Patricia Cornwell: Unnatural Exposure

'Brighton is a rather odd place to be in February,' I commented to Wesley in an unsteady voice. 'Why would someone be coming from a seaside resort that time of year?'

'I don't know why,' he said, looking around. 'This was all about terrorism. As you know, that was what Mark was working on. So no one's saying much.'

'Right. That was what he was working on, and that was how he died,' I said. 'And no one seems to think there was a link. That maybe it wasn't random.'

He did not respond, and I looked at him, my soul heavy and sinking down into the darkness of a fathomless sea. People, and pigeons, and constant announcements on the PA blended into a dizzying din, and for an instant, all went black. Wesley caught me as I swayed.

'Are you all right?'

'I want to know who he was seeing.' I said.

'Come on, Kay,' he said, gently. 'Let's go someplace where you can sit down.'

'I want to know if the bombing was deliberate because a certain train was arriving at a certain time,' I persisted. 'I want to know if this is all fiction.'

'Fiction?' he asked.

Tears were in my eyes. 'How do I know this isn't some cover-up, some ruse, because he's alive and in hiding? A protected witness with a new identity.'

'He's not.' Wesley's face was sad, and he held my hand. 'Let's go.'

But I wouldn't move. 'I must know the truth. If it really happened. Who was he meeting and where is that person now?'

'Don't do this.'

People were weaving around us, not paying any attention. Feet crashed like an angry surf, and steel clanged as construction workers laid new rail.

'I don't believe he was meeting anyone.' My voice shook and I wiped my eyes. 'I

believe this is some great big Bureau lie.' He sighed, staring off. 'It's not a lie, Kay.'

'Then who! I have to know!' I cried.

Now people were looking our way, and Wesley moved me out of traffic, toward platform 8, where the 11:46 train was leaving for Denmark Hill and Peckham Rye. He led me up a blue and white tile ramp into a room of benches and lockers, where travelers could store belongings and claim left baggage. I was sobbing, and could not help myself. I was confused and furious as we went into a deserted corner and he kindly sat me on a bench.

'Tell me,' I said. 'Benton, please. I've got to know. Don't make me go the rest of my life not knowing the truth,' I choked between tears.

He took both my hands. 'You can put this to rest right now. Mark is dead. I swear. Do you really think I could have this relationship with you if I knew he were alive somewhere?' he passionately said. 'Jesus. How can you even imagine I could do something like that!'

'What happened to the person he was meeting?' I kept pushing.

He hesitated. 'Dead, I'm afraid. They were together when the bomb went off.'

'Then why all the secrecy about who he was?' I exclaimed. 'This isn't making sense!' He hesitated again, this time longer, and for an instant, his eyes were filled with pity for me and it looked like he might cry. 'Kay, it wasn't a he. Mark was with a woman.'

'Another agent.' I did not understand.

'No.'

'What are you saying?'

The realization was slow because I did not want it, and when he was silent, I knew.

'I didn't want you to find out,' he said. 'I didn't think you needed to know that he was with another woman when he died. They were coming out of the Grosvenor Hotel when the bomb went off. It had nothing to do with him. He was just there.'

'Who was she?' I felt relieved and nauseated at the same time.

'Her name was Julie McFee. She was a thirty-one-year-old solicitor from London. They met through a case he was working. Or maybe through another agent. I'm really not sure.'

I looked into his eyes. 'How long had you known about them?'

'For a while. Mark was going to tell you, and it wasn't my place to.' He touched my cheek, wiping away tears. 'I'm sorry. You have no idea how this makes me feel. As if you haven't suffered enough.'

'In a way it makes it easier,' I said.

A teenager with body piercing and a mohawk slammed a locker door. We waited until he sauntered off with his girl in black leather.

'Typical of my relationship with him, in truth.' I felt drained and could scarcely think as I got up. 'He couldn't commit, take a risk. Never would have, not for anyone. He missed out on so much, and that's what makes me saddest.'

Outside it was damp with a numbing wind blowing, and the line of cabs around the station did not end. We walked hand in hand and bought bottles of Hooper's Hooch, because one could drink alcoholic lemonade on the streets of England. Police on dappled horses clopped past Buckingham Palace, and in St. James's Park a band of guards in bearskin caps were marching while people pointed cameras. Trees swayed and drums faded as we walked back to the Athenaeum Hotel on Piccadilly.

'Thank you.' I slipped my arm around him. 'I love you, Benton,' I said.