The Devil's Scribe Read Online Free PDF

Duchesne as they step away from the gurney to which the prisoner has been strapped at the wrists. “That could mean she’s going cyanotic. Going into shock.”
    “Does that mean she’s injured?” Duchesne asks, skeptical.
    “Not necessarily. She could be in psychological trauma. Could be from an argument. Maybe from fighting with this man she says she killed. How do you know it’s not self-defense?”
    Duchesne, hands on hips, stares at the prisoner on the gurney as though he can discern the truth just by looking at her. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “We don’t know anything . . . she hasn’t said much. Can’t you tell if she’s wounded? ’Cause if she’s not hurt, I’ll just take her in . . .”
    “I have to get that shirt off, clean off the blood . . .”
    “Get to it. I can’t stay here all night. I left Boucher in the woods, looking for that body.”
    Even with the full moon, the woods are dark and vast, and Luke knows the deputy, Boucher, has little chance of finding a body by himself.
    Luke picks at the edge of his latex glove. “So go help Boucher while I do the examination . . .”
    “I can’t leave the prisoner here.”
    “For Chrissakes,” Luke says, jerking his head in the slight young woman’s direction. “She’s hardly going to overpower me and escape. If you’re that worried about it, have Henderson stay. ” They both glance at Henderson tentatively. The big deputy leans against a counter, leafing through an old Sports Illustrated left in the waiting room, a cup of vending machine coffee in his hand. He’s shaped like a cartoon bear and is, appropriately, amicably dim. “He won’t be of much help to you in the woods . . . Nothing is going to happen,” Luke says impatiently, turning away from the sheriff as though the matter is already settled. He feels Duchesne’s stare bore into his back, unsure if he should argue with Luke.
    And then the sheriff lurches away, heading for the double set of sliding doors. “Stay here with the prisoner,” he yells at Henderson as he jams the heavy, fur-lined hat onto his head. “I’m going back to help Boucher. Idiot couldn’t find his own ass with both hands and a map.”
    Luke and the nurse attend to the woman strapped to the gurney. He hefts a pair of scissors. “I’m going to have to cut your shirt away,” he warns her.
    “You might as well. It’s ruined,” she says in a soft voice with an accent Luke can’t place. The shirt is obviously expensive. It’s the kind of clothing you see in fashion magazines and that you would never find someone wearing in St. Andrew.
    “You’re not from around here, are you?” Luke says, small talk to loosen her up.
    She studies his face, evaluating whether to trust him—or so Luke assumes. “I was born here, actually. That was a long time ago.”
    Luke snorts. “A long time ago for you, maybe. If you were born here, I’d know you. I’ve lived in this area almost my entire life. What’s your name?”
    She doesn’t fall for his little trick. “You don’t know me,” she says flatly.
    For a few minutes there’s only the sound of wet fabric being cut and it is hard going, the scissors’ tiny beak moving sluggishly through the sodden material. After it’s done, Luke stands back to let Judy swab the girl with gauze soaked in warm water. The bloody red streaks dissolve, revealing a pale, thin chest without a scratch on it. The nurse drops the forceps holding the gauze into a metal pan noisily and hustles out of the examination room as though she knew all along that they’d find nothing, and yet again, Luke has proven his incompetence.
    He averts his eyes as he drapes a paper sheet over the girl’s naked torso.
    “I’d have told you I wasn’t hurt if you’d asked,” she says to Luke in a low whisper.
    “You didn’t tell the sheriff, though,” Luke says, reaching for a stool.
    “No. But I’d have told you .” She nods at the doctor. “Do you have a cigarette?