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TITLE: The Mephisto Club
AUTHOR: Gerritsen, Tess
ABEB Version: 3.1
Hog Edition
To Neil and Mary
Every book is a challenge to write, a
seemingly impossible mountain to climb. No matter how difficult the writing may
be, I have the comfort of knowing that wonderful colleagues and friends stand
by me. Many thanks to my incomparable agent, Meg Ruley, and the team at Jane Rotrosen
Agency. Your guidance has been the star I’ve steered by. Thanks
also to my amazing editor, Linda Marrow, who can make any writer shine, to Gina
Centrello, for her enthusiasm through the years, and
to Gilly Hailparn for all
her kind attention. And across the pond, Selina
Walker at Transworld has been my unflagging
cheerleader.
Finally, I must thank the one person
who’s been with me the longest. My husband Jacob knows just how difficult
it is to be married to a writer. Yet he’s still here.
“And destroy all the spirits of the
reprobate, and the children of the Watchers, because they have wronged
mankind.”
—The Book of Enoch X:15, ancient Jewish text, 2nd century B.C.
They
looked like the perfect family.
This was what the boy thought as he stood
beside his father’s open grave, as he listened to the hired minister read
platitudes from the Bible. Only a small group had gathered on that warm and buggy
June day to mourn the passing of Montague Saul, no more than a dozen people,
many of whom the boy had just met. For the past six months, he had been away at
boarding school, and today he was seeing some of these people for the very
first time. Most of them did not interest him in the least.
But his uncle’s family— they
interested him very much. They were worth studying.
Dr. Peter Saul looked very much like his
dead brother Montague, slender and cerebral in owlish glasses, brown hair
thinning toward inevitable baldness. His wife, Amy, had a round, sweet face,
and she kept darting anxious looks at her fifteen-year-old nephew, as though
aching to wrap her arms around him and smother him with a hug. Their son,
Teddy, was ten years old, all skinny arms and legs. A little
clone of Peter Saul, right down to the same owlish glasses.
Finally, there was the daughter, Lily.
Sixteen years old.
Tendrils of her hair had come loose from
the ponytail and now clung to her face in the heat. She looked uncomfortable in
her black dress, and she kept shifting coltishly back and forth, as though
preparing to bolt. As though she’d rather be anywhere
than in this cemetery, waving away buzzing insects.
They look so normal, so average, the boy thought. So
different from me. Then Lily’s gaze suddenly met his, and he
felt a tremor of surprise. Of mutual recognition. In
that instant, he could almost feel her gaze penetrating the darkest fissures of
his brain, examining all the secret places that no one else had ever seen. That
he’d never allowed them to see.
Disquieted, he looked away. Focused, instead, on the other people standing around the grave:
His father’s housekeeper. The attorney. The two next-door neighbors. Mere acquaintances who were here out of a sense of propriety, not affection.
They knew Montague Saul only as the quiet scholar who’d recently returned
from
At last the service ended, and the
gathering moved toward the boy, like an amoeba preparing to engulf him in
sympathy, to tell him how sorry they were that he’d lost his father. And
so soon after moving to the
“At least you have family here to
help you,” said the minister.
Family? Yes, I suppose these people are
my family, the boy
thought, as little Teddy shyly approached, urged forward by his mother.
“You’re going to be my
brother now,” said Teddy.
“Am I?”
“Mom has your room all ready for
you. It’s right next to mine.”
“But I’m staying here. In my
father’s house.”
Bewildered, Teddy looked at his mother.
“Isn’t he coming home with us?”
Amy Saul quickly said, “You really
can’t live all by yourself, dear. You’re only fifteen. Maybe
you’ll like it so much in Purity, you’ll want to stay with
us.”
“My school’s in
“Yes, but the school year’s
over now. In September, if you want to return to your boarding school, of
course you can. But for the summer, you’ll come home with us.”
“I won’t be alone here. My
mother will come for me.”
There was a long silence. Amy and Peter
looked at each other, and the boy could guess what they were thinking. His
mother abandoned him ages ago.
“She is coming for
me,” he insisted.
Uncle Peter said, gently,
“We’ll talk about it later, son.”
In the night, the boy laid awake in his
bed, in his father’s town house, listening to the voices of his aunt and
uncle murmuring downstairs in the study. The same study where Montague Saul had
labored these past months to translate his fragile little scraps of papyrus.
