Jenner woke to the sound of gulls. He was in an airy room with light streaming through sheer curtains that swayed slowly with the breeze.
He blinked and sat up, momentarily disoriented. The walls were pale robin’s-egg blue, and there were framed prints of seashells and coral. He was lying on a featherbed, the cotton sheets stiff and almost luminously white. The room had the soapy smell of fresh paint, clean and fresh. Jenner lay back and stared at the ceiling.
The gulls screeched right outside his window, and behind them he could hear the quiet rush of surf.
The Gulf Breeze Hotel.
Jenner climbed out of the brass bed and went to the window, holding up a hand to shield his eyes against brilliant sunshine. Guests were having breakfast on the patio below him—eggs Benedict and mimosas, Gucci sunglasses on folded copies of the New York Times. No doubt, everyone was saying what a beautiful day it was, and making plans for the day.
There was a printed menu on the wicker secretary. Jenner sat in the matching chair, pored over the menu, then called room service and ordered scrambled eggs and sausages, and coffee and orange juice. Twenty-eight dollars, plus a three-dollar delivery fee on top of a 20 percent service charge. Twenty-eight dollars—he could eat breakfast at Denny’s for a week on what this one breakfast would cost!
His call to Deb Putnam went straight to voice mail. He left a brief message, then showered quickly. He’d eat breakfast, get dressed, then do the autopsy.
The autopsy: it would be even harder than Marty and Bobbie. Rudge wasn’t decomposed; on the autopsy table, Rudge would still be Rudge, as if he were just lying there for a little while, just resting for a tick. It wouldn’t be like on TV, where you can tell the dead by the unearthly pallor of their skin and their frigid blue lips: in the real world, most dead people look like live people, look as though, if you called to them loudly enough, they’d sit up and climb down from the table.
After the autopsy, Jenner would finish his interview with Halvorsen and Bartley and the ATF guy. Then he’d walk back to the ME office, mumble a few awkward good-byes, and hand in his Douglas County Medical Examiner shield. He’d drive back to the motel, pick up the rest of his stuff, and get the hell out of Dodge, just leave Port Fontaine, leave Douglas County. Go back to New York, to his own world, to people who understood him.