doesn’t feel the need to put in his teeth, because no one ever sees him.”
Kaiser looks interested. “Would he necessarily have to be old?”
“God, no. Lots of people have teeth so bad they rot out by their thirties. You might look for somebody who needs dentures but can’t afford them.”
“A lot of convicts have their teeth pulled in prison,” Kaiser reflects. “It makes positive identification harder in subsequent trials.”
“Well, maybe this culture will get us somewhere, like I hoped. You can check all the male relatives of the victims for infections, prison records, or for teeth, period. Look, I really need to get to the bathroom.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
“May I keep this report?”
“Sure.”
I stuff it into my back pocket. “Let’s see what grows out after another six hours.”
He’s no longer in the corridor. Backpedaling fast, I dart to the elevator. The fire stairs are tempting, but this is probably one building where if you open a fire door, all hell breaks loose.
Before the elevator door closes, a blonde woman wearing a blue skirt suit hurries in after me and smiles. I smile back and press the button for the basement. I sense her looking at my clothes. They look pretty rough. Definitely not the uniform of female FBI agents.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Oh, yes.” I offer my hand. “Catherine Ferry. I’ve been working the NOMURS case as a consultant for John Kaiser. I’m a forensic odontologist.”
She looks impressed and interested. “I heard they found another victim.”
“Yes. A cop this time.”
“Wow.”
The elevator stops on the second floor.
“This is me,” she says. “Good luck.”
The door opens onto a cube farm with men and women walking purposefully between partitions. When the door closes, I breathe a sigh of relief and sag against the wall. In twenty seconds, the elevator opens to the concrete-floored motor pool.
About a dozen government sedans are parked diagonally against a wall on my left. To my right are two big black Suburbans, the SUVs used by the FBI forensic team. Thirty yards across the basement lot are the big overhead doors that can get me out of the building. I don’t see anyone, but there’s bound to be someone here.
Something clangs in the emptiness. The sound of a heavy tool being dropped on concrete. Praying that the careless mechanic is underneath a vehicle, I walk briskly across the lot toward the doors. As I near them, I see a large white button not unlike those beside the doors in ERs and surgical suites. I should have a story ready in case someone asks what I’m doing down here, but I don’t. If someone challenges me, I’ll just have to wing it.
I hit the big button, and an overhead chain drive lifts the big door in front of me with no more fuss than my garage door at home. When it’s four feet off the ground, I duck under it and walk quickly up the ramp to the outdoor parking lot.
Hannah drives a white 5-series BMW, but I don’t see it.
Bearing right, toward the main entrance of the field office, I watch the lines of parked cars. Sure enough, Hannah’s white Beemer backs out of a space not far away, then pulls forward and stops beside me. Her window is open. Glancing over the roofs of the parked cars, I see the guard house at the main gate. I don’t know whether the guard is watching me, but he’s not going to let me ride out with Hannah without checking upstairs first.
“Did you open your trunk?” I ask her through the window.
“Yes, but I’m afraid you’ll suffocate.”
I walk to the back of her car and lift the trunk lid as though retrieving something. Then I take a deep breath, climb into the small space, fold myself almost double, and close the trunk lid over my head.
I have a few mental problems, but claustrophobia isn’t one of them. I wouldn’t be much of a free diver if I couldn’t stand being closed into small spaces. People don’t think of the ocean as a small space, but when you’re three hundred feet beneath it, with cold water trying to crush you into jelly, you feel pretty closed in.
Hannah has stopped at the gate.
Shutting my eyes in the dark, I send my mind to its secret haven, the bright coral wall where I dive and dive until the blue turns black, and rapture blurs my sense of separation from the water until my mind takes in the whole of creation. If the guard discovers me in this trunk, it won’t be because he sensed my presence.
I’m not even here.
The BMW jerks forward, pulling me out of my trance. After a couple of bumps, we’re rolling along at a good clip. With each stop, I’m sure Hannah is going to get out and free me from the trunk, but she doesn’t. For one irrational moment I’m terrified she’s going to turn me over to the NOPD, but that’s crazy. She’s just finding a safe place to let me out.
At last the car stops and doesn’t start again.
I hear her door open and close. Then the trunk lid pops open, and sunlight spears my retinas. A backlit silhouette takes my hand and helps me out of the trunk. The ligaments in my knees creak like horsehair ropes as I unfold them.
“You are really something,” Hannah says. “I feel like Ingrid Bergman.”
We’re not at the airport. We’re in the parking lot of a small, upscale shopping center. I’ve been here a few times, shopping for clothes.
Hannah notices my concern. “You’ll attract a lot less attention here than at Lakefront Airport. That’s not a busy place.” She stuffs some paper into my hand. “That’s eighty dollars. Call a cab at the last minute to take you to the airport. It’s less than ten minutes away.”
I hug her hard, then pull away. “Get out of here, Ingrid. You’ve done enough already.”
Hannah takes my right hand in both of hers and squeezes tight. “You’re close to finding out the truth, Cat. But don’t expect a blinding flash of insight, or instant peace. In cases like yours, getting the true facts is only the beginning. Many sexual abuse survivors never get the kind of resolution they’re looking for.”
“I’ve been lost for a long time, Hannah. A beginning sounds pretty good to me.”
She smiles sadly, then gets into her car and drives away. I look down at my watch and wonder if Michael is airborne yet.
I need to find a pay phone.
Chapter 47
I’m five thousand feet over the Mississippi River, flying north at two hundred miles per hour. Michael Wells is beside me, piloting his Cessna as if he’d rather be doing this than anything else in the world. Natchez is thirty minutes ahead.
The shocks of the past twenty-four hours have pushed me to the point that fl;ight in a small plane produces no airsickness at all.
“What are you going to do now?” he asks, his face somber.
“What I should have done in the beginning. Find out who killed my father. I’m going to exhume his body.”
Michael looks at me like I’ve taken leave of my senses. “What will you learn from that?”
“For one thing, it will give me DNA to compare against any body fluids I find on my bedroom floor. I’m hoping I’ll find preserved semen.”
“Are you going to work the bedroom yourself?”
“No. I’m going to bring in a first-string team to do it, no matter what my grandfather says. I’m also going into the barn to see if my father’s green bag is still under the floor. It’s padlocked, but I shouldn’t have much trouble breaking in.”
