Cover

Also by Patricia Cornwell

POSTMORTEM
BODY OF EVIDENCE
ALL THAT REMAINS
CRUEL AND UNUSUAL
THE BODY FARM
FROM POTTER’S FIELD
CAUSE OF DEATH
HORNET’S NEST
UNNATURAL EXPOSURE
SOUTHERN CROSS
BLACK NOTICE

RUTH, A PORTRAIT: THE STORY OF RUTH BELL GRAHAM

With love
to
Barbara Bush
(for the difference you make)

Every man’s work shall be made manifest: for the day shall declare it, because it shall be revealed by fire; and the fire shall try every man’s work of what sort it is.

(I Corinthians 3:13)

DAY 523.6

ONE PHEASANT PLACE
KIRBY WOMEN’S WARD WARDS
ISLAND, NY

Hey DOC,

Tick Tock

Sawed bone and fire.

Still home alone with FIB the liar? Watch the clock BIG DOC!

Spurt dark light and fright

TRAINSTRAINSTRAINS.

GKSFWFY wants photos.

Visit with we. On floor three. YOU trade with we.

TICK TOC DOC! (Will Lucy talk?)

LUCY-BOO on TV. Fly through window. Come with we

Under covers. Come til dawn. Laugh and sing. Same ole song.

LUCY LUCY LUCY and we!

Wait and see.

Carrie

1

BENTON WESLEY WAS taking off his running shoes in my kitchen when I ran to him, my heart tripping over fear and hate and remembered horror. Carrie Grethen’s letter had been mixed in a stack of mail and other paperwork, all of it put off until a moment ago when I had decided to drink cinnamon tea in the privacy of my Richmond, Virginia, home. It was Sunday afternoon, thirty-two minutes past five, June eighth.

“I’m assuming she sent this to your office,” Benton said.

He did not seem disturbed as he bent over, peeling off white Nike socks.

“Rose doesn’t read mail marked personal and confidential.” I added a detail he already knew as my pulse ran hard.

“Maybe she should. You seem to have a lot of fans out there.” His wry words cut like paper.

I watched him set pale bare feet on the floor, his elbows on his knees and head low. Sweat trickled over shoulders and arms well defined for a man his age, and my eyes drifted down knees and calves, to tapered ankles still imprinted with the weave of his socks. He ran his fingers through wet silver hair and leaned back in the chair.

“Christ,” he muttered, wiping his face and neck with a towel. “I’m too old for this crap.”

He took a deep breath and blew out slowly with mounting anger. The stainless steel Breitling Aerospace watch I had given to him for Christmas was on the table. He picked it up and snapped it on.

“Goddamn it. These people are worse than cancer. Let me see it,” he said.