The same study where, five days ago, he’d had a stroke and collapsed at
his desk. Those people should not be in there, among his father’s
precious things. They were invaders in his house.
“He’s still just a boy,
Peter. He needs a family.”
“We can’t exactly drag him
back to Purity if he doesn’t want to come with us.”
“When you’re only fifteen,
you have no choice in the matter. Adults have to make the decisions.”
The boy rose from bed and slipped out of
his room. He crept halfway down the stairs to listen in on the conversation.
“And really, how many adults has he
known? Your brother didn’t exactly qualify. He was so wrapped up in his
old mummy linens, he probably never noticed there was a child underfoot.”
“That’s not fair, Amy. My
brother was a good man.”
“Good, but clueless. I can’t
imagine what kind of woman would dream of having a child with him. And then she
leaves the boy behind for Monty to raise? I don’t understand any woman
who’d do that.”
“Monty didn’t do such a bad
job raising him. The boy’s getting top marks in school.”
“That’s your measurement for
what makes a good father? The fact that the boy gets top marks?”
“He’s also a poised young
man. Look how well he held up at the service.”
“He’s numb, Peter. Did you
see a single emotion on his face today?”
“Monty was like that, too.”
“Cold-blooded, you mean?”
“No, intellectual. Logical.”
“But underneath it all, you know
that boy has got to be hurting. It makes me want to cry, how much he needs his
mother right now. How he keeps insisting she’ll come back for him, when
we know she won’t.”
“We don’t know that.”
“We’ve never even met the
woman! Monty just writes us from
The boy heard the floor creak above him,
and he glanced toward the top of the stairs. He was startled to see his cousin
Lily staring down at him over the banister. She was watching him, studying him,
as if he were some exotic creature she’d never before encountered and she
was trying to decide if he was dangerous.
“Oh!” said Aunt Amy.
“You’re up!”
His aunt and uncle had just come out of
the study, and they were standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at
him. Looking a little dismayed, too, at the possibility that he had overheard
their entire conversation.
“Are you feeling all right,
dear?” said Amy.
“Yes, Auntie.”
“It’s so late. Maybe you
should go back to bed now?”
But he didn’t move. He paused on
the stairs for a moment, wondering what it would be like to live with these
people. What he might learn from them. It would make the summer interesting,
until his mother came for him.
He said, “Aunt Amy, I’ve made
up my mind.”
“About what?”
“About my summer, and where
I’d like to spend it.”
She instantly assumed the worst.
“Please don’t be too hasty! We have a really nice house, right on
the lake, and you’d have your own room. At least come for a visit before
you decide.”
“But I’ve decided to come
stay with you.”
His aunt paused, temporarily stunned.
Then her face lit up in a smile, and she hurried up the steps to give him a
hug. She smelled like Dove soap and Breck shampoo. So
average, so ordinary. Then a grinning Uncle Peter gave him an affectionate clap
on the shoulder, his way of welcoming a new son. Their happiness was like a web
of spun sugar, drawing him into their universe, where all was love and light
and laughter.
“The kids will be so glad
you’re coming back with us!” said Amy.
He glanced toward the top of the stairs,
but Lily was no longer there. She had slipped away, unnoticed. I will have to
keep my eye on her, he thought. Because already, she’s keeping her eye on
me.
“You’re part of our family
now,” said Amy.
As they walked up the stairs together,
she was already telling him her plans for the summer. All the places
they’d take him, all the special meals they’d cook for him when
they got back home. She sounded happy, even giddy, like a mother with her
brand-new baby.
Amy Saul had no idea what they were about
to bring home with them.
Twelve
years later.
Perhaps
this was a mistake.
Dr. Maura Isles paused outside the doors
of Our Lady of Divine Light, uncertain whether she should enter. The parishioners
had already filed in, and she stood alone in the night as snow whispered down
onto her uncovered head. Through the closed church doors she heard the organist
begin playing “Adeste Fidelis,”
and she knew that by now everyone would be seated. If she was going to join
them, this was the time to step inside.
She hesitated, because she did not truly
belong among the believers inside that church. But the music called to her, as
did the promise of warmth and the solace of familiar rituals. Out here, on the
dark street, she stood alone. Alone on Christmas Eve.
She walked up the steps, into the
building.
