Patricia Cornwell - From Potter's Field

'How is Mother?'

'The same.'

'The same as what, Dorothy,' I said, and she was beginning to get to me.

'They've had to suction her a lot today. I don't know what the problem is, but you can't imagine what it's like to watch her try to cough and not make a sound because of that awful tube in her throat. She only made it five minutes off the ventilator today.'

'Does she know what day it is?'

'Oh yes,' Dorothy said ominously. 'Oh yes indeed. I put a little tree on her table. She's been crying a lot.'

A dull ache welled in my chest.

'When are you getting here?' she went on.

'I don't know. We can't leave New York right now.'

'Does it ever strike you, Katie, that you've spent most of your life worrying about dead people?' Her voice was getting sharp. 'I think all your relationships are with dead-'

'Dorothy, you tell Mother I love her and that I called. Please tell Lucy and Janet that I'll try again later tonight or tomorrow.'

I hung up.

Wesley was still standing before the window with his back to me. He was quite familiar with my family difficulties.

'I'm sorry,' he said kindly.

'She would be like that even if I were there.'

'I know. But the point is, you should be there and I should be home.'

When he talked about home I got uncomfortable, because his home and mine were different. I thought again about this case, and when I closed my eyes I saw the woman who looked like a manikin without clothing or wig. I envisioned her awful wounds.

I said, 'Benton, who is he really killing when he kills these people?'

'Himself,' he said. 'Gault is killing himself.'

'That can't be all of it.'

'No, but it is part of it.'

'It's a sport to him,' I said.

'That, too, is true.'

'What about his family? Do we know anything more?'

'No.' He did not turn around. 'Mother and father are healthy and in Beaufort, South Carolina.'

'They moved from Albany?'

'Remember the flood.'

'Oh yes. The storm.'

'South Georgia was almost washed away. Apparently the Gaults left and are in Beaufort now. I think they're also looking for privacy.'

'I can only imagine.'

'Right. Tour buses were rolling past their house in Georgia. Reporters were knocking on their door. They will not cooperate with the authorities. As you know, I have repeatedly requested interviews and have been denied.'

'I wish we knew more about his childhood,' I said.

'He grew up on the family plantation, which was basically a big white frame house set on hundreds of acres of pecan trees. Nearby was the factory that made nut logs and other candies you see in truck stops and restaurants, mostly in the South. As for what went on inside that house while Gault lived there, we don't know.'

'And his sister?'

'Still on the West Coast somewhere, I guess. We can't find her to talk to her. She probably wouldn't anyway.'

'What is the likelihood that Gault would contact her?'

'Hard to say. But we've not learned anything that would indicate the two of them have ever been close. It doesn't appear that Gault has been close - in the normal sense - to anyone his entire life.'

'Where have you been today?' My voice was gentler and I felt more relaxed.

'I talked to several detectives and did a lot of walking.'

'Walking for exercise or work?'

'Mostly the latter, but both. By the way, Snow White is gone. The driver just left with an empty carriage. And he didn't hit her.'

I opened my eyes. 'Please tell me more about your walk.'

'I walked through the area where Gault was seen in the subway station with the victim at Central Park West and Eighty-first. Depending on the weather and what route you take, that particular subway entrance is maybe a five-, ten-minute walk from the Ramble.'

'But we don't know that they went in there.'

'We don't know a damn thing,' he said, letting out a long, weary breath. 'Certainly, we have recovered footwear impressions. But there are so many other footprints, hoof prints, dog prints and God knows what. Or at least there were.' He paused as snow streaked past the glass.

'You're thinking he's been living around there.'

'That subway station's not a transfer station. It's a destination station. People who get off there either live on the Upper West Side or are going to one of the restaurants, the museum or events in the park.'

'Which is why I don't think Gault has been living in that neighborhood,' I said. 'In a station like the one at Eighty-first or others nearby, you probably see the same people over and over again. It seems that the transit officer who gave Gault a ticket would have recognized him if Gault was local and used the subway a lot.'

'That's a good point,' Wesley said. 'It appears Gault was familiar with the area where he chose to commit the crime. Yet there's no indication he ever spent time in that area. So how could he be familiar with it?' He turned around to face me.

The lights were off in the room, and he was in the shadows before a marbled background of gray sky and snow. Wesley looked thin, dark trousers hanging from his hips, a belt pulled to a new notch.

'You've lost weight,' I said.

'I'm flattered you would notice,' he wryly said.

'I know your body well only when you have no clothes on,' I said matter-of-factly. 'And then you are beautiful.'

'Then is the only time it matters, I guess.'

'No it isn't. How much have you lost and why?'

'I don't know how much. I never weigh myself. Sometimes I forget to eat.'

'Have you eaten today?' I asked as if I were his primary care physician.

'No.'

'Get your coat on,' I said.

We walked hand in hand along the wall of the park, and I could not recall if we had shown affection before in public. But the few people out could not see our faces clearly, not that they would have cared. For a moment my heart was light, and snow hitting snow sounded like snow hitting glass.

We walked without talking for many blocks, and I thought about my family in Miami. I probably would call them again before the end of the day, and my reward would be more complaints. They were unhappy with me because I had not done what they wanted, and whenever that was the case, I furiously wanted to quit them as if they were a bad job or a vice. In truth, I worried most about Lucy, whom I had always loved as if she were my daughter. Mother I could not please, and Dorothy I did not like.

I moved closer to Benton and took his arm. He reached over with his other hand to take mine as I pressed my body against him. Both of us wore caps, which made it difficult to kiss. So we stopped on the sidewalk in the gathering dark, turned our caps backward like hoodlums and resolved the problem. Then we laughed at each other because of how we looked.

'Damn, I wish I had a camera.' Wesley laughed some more.

'No, you don't.'

I returned the cap to its proper position as I thought of anyone taking a picture of us together. I was reminded that we were outlaws, and the merry moment vanished. We walked on.

'Benton, this can't go on forever,' I said.

He did not speak.

I went on, 'In your real world you are a committed husband and father, and then we go out of town.'

'How do you feel about it?' he said, tension returning to his voice.

'I suppose I feel the same way most people do when they're having an affair. Guilt, shame, fear, sadness. I get headaches and you lose weight.' I paused. 'Then we get around each other.'

'What about jealousy?' he asked.

I hesitated. 'I discipline myself not to feel that.'

'You can't discipline yourself not to feel.'

'Certainly you can. We both do it all the time when we're working cases like this one.'

'Are you jealous of Connie?' he persisted as we walked.

'I have always been fond of your wife and think she is a fine person.'