Chaos. Patricia Cornwell

didn’t. I think we should go for a Burgundy. A Chablis premier cru.”

      “The 2009 Montée de Tonnerre.” We’ve had it before, and the wine is refreshingly clean and pure with a chiseled finish.

      “Very good,” Benton says, and he’s not going to tell me if he got the 911 audio clip from his friend the police superintendent, and I’m not going to ask further because I’m not sure I want to know.

      The waiter is back with our salads, and both of us order the pan-seared halibut with brussels sprouts for our main course.

      I ask for sides of spaghettini vegetables and wild mushrooms, and we order the Chablis. Then we wait in silence until he walks away again and can’t overhear our conversation, and I’m beginning to get the sense that he’s lingering. But only a few people have started to trickle in, and he’s probably bored.

      “By the way, in case you didn’t know, we issued a new terror bulletin a few hours ago,” Benton says to me, and he means the FBI has.

      “It’s hard to keep up with them. I just make it a habit to assume we’re on high alert all of the time. Anything specific?”

      “Just that it’s something major, and there’s reason to suspect we’re talking the East Coast. Hopefully not Boston again but there’s a lot of chatter out there about it and also D.C.”

      “Thanks for passing it along.” I look at him because I feel him watching me closely. “Is there something else? Because you look like you have a question. I can practically see it in a bubble over your head.”

      “Maybe I shouldn’t say it.”

      “And now you have to after a loaded comment like that.”

      “All right. I’m wondering if it’s possible that Bryce is acting a little loosely wrapped because you are.”

      “I’m loosely wrapped? I don’t believe I’ve heard that before. I’ve heard a lot of things including very vulgar things, but never that.”

      “Let me ask you an important question. If Dorothy wasn’t suddenly coming to town, do you think the incident at Harvard Square would have happened?”

      “No. Because I wouldn’t have had to bother with gifts or theater tickets.”

      “That’s not the only reason, Kay. She’s coming here. She didn’t ask, she told, and as usual you accommodated. You paid for her ticket and even offered her a room in our house.”

      “Which fortunately she declined because she’d rather stay with Lucy.” I feel anger rising like heat from a lower level of my psyche, a region of my inner self that I don’t approve of and might just hate.

      “I have a feeling the person she’d rather stay with is Marino,” Benton says. “But only if he lived in a penthouse.”

      I set down my glass too hard, and water slops over the rim. I watch the white tablecloth turn gray where the water soaks in. Then Benton uses his napkin to pat dry the mess I’ve made while I stare at him in disbelief.

      “What are you talking about?” Noticing Mrs. P lighting a candle with an electric match several tables away, I try not to look upset.

      I don’t want it to appear that I’m fighting with someone else. I realize how thin my skin is right now.

      “I mentioned it when all of us were in Miami last,” Benton says as our waiter reappears with two glasses and the wine.

      I think back to our most recent trip this past June, and remember that Marino and Dorothy started driving together to pick up takeout food. He rented a Harley and took her for a ride, and I recall Benton making a comment. When I’m with my family in Miami and also dealing with Lucy, Janet and Desi, I can be very distracted. But it’s also true that what Benton is alluding to is something I wouldn’t want to notice. I wouldn’t want it to be true. I can’t think of much that’s more frightening than the idea of Marino and my sister together.

      The waiter slides out the cork with a soft pop, and hands it to Benton. He lifts it to his nose and watches as a small amount of the pale cold Chablis is poured.

      “You do the honors.” He hands me the glass, and the wine is sharply clean, waking up my tongue.

      Benton nods for the waiter to pour us each a taste.

      “Happy Wednesday.” Benton touches his glass to mine in a toast, and this is the second time in the past hour that I’ve felt that an insect is in my clothing.

      My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket.

      “Now what?” I set down my glass as I check who’s calling. “Speaking of … It’s Marino again.”

      After all that’s gone on, even he wouldn’t interrupt dinner unless there was a good reason. Now Benton’s phone is buzzing.

      I catch a glimpse of a 202 area code before he says, “I’ve got to take this,” and he answers, “Wesley here.”

      “Hold on,” I tell Marino without saying hello, and Benton and I are both getting up from our chairs. “You know where I am so it must be important. I assume I need to get somewhere I can talk.”

      “Do it now.” Marino’s voice is hard.

      “I’m walking out. Hold on,” I say to him as Benton and I collect our briefcases.

      We drop our napkins next to our barely touched salads and glasses of wine. We leave as if we’re not coming back.

       9

      We’re calm and reserved as we walk with purpose through the dining room, avoiding the curious glances of other couples being seated.

      Benton and I are together but separate, each of us on the phone. To look at us, you’d never know anything out of the ordinary was going on. We could be talking to our Realtors, our bankers, our brokers, our pet sitters.

      We could be a well-heeled couple getting calls from our adoring children, and Benton would be the rich handsome breadwinner. While in comparison I’d be the hardworking rather peculiar and difficult wife who always looks shopworn and halfway blown together. Our eyes are slightly downcast as we weave between tables, and I recognize the fixed stare, the flexing of his jaw, the tenseness of his hands.

      I know the way he gets when something is serious. He’s probably listening to his employer, the U.S. Department of Justice. Not his divisional office but Washington, D.C., possibly someone high up in the FBI or the director himself, and it could be the White House. It’s not Quantico, where Benton got his start and used to work. That’s not the area code I just saw on his phone when it vibrated.

      My husband’s special power is his ability to get into the mind of the offender, to discover the why and the what for, and unearth whatever traumas and bad wiring unleashed the latest monster into our midst. Benton’s quarry could be one individual. It could be several or a group of them, and when he goes after them, he must become an empathic Method actor. He has to think, anticipate and even feel what evildoers feel if he’s to catch them. But it’s not without a price.

      “Yes, speaking,” Benton says, and he listens. Then, “I understand. No, I’m not aware of it.” He glances at me. “It’s the first I’ve heard.” He looks down at the red carpet. “Please explain. I’m listening.”

      “I’m walking out,” I quietly tell Marino.

      Something has happened, and my imagination is getting the better of me. I sense a presence that’s suffocating, heavy and dark. It’s palpable like ozone in the air, like the eerie vacuum right before a massive storm breaks. I feel it at a visceral level.

      “What is it exactly that you’d like me to do?” Benton turns his head away from people looking at us.

      “Should