Patricia Cornwell - Book of the Dead

Shandy drinks.

“I suspect by the end of an hour — and I don’t see a series in this, just one small segment of one show — we’ll conclude that you’re alluring and pretty with a suppleness and come-hither-ness there’s no denying,” Dr. Self says. “Likely, you can get away with your base predilections for now, but when you get as old as you think I am, gravity will make you honest. What do I say on my show? Gravity will get you. Life is inclined toward falling. Not standing or flying, indeed, barely sitting. But to fall just as hard as Marino did. When I encouraged you to seek him out after he was foolish enough to seek me out first, the potential plunge seemed rather minimal. Just whatever trouble you could cause, my dear. And just how far could Marino fall, after all, when he’s never risen above much of anything to begin with?”

“Give me the money,” Shandy says. “Or maybe I should pay you so I don’t have to listen to you anymore. No wonder your—”

“Don’t say it,” Dr. Self snaps at her but with a smile. “We’ve agreed on who we don’t discuss and what names we must never say. It’s for your own good. You mustn’t forget that part. You have much more to worry about than I do.”

“You should be glad,” Shandy says. “Truth is? I did you a favor, because now you won’t have to deal with me anymore, and you probably like me about as much as you like Dr. Phil.”

“He’s been on my show.”

“Well, get me his autograph.”

“I’m not glad,” Dr. Self says. “I wish you’d never called with your disgusting news, which you told me so I’d pay you off and help you stay out of jail. You’re a smart girl. It’s not to my advantage to have you in jail.”

“I wish I’d never called. I didn’t know you’d stop the checks because…”

“Because what for? What would I be paying for? What I was paying for doesn’t need my support anymore.”

“I shouldn’t have told you. But you always said I had to be honest.”

“If I did, I’ve wasted my words,” Dr. Self says.

“And you wonder why…?”

“I wonder why you want to annoy me by breaking our rule. There are some subjects we don’t bring up.”

“I can bring up Marino. And I sure have.” Shandy smirks. “Did I tell you? He still wants to fuck the Big Chief. That should bother you, since the two of you are about the same age.”

Shandy plows through hors d’oeuvres as if they are Kentucky Fried Chicken.

“Maybe he’d fuck you if you asked him real nice. But he’d fuck her before even me, given the choice. Can you imagine?” she says.

If bourbon were air, there would be nothing left to breathe in the room. Shandy grabbed so much in the Club Level drawing room, she had to ask the concierge for a tray while Dr. Self made a cup of hot chamomile tea and looked the other way.

“She sure must be something special,” Shandy says. “No wonder you hate her so much.”

It was metaphorical. Everything Shandy represents causes Dr. Self to look the other way, and she’d looked the other way so long, she didn’t see the collision coming.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Dr. Self says. “You’re to leave this very pretty little city and never come back. I know you’ll miss your beach house, but since I’m only being polite to call it yours, I predict you’ll get over it quickly. Before you pack up, you’ll strip it to the bone. Do you remember the stories about Princess Diana’s apartment? What happened to it after she died? Carpet and wallpaper torn out, even the light-bulbs removed, her car crushed into a cube.”

“No one’s touching my BMW or my bike.”

“You’re to start tonight. Scrub, paint, use bleach. Burn things — I don’t care. But not a drop of blood or semen or spit, not an article of clothing, not a single hair or a fiber or a morsel of food. You should go back to Charlotte where you belong. Join the Church of the Sports Bar and worship the god of money. Your erstwhile father was wiser than I. He left you nothing, and certainly I have to leave you something. I have it in my pocket. And then I’m rid of you.”

“You’re the one who said I should live here in Charleston so I could be…”

“And now I have the privilege of changing my mind.”

“You can’t make me do a fucking thing. I don’t give a shit who you are, and I’m tired of you telling me what to say. Or not to say.”

“I am who I am and can make you do whatever I please,” Dr. Self says. “Now’s a good time to be pleasant to me. You asked my help, and here I am. I’ve just told you what to do so you can get away with your sins. You should say ‘Thank you’ and ‘Whatever you wish is my command’ and ‘I’ll never do anything to upset or inconvenience you again.’”

“Then give it to me. I’m out of bourbon and out of my mind. You make me feel crazier than a shithouse rat.”

“Not so fast. We haven’t finished our little fireside chat. What did you do with Marino?”

“He’s gonzo.”

“Gonzo. Then you are well-read, after all. Fiction truly is the best fact, and gonzo journalism is truer than truth. The exception is the war, since fiction got us into it. And that led to what you did, that atrociously horrible thing you did. Amazing to contemplate,” Dr. Self says. “You’re sitting here right this very minute and in that very chair because of George W. Bush. I’m sitting here because of him, too. Giving you an audience is beneath me, and this really will be the last time I rush to your rescue.”

“I’m going to need another house. I can’t just move somewhere and not have a house,” Shandy says.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the irony. I ask you to have a little fun with Marino because I wanted a little fun with the Big Chief, as you call her. I didn’t ask for the rest of it. I didn’t know the rest of it. Well, now I do. Very few people best me, and no one I’ve met is worse than you. Before you pack up, clean up, and go wherever people like you go, one last question. Was there ever even a minute when it bothered you? We’re not talking poor impulse control, my dear. Not when something so loathsome went on and on and on. How did you look at it day after day? I can’t even look at a mistreated dog.”

“Just give me what I came here for, okay?” Shandy says. “Marino’s gone.” She refrains from saying gonzo this time. “I did what you told me…”

“I didn’t tell you to do the thing that’s forced me to come to Charleston when I have infinitely better things to do. And I’m not leaving until I know you are.”

“You owe me.”

“Shall we add up what you’ve cost me over the years?”

“Yeah, you owe me because I didn’t want to keep it and you made me. I’m tired of living your past. Doing shit because it makes you feel better about your own shit. Anytime you could have taken it off my hands, but you didn’t want it, either. That’s what I finally had to figure out. You didn’t want it, either. So why should I suffer?”

“Do you realize this lovely hotel is on Meeting Street, and if my suite faced north instead of east, we could almost see the morgue?”

“She’s the one who’s a Nazi, and I’m pretty sure he fucked her, not just wanted to, but I mean did it for real. He lied to me so he could spend the night at her house. So how does that make you feel? She must be something, all right. He’s got such a thing for her, he’d bark like a dog or use a litterbox if she told him to. You owe me for having to put up with all that. It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t pulled one of your tricks and said, ‘Shandy? There’s this big, dumb cop, and how about doing me a favor?’”

“You did yourself a favor. You got information I didn’t know you needed,” Dr. Self says. “So I made a suggestion, but you certainly didn’t take me up on it for my sake. It was an opportunity. You’ve always been so skilled at taking advantage of opportunities. In fact, I’d call you brilliant at it. Now, this wondrous revelation. Maybe it’s my reward for all you’ve cost me. She cheated? Dr. Kay Scarpetta cheated? I wonder if her fiancé knows.”