almost muddy.
Prescription drugs, I thought, a bad American habit to chase away bad Russian memories.
“I have a warrant to search your premises for items outlined in this document.” Maggie thrust the papers at her. Elena Hayes stared at them dully. “It’s mostly items from your husband’s lab in the basement,” Maggie explained. How had she known it was there? Was she guessing?
Elena Hayes blinked at Maggie. “Lab?” she repeated.
“His hobby room. Where he makes his jewelry.” Maggie nodded toward the brightly colored bracelet encircling Elena’s wrist. She was guessing.
“Oh, yes. His workshop. It’s in the basement.” Her words were slurred. “You know, I really should call Alan and let him know that you’re here to—”
“No problem,” Maggie interrupted. “But we already tried to reach him ourselves. We called his office and cell. He seems to be at a faculty event right now.” Maggie took Elena Hayes by the elbow and guided her inside the house, as if willing the groggy woman to cooperate.
It worked. Elena Hayes led us into the house and to the basement steps. As we descended the stairs, I felt waves of despair rising around me, welcoming me into an embrace of lingering sadness. This, I thought, was like the first faint stirrings of Hell, the level before you descended down into eternal torment. This was where the pain rose, hovered, and spread out in a mushroom cloud of suffering. It was not a place where anyone with a spark of goodness would want to linger. It reminded me of the miasma that had hovered over Vicky Meeks’s body in the clearing a few days before and of the evil within the prison’s walls—but did that prove anything? I could not be sure. I did not understand my new ability to feel fully. I only knew that the vast, sterile basement I followed Maggie into was a receptacle for great sorrow.
It was as spotless as an operating room. Drywall had obviously been installed within the last few years and painted a blinding white. The ceiling was just as relentlessly bright and smooth. Inset fluorescent lights lent the surfaces a faintly greenish glow. Steel counters lined two walls and held a series of meticulously labeled white plastic storage drawers. Each drawer held a different kind of rock. There were hundreds of uncut gemstones and other rock samples, all organized into the appropriate drawers. Between sections of storage drawers stood various tumblers, cutters, and electric saws, with each piece of equipment stored precisely in its spot and protected with a plastic cover.
For a man into rocks, the workshop was strangely texture-free. Even the floor was smooth concrete, marred only by a central drain that gaped open in its center like the terrible dark eye of a Cyclops.
Maggie began to open drawers with a methodical efficiency. Gallon jugs of bleach were stored inside almost every cabinet door and the room reeked of chlorine and lemon-scented disinfectant. There would be no DNA here. Maggie would be lucky to find a fingerprint that belonged to the family, much less anything to tie Alan Hayes to Vicky Meeks.
But she tried. Two forensics specialists arrived, as did three plainclothes officers skilled at searching for evidence. They opened drawers, checked cabinets, ran their fingers across the smooth drywall, but found nothing to interest them. After a few minutes, Elena Hayes drifted upstairs, leaving a whiff of alcohol behind as she stumbled past me on the stairs where I was sitting, watching the show. She was too wasted to care that her home had been invaded. When she did not return, I knew she’d lain down somewhere for a few hours of oblivion, watched over by Morty, who had been murmuring soothing words to her in Russian while the basement was searched. That Morty. He was far more useful than I’d ever been.
But what was Elena Hayes trying to escape with her pills and booze? Was it the past, or was it the sterile coldness of her house and her husband? Were there darker, more recent memories she hoped to evade? I did not know what it all might mean.
Maggie’s energy did not flag, despite the lack of results. She had the team examine every groove in every piece of equipment they found, swabbing, scraping, and bagging diligently. There was little to find. Like the rest of the house, the basement was barren. Even the trap in the floor drain gleamed in the glare of Maggie’s flashlight. She had the crew scrape samples from the sides