Malingerer.

"In the hands of all the sons of men God places marks, that all the sons of men may know their own works. Every working of the mind leaves marks on the hand, forms the hand, which is the measure of intelligence and creativity."

She listens, wondering if he is on his way to an important point.

"In France, you find mostly artistic hands. Like mine." He holds up a shaved hand, his long, tapered fingers splayed. "And like yours, Madame Scarpetta. You have the elegant hands of an artist. And now you know why I do not touch the hands. The Psychonomy of the Hand, or The Hand an Index of Mental Development. Monsieur Richard Beamish. A very good book with many tracings of living hands, if you can find it, but alas, it was written in 1865 and not in your local library. There are two tracings that are you. The square hand, elegant but strong. And the artist's hand, elastic and flexible, again elegant. But more associated with an impulsive personality."

She does not comment.

"Impulsive. Here you are without notice. Suddenly here. A rather nervous sort. But sanguine."

He savors the word sanguine, which in medieval medicine meant the blood was the most dominant of the bodily humors. Sanguine people are supposed to be optimistic and cheerful. She is neither at the moment.

"You say you don't touch the hands. An explanation for why you didn't bite the hands of the women you slaughtered," she says blandly.

"The hands are the mind and the soul. I would not harm a manifestation of what I am releasing with my chosen ones. I only lick the hands."

Now he is moving in to disgust and degrade her, but she isn't finished with him yet.

"You didn't bite the bottoms of their feet, either," she reminds him.

He shrugs, fiddling with the can of Pepsi, which sounded empty the last time he set it down. "Feet are of no interest to me."

"Where are Jay Talley and Bev Kiffin?" she asks again.

"I am getting tired."

"Why would you protect your brother after the way he has treated you all of your life?"

"I am my brother," he weirdly says. "So your finding me makes it unnecessary for you to find him. Now, I am very tired."

Jean-Baptiste Chandonne begins rubbing his stomach and wincing as his eyes wander. "I think I am getting sick."

"You have nothing more to tell me? If not, I'm leaving."

"I am blind."

"You are a malingerer," Scarpetta replies.

"You took my physical eyesight, but not before I saw you." He touches his tongue to his pointed teeth. "Remember your lovely home with the shower in the garage? When you returned from a crime scene at the Richmond port, you went into that garage to change and disinfect, and you showered in there."

Anger and humiliation tighten her body. She had been examining a putrid, decomposing body inside a cargo container, and, yes, she went through her routine: taking off her protective coveralls and boots and tying them inside a heavy plastic bag that went in the trunk; then she drove home. Once inside her garage, which certainly was not a typical garage, she threw her scene clothes into an industrial-size stainless-steel sink. She stripped and stepped into the shower, because she will not track death into her house.

"The small windows in your garage door. Very much like the small window in my cell," he goes on. "I saw you."

Those unfocused eyes and that fмshlike smile again.

His tongue is bleeding.

Scarpetta's hands are cold, her feet getting numb. The hair rises on her arms and the back of her neck.

"Naked. "He savors the word, sucking his tongue. "I watched you undress. I saw you naked. Such a joy, like a fine wine. You were Burgundy then, round and firm, complicated and to be drunk, not sipped. Now you are a Bordeaux, because when you speak, you are heavier, you see. Not physically, I don't think. I would have to see you naked to make that determination." He presses a hand against the glass, a hand that has battered human beings to splinters and mush. "A red wine, of course. You are always…"

"That's enough!" Scarpetta yells as her rage crashes out of its camouflage like a wild boar. "Shut up, you worthless piece of shit." She leans closer to the glass. "I'm not going to listen to your masturbatory talk. It doesn't bother me. / don't care if you saw me naked. Do you think it intimidates me to hear you babble on about your voyeurism and what you think of my body? Do you think I care if I blinded you when you were swinging that fucking hammer at me?

"You know what the best part is, Jean-Baptiste Chandonne? You're in here because of me. So who won? And, no, I won't be back here to put you to death. A stranger will do that. Just as you were a stranger to those you killed."

Jean-Baptiste suddenly turns back to the wire-mesh screen behind him.

"Who's there?" he whispers.

Scarpetta hangs up the black phone. She walks away. "Who's there!"he, screams.

100

JEAN-BAPTISTE IS quite fond of handcuffs. The thick steel bracelets around his wrists are rings of magnetic strength. Power surges through him. He is calm now, even conversational, as Officers Abrams and Wilson escort him along corridors, stopping at every steel door and holding up their ID name tags and showing their faces through the glass windows. The officer on the other side releases the electronic lock, and the journey continues.

"She was very upsetting to me," he says in his soft voice. "I regret my outburst. She blinded me, you know, and will not say she is sorry."

"I don't know why she even came to see a dirtbag like you," Officer Abrams comments. "If anybody should be upset, it's her, after what you tried to do. I've read about it, know all about your worthless life."

Officer Abrams is making the big mistake of giving in to his emotions. He hates Jean-Baptiste. He would like to hurt Jean-Baptiste.

"I am quiet inside now," Jean-Baptiste says meekly. "But I feel sick."

The officers stop at another door, and Abrams shows his ID in the glass window. They pass through. Jean-Baptiste averts his face, staring down at the floor and looking away from each officer who grants them entrance deeper inside the prison.

"I eat paper," Jean-Baptiste confesses. "It is a nervousness of mine, and I have been eating a lot of paper today."

"You writing yourself letters?" Abrams snidely goes on. "No wonder you spend so much time on the toilet."

"This is very true," Jean-Baptiste agrees. "But this time it is worse. I feel weak, and my stomach hurts."

"It will pass, so to speak."

"Don't worry. If it doesn't, we'll get you to the infirmary." This time it is Officer Wilson who speaks. "They'll give you an enema. You'll probably like that."

Inside Pod A, the voices of inmates bounce off concrete and steel. The noise is maddening, and the only way Jean-Baptiste has been able to endure it all these months is to decide when he will hear and when he won't. If this isn't enough, he leaves, usually for France. But today he will begin his travel to Baton Rouge and be reunited with his brother. He is his brother. This point confuses him.

When he is with his brother, Jean-Baptiste experiences his brother's existence, which is apart from the existence of Jean-Baptiste.

When the two of them are separated, Jean-Baptiste is his brother, and their roles in their conquests unite in one delicious act. Jean-Baptiste picks up the beautiful woman, and she desires him, possibly desperately. They have sex. Then he releases her to the ecstasy, and when it is finished and she is free, Jean-Baptiste is slippery with her blood, his tongue thrilled by the taste of her salty sweetness and the metallic hint of the iron he needs. Later, his teeth sometimes ache, and he is prone to massaging his gums and washing himself obsessively.