By Patricia Cornwell
“Sears its manner into the psyche” (ATLANTA magazine structure) with a brand new package deal and NEW writer INTRODUCTION.The clues to a sequence of remorseless killings pass up in smoke—and basically Kay Scarpetta can locate them.
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Additional info for Point of Origin (Scarpetta)
McGovern had worked with me before and knew if I was needed to dive into a river or sift through fire or bombing debris, I was not above the task. She knew I could hold a shovel and did not sit around. I resented her comments and felt she was somehow picking on me. I turned to address her again and found her standing very still, like a bird dog pointing. She had an incredulous expression on her face as she remained fixed to some spot on the horizon. 'Holy Jesus,' she muttered. I followed her stare to a lone black foal, maybe a hundred yards due east of us, just beyond the smoky ruins of the stables.
I limp along the best I can,' she said. ' She relieved me of my aluminum case, which did not seem to weigh much in her firm hand. We walked together, dressed alike, although I did not wear gun or portable radio. Our steel-reinforced boots were so battered they were peeling and almost gray. Black mud sucked at our soles as we drew closer to the gray inflatable tent that would be our command post for the next few days. Parked next to it was the big white Pierce supertruck with Department of the Treasury seals and emergency lights, and ATF and EXPLOSIVES INVESTIGATION announced in vivid blue.
The stables,' McGovern said, in awe. ' She got on her portable radio. 'Teun to Jennifer,' she said. ' 'Take a look maybe beyond the stables. ' 'Ten-four. ' 'Make sure the locals know. ' McGovern strode off, a shovel over her shoulder. I watched her move into the stinking pit and pick a spot near what appeared to have once been the wide front door, cold water up to her knees. Far off, the aloof black horse wavered as if made of fire. I slogged ahead in soggy boots, my fingers getting increasingly uncooperative.