Red Mist: Scarpetta (Book 19)
With high-tension suspense and cutting-edge technology, Patricia Cornwell—the world’s #1 bestselling crime writer—once again proves her exceptional ability to entertain and enthrall in this remarkable novel featuring chief medical examiner Dr. Kay Scarpetta.
On her quest to find out exactly what happened to her former deputy chief, Jack Fielding, murdered six months before, Scarpetta drives to the Georgia Prison for Women to meet a convicted sex offender and the mother of a vicious and diabolically brilliant killer. Against the advice of her FBI criminal intelligence agent husband, Benton Wesley, Scarpetta is determined to hear this woman out.
Scarpetta has both personal and professional reasons to learn more about a string of grisly killings: the murder of a Savannah family years earlier, a young woman on death row, and then other inexplicable deaths that begin to occur at a breathtaking pace. Driven by inner forces, Scarpetta discovers connections that compel her to conclude that what she thought ended with Fielding’s death and an attempt on her own life is only the beginning of something far more destructive: a terrifying terrain of conspiracy and potential terrorism on an international scale.
And she is the only one who can stop it.
she’s been interviewing people at the prison. Maybe she had allergies,” he says. “You have an idea when she first came to Savannah and rented this place?” “She indicated to me that it was several months ago.” “Maybe April or May. The pollen was really bad this spring. It was like everything had been spray-painted yellowish-green. For a while I couldn’t run or bike outside. I’d breathe in all this pollen and my eyes would swell, my throat would close up.” He is making conversation, being
mouth. I know when she’s been crying. “I logged in to the security camera,” she says, and I look at Benton, and his face is unreadable but I know what he would think of what she’s done. He wants nothing to do with it and begins to stir the tomato sauce, his back to us. “I’ll finish up here,” he says. “I think I remember how to boil pasta. I’ll let you know when it’s ready. The two of you talk.” “Did Marino give you the password?” I ask Lucy, as I follow her into her room. “He doesn’t need to
I don’t say anything as we stare at each other. “I don’t know what’s taking Jaime so long.” He abruptly gets up and looks out the window again. “I don’t know why you’re so pissed at me, unless it’s because you’re really pissed at Jack. Fucking son of a bitch. Well, you should be pissed at him. Goddamn worthless lying piece of shit. After all you did for him. Damn good thing Dawn Kincaid got him first, or maybe I would have.” He continues to stare out the window with his back to me, and I sit
everyone is backward, bigoted, dishonest, and somewhat stupid. I suspect her attitude is obvious when she deals with Colin, who grew up in these parts and is steeped in local tradition, whether it is participating in Civil War reenactments or Irish parades on Saint Patrick’s Day. “He’s bound by statute to give you anything that could be exculpatory,” I add. “He didn’t volunteer anything.” “He doesn’t have to volunteer anything.” “He thinks I’m just looking for someone to support an alternate
gone. Whatever happened, it was very fast.” As Marino, Colin, and I put on white coveralls, I notice an inmate staring through the glass window of the cell across from Kathleen’s. She has a matronly face, a sunken mouth, and a helmet of tightly curled gray hair, and as I look at her she looks back at me and begins to talk in a muffled loud voice through her locked steel door. “Fast? The hell it was fast!” she starts in. “I was hollering for thirty damn minutes before anyone showed up! Thirty