Even at this late hour, the pews were
filled with families and sleepy children who’d been roused from their
beds for midnight Mass. Maura’s tardy arrival attracted several glances,
and as the strains of “Adeste Fidelis” faded, she quickly slipped into the
first empty seat she could find, near the back. Almost immediately, she had to
rise to her feet again, to stand with the rest of the congregation as the
entrance song began. Father Daniel Brophy approached
the altar and made the sign of the cross.
“The grace and peace of God our
Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you,” he said.
“And also with you,” Maura
murmured along with the congregation. Even after all these years away from the
church, the responses flowed naturally from her lips, ingrained there by all
the Sundays of her childhood. “Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord
have mercy.”
Although Daniel was unaware of her
presence, Maura was focused only on him. On the dark hair, the graceful
gestures, the rich baritone voice. Tonight she could watch him without shame,
without embarrassment. Tonight it was safe to stare.
“Bring us eternal joy in the
Settling back onto the bench, Maura heard
muffled coughs and the whimpers of tired children. Candles flickered on the
altar in a celebration of light and hope on this winter’s night.
Daniel began to read. “And the
angel said unto them, ‘Fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of
great joy which shall be to all people…’”
Saint Luke, thought Maura, recognizing
the passage. Luke, the physician.
“‘…and this shall be a
sign unto you: Ye shall find the babe wrapped in…’” He
paused, his gaze suddenly pausing on Maura. And she thought: Is it such a
surprise to see me here tonight, Daniel?
He cleared his throat, looked down at his
notes, and continued reading. “‘Ye shall find the babe wrapped in
swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.’”
Although he now knew she was seated among
his flock, his gaze did not again meet hers. Not during the singing of “Cantate Domino” and “Dies Sanctificatus,”
not during the offertory or the liturgy of the Eucharist. As others around her
rose to their feet and filed forward to receive Communion, Maura remained in
her seat. If you did not believe, it was hypocrisy to partake of the Host, to
sip the wine.
Then what am I doing here?
Yet she remained through the concluding
rites, through the blessing and the dismissal.
“Go in the peace of Christ.”
“Thanks be to God,” the
parishioners responded.
The Mass now ended, people began to file
out of the church, buttoning coats, pulling on gloves as they shuffled to the
exit. Maura, too, stood up and was just stepping into the aisle when she
glimpsed Daniel trying to catch her attention, imploring her, silently, not to
leave. She sat back down, conscious of the curious gazes of people as they
filed past her pew. She knew what they saw, or what they imagined they saw: a
lone woman, hungry for a priest’s words of comfort on Christmas Eve.
Or did they see more?
She did not return their looks. As the
church emptied, she stared straight ahead, stoically focused on the altar.
Thinking: It’s late, and I should go home. I don’t know what
good can possibly come of staying.
“Hello, Maura.”
She looked up and met Daniel’s
gaze. The church was not yet empty. The organist was still packing up her sheet
music, and several choir members were still pulling on their coats, yet at that
moment Daniel’s attention was so centered on Maura, she might have been
the only other person in the room.
“It’s been a long time since
you visited,” he said.
“I suppose it has been.”
“Not since August, wasn’t
it?”
So you’ve been keeping track, too.
He slid onto the bench beside her.
“I’m surprised to see you here.”
“It’s Christmas Eve, after
all.”
“But you don’t
believe.”
“I still enjoy the rituals. The
songs.”
“That’s the only reason you
came? To sing a few hymns? Chant a few Amens
and Thanks be to Gods?”
“I wanted to hear some music. Be
around other people.”
“Don’t tell me you’re
all alone tonight.”
She gave a shrug, a laugh. “You
know me, Daniel. I’m not exactly a party animal.”
“I just thought… I mean, I
assumed…”
“What?”
“That you’d be with someone.
Especially tonight.”
I am. I’m with you.
They both fell silent as the organist
came walking up the aisle, carrying her tote bag of music. “Good night,
Father Brophy.”
“Good night, Mrs. Easton. Thank you
for the lovely performance.”
“It was a pleasure.” The
organist cast a final, probing glance at Maura, then continued toward the exit.
They heard the door swing shut, and they were finally alone.
“So why has it been so long?”
he asked.
“Well, you know the death business.
It never lets up. One of our pathologists had to go into the hospital for back
surgery a few weeks ago, and we’ve had to cover for him. It’s been
busy, that’s all.”
“You can always pick up the phone
and call.”
