sits inside the dark Subaru. It smells new — smells like leather. He watches the rain, and looks past it across the street, and monitors the laptop to make sure the Sandman hasn’t hijacked the port’s wireless network and logged on. But where would he do it? Not from this parking lot. Not from the street, because he wouldn’t dare stop his car in the middle of the street and just sit there sending yet another infernal e-mail to the infernal Dr. Self, who is probably back in New York by now inside her Central Park West penthouse apartment. It’s galling. It’s as unfair as anything could possibly be. Even if, in the end, the Sandman doesn’t get away with murder, Dr. Self most likely will, and she’s as much to blame for the murders as the Sandman is, because she sat on information, didn’t look into it, doesn’t care. Benton hates her. He wishes he didn’t. But he hates her more than he’s ever hated anybody in his life.
Rain pummels the roof of the SUV, and fog shrouds distant streetlights, and he can’t tell the horizon from the sky, the harbor from the heavens. He can’t tell anything from anything in this weather, until something moves. He sits very still, and his heart kicks as a dark figure slowly moves along the fence across the street.
“I’ve got activity.” He transmits to Lucy. “Anybody on, because I’m not seeing it.”
“Nobody’s on.” Her voice comes back into his earpiece, and she’s confirming that the Sandman has not logged on to the port’s wireless network. “What kind of activity?” she asks.
“At the fence. About three o’clock, not moving now. Holding at three o’clock.”
“I’m ten minutes away. Not even.”
“I’m getting out,” Benton says, and he slowly opens his car door, and the interior light is out. Complete darkness, and the rain sounds louder.
