Isabella, too, was weighing heavily on me. Where was she? Was she indeed pregnant? What would it mean to father a child with a fugitive, a killer, a woman I’d totally misjudged? How had I been so blind?
Would I be able to trust a woman fully—or trust myself—ever again? These worries swirled through my weary mind like dry leaves in some corner of a courtyard, seized by the hand of an unseen whirlwind that lifted them, spun them into a frenzy, and dropped them through its fingers into a lifeless heap. My sleep deprivation was simpler: I’d just stayed up all night hauling bodies to the CT scanner and back, then amputating twenty arms. Over the past three weeks, I’d stockpiled ten bodies in the makeshift facility called the Annex, a corrugated metal building located a stone’s throw from the stadium. The Annex contained a processing room for cleaning skeletal material, but we rarely used it anymore now that we had far better facilities in the Regional Forensic Center at the hospital. The Annex also contained a dozen chest-type freezers, most of which I’d filled as the ten bodies arrived. On Thursday I’d taken the bodies out to thaw, and I’d spent Saturday evening ferrying the still-chilly corpses across the river to the CT scanner, then back again. Except for the fact that I was hauling the bodies in a GMC pickup and delivering them to a high-tech scanner, I could have been Charon, the boatman from Greek mythology, ferrying the dead across the river Styx to the underworld.
I’d done the transporting myself, rather than have Miranda do it, because I didn’t want to involve her in this—and because I didn’t want to incur any more of her suspicion and disapproval than I already had. I’d also paid Eric, the scanning technician, the ruinous rate of three hundred dollars, from my own pocket, since I was taking six hours out of his Saturday night. It would have been far simpler to skip the scans of these ten and just begin the scanning project with all subsequent donated bodies, but I felt I owed it to the research project—to Glen Faust and OrthoMedica and to the dead donors themselves—to secure the scans before severing the arms. Finally, at 2:00 A.M.—an hour when I was sure I wouldn’t have an audience in the Annex—I’d begun to cut.
Slicing into the first one, I’d felt slightly tentative. I didn’t want to damage any bones, since they’d all end up in the skeletal collection, so I worked my way cautiously down through the muscles and tendons and ligaments linking the arms to the shoulders: the deltoid and teres major muscles, the four interwoven muscles of the rotator cuff, and the ligaments that helped secure the head of the humerus within the recesses of the scapula. I was grateful that I was removing arms, not legs; tucked deep within the acetabulum, the socket of the hip joint, was a ligament that was difficult to cut without gouging the bone. By the third corpse, I’d found a rhythm, and by the fifth I was slicing as swiftly and ruthlessly as a butcher. Still, it had been a long, tense night, and by the time I’d finished packing the arms in five ice chests and wrestling the coolers into the truck, I was spent. After a quick shower at my office, I’d donned khakis and a button-down shirt, along with the digital recorder and a new video camera from Rankin, this one concealed in a fat fountain pen in my pocket—a pen whose gold clip was adorned with a small disk of “onyx,” just like the tie clip I’d worn in Las Vegas. I merged onto I-40 East just as the Sunday sun was rising. Now—winding my way through the mountains toward Asheville—I felt fatigue replacing anxiety as my main problem.
I was startled out of my fog by the electronic whoop of a siren. Checking the side mirror, I was dismayed to see a North Carolina highway patrol cruiser close behind me. I put on my blinker and eased to the shoulder, hoping—though my hope didn’t last long—that he would swing around me and accelerate away.
As the trooper approached, I rolled down the window. Above his left shirt pocket, he wore a brass nameplate that read OFFICER HARRINGTON. “Good morning, Officer Harrington. Did I do something wrong?”
“Sir, I need to see your license, registration, and proof of insurance, please.”
“Certainly.” I pulled my Tennessee driver’s license from my wallet and removed the paperwork from a small leather notebook I kept in the glove box. I also unclipped my Tennessee Bureau of Investigation consultant’s badge from my belt and handed it to him along with the other things. “Just so you know, I’m considered one of the good guys over on the other side of the mountains,” I said. He looked surprised when he saw the TBI shield. “Mr. Brockton, do you know why I stopped you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” I confessed.
“I’ve been following you for the last five miles,” he said. “Were you aware of that?” I was embarrassed to admit I didn’t know that either. “You’ve been driving very erratically. Slowing down, speeding up, drifting between the lanes. Have you been drinking, Mr. Brockton?”
“No. I don’t drink. Ever.”