“Yes, I know.” He could, too,
but he never did. Daniel Brophy would never step one
foot over the line, and perhaps that was a good thing— she was struggling
with enough temptation for them both.
“So how have you been?” she
asked.
“You know about Father Roy’s
stroke last month? I’ve stepped in as police chaplain.”
“Detective Rizzoli told me.”
“I was at that
“I didn’t see you. You should
have said hello.”
“Well, you were busy. Totally
focused as usual.” He smiled. “You can look so fierce, Maura. Did
you know that?”
She gave a laugh. “Maybe
that’s my problem.”
“Problem?”
“I scare men away.”
“You haven’t scared
me.”
How could I? She thought. Your heart isn’t
available for breaking. Deliberately she glanced at her watch and rose to
her feet. “It’s so late, and I’ve already taken up too much
of your time.”
“It’s not as if I have any
pressing business,” he said as he walked with her toward the exit.
“You have a whole flock of souls to
look after. And it is Christmas Eve.”
“You’ll notice I have nowhere
else to go tonight, either.”
She paused and turned to face him. They
stood alone in the church, breathing in the scents of candle wax and incense,
familiar smells that brought back a childhood of other Christmases, other
Masses. The days when stepping into a church provoked none of the turmoil she
was now feeling. “Good night, Daniel,” she said, turning toward the
door.
“Will it be another four months
until I see you again?” he called out after her.
“I don’t know.”
“I’ve missed our talks, Maura.”
Again she hesitated, her hand poised to
push open the door. “I’ve missed them, too. Maybe that’s why
we shouldn’t have them anymore.”
“We haven’t done anything to
be ashamed of.”
“Not yet,” she said softly,
her gaze not on him, but on the heavy carved door, which stood between her and
escape.
“Maura, let’s not leave it
like this between us. There’s no reason we can’t maintain some sort
of—” He stopped.
Her cell phone was ringing.
She fished it out of her purse. At this
hour, a ringing phone could not mean anything good. As she answered the call,
she felt Daniel’s eyes on her, felt her own jittery reaction to his gaze.
“Dr. Isles,” she said, her
voice unnaturally cool.
“Merry Christmas,” said
Detective Jane Rizzoli. “I’m kind of surprised you’re not at
home right now. I tried calling there first.”
“I came to midnight Mass.”
“Geez,
it’s already one A.M. Isn’t it over yet?”
“Yes, Jane. It’s over, and
I’m about to leave,” said Maura, in a tone of voice that cut off
any more queries. “What have you got for me?” she asked. Because
she already knew that this call was not a simple hello, but a summons.
“Address is
“Details?”
“We’re looking at one vic, a young woman.”
“Homicide?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You sound pretty sure of
yourself.”
“You’ll see when you get
here.”
She disconnected and found Daniel still
watching her. But the moment for taking risks, for saying things they both
might come to regret, had passed. Death had intervened.
“You have to go to work?”
“I’m covering tonight.”
She slipped the phone back into her purse. “Since I don’t have any
family in town, I volunteered.”
“On this of all nights?”
“The fact that it’s Christmas
doesn’t make much difference to me.”
She buttoned up her coat collar and
walked out of the building, into the night. He followed her outside, and as she
tramped through freshly fallen snow to her car, he stood watching her from the
steps, his white vestments flapping in the wind. Glancing back, she saw him
raise his hand in a good-bye wave.
He was still waving as she drove away.
The
blue lights of three cruisers pulsed through a filigree of falling snow,
announcing to all who approached: Something has happened here, something terrible.
Maura felt her front bumper scrape against ice as she squeezed her Lexus up
next to the snow bank, to make room for other vehicles to pass. At this hour,
on Christmas Eve, the only vehicles likely to turn up on the narrow street
would be, like hers, members of Death’s entourage. She took a moment to
steel herself against the exhausting hours to come, her tired eyes mesmerized
by all the flashing lights. Her limbs felt numb; her circulation turned to
sludge. Wake up, she thought. It’s time to go to work.
She stepped out of the car and the sudden
blast of cold air blew the sleep from her brain. She walked through freshly
fallen powder that whispered away like white feathers before her boots.
Although it was one-thirty, lights were burning in several of the modest homes
along the street, and through a window decorated with holiday stencils of
flying reindeer and candy canes, she saw the silhouette of a curious neighbor
peering out from his warm house, at a night that was no longer silent or holy.
“Hey, Dr. Isles?” called out
a patrolman, an older cop whom she vaguely recognized. Clearly he knew exactly
who she was. They all knew who she was. “How’d you get so lucky
tonight, huh?”
“I could ask the same of you,
Officer.”
“Guess we both drew the short straws.”
He gave a laugh. “Merry goddamn Christmas.”
“Is Detective Rizzoli
inside?”
“Yeah, she and Frost have been
videotaping.” He pointed toward a residence where all the lights were
shining, a boxy little house crammed into a row of tired older homes. “By
now, they’re probably ready for you.”
The sound of violent retching made her
glance toward the street, where a blond woman stood doubled over, clutching at
her long coat to avoid soiling the hem as she threw up in the snow bank.
The patrolman gave a snort. Muttered to
Maura, “That one’s gonna make a fine
homicide detective. She came striding onto the scene right outta
Cagney and Lacey. Ordered us all around. Yeah, a real tough one. Then
she goes in the house, gets one look, and next thing you know, she’s out
here puking in the snow.” He laughed.
“I haven’t seen her before.
She’s from Homicide?”
“I hear she just transferred over
from Narcotics and Vice. The commissioner’s bright idea to bring in more
girls.” He shook his head. “She’s not gonna
last long. That’s my prediction.”
The woman detective wiped her mouth and
moved unsteadily toward the porch steps, where she sank down.
“Hey. Detective!”
called out the patrolman. “You might wanna move
away from the crime scene? If you’re gonna puke
again, at least do it where they’re not collecting evidence.”
A younger cop, standing nearby,
snickered.
The blond detective jerked back to her
feet, and in bright strobe flashes the cruiser lights illuminated her mortified
face. “I think I’ll go sit in my car for a minute,” she
murmured.
“Yeah. You do that,
ma’am.”
Maura watched the detective retreat to
the shelter of her vehicle. What horrors was she about to face inside that
house?
“Doc,” called out Detective
Barry Frost. He had just emerged from the house and was standing on the porch,
hunched in a Windbreaker. His blond hair stood up in tufts, as though he had
just rolled out of bed. Though his face had always been sallow, the yellow glow
cast by the porch light made him look sicklier than usual.
“I gather it’s pretty bad in
there,” she said.
“Not the kind of thing you want to
see on Christmas. Thought I’d better come out here and get some
air.”
She paused at the bottom of the steps,
noting the jumble of footprints that had been left on the snow-dusted porch.
“Okay to walk in this way?”
“Yeah. Those prints are all Boston
PD.”
“What about footwear
evidence?”
“We didn’t find much out
here.”
“What, did he fly in the
window?”
“It looks like he swept up after
himself. You can still see some of the whisk marks.”
She frowned. “This perp pays attention to detail.”
“Wait till you see what’s
inside.”
She walked up the steps and pulled on
shoe covers and gloves. Close up, Frost looked even worse, his face gaunt and
drained of all color. But he took a breath and offered gamely: “I can
walk you in.”
“No, you take your time out here.
Rizzoli can show me around.”
He nodded, but he wasn’t looking at
her; he was staring off at the street with the fierce concentration of a man
trying to hold on to his dinner. She left him to his battle and reached for the
doorknob. Already she was braced for the worst. Only moments ago, she had
arrived exhausted, trying to shake herself awake; now she could feel tension
sizzling like static through her nerves.
She stepped into the house. Paused there,
her pulse throbbing, and gazed at an utterly unalarming
scene. The foyer had a scuffed oak floor. Through the doorway she could see
into the living room, which was furnished with cheap mismatches: a sagging
futon couch, a beanbag chair, a bookcase cobbled together from particle board
planks and concrete blocks. Nothing so far that screamed crime scene.
The horror was yet to come; she knew it was waiting in this house, because she
had seen its reflection in Barry Frost’s eyes and in the ashen face of
the woman detective.
She walked through the living room into
the dining room, where she saw four chairs around a pine table. But it was not
the furniture she focused on; it was the place settings that had been laid out
on the table, as though for a family meal. Dinner for four.
One of the plates had a linen napkin
draped over it, the fabric spattered with blood.
Gingerly she reached for the napkin.
Lifting it up by the corner, she took one look at what lay underneath it, on
the plate. Instantly she dropped the napkin and stumbled backward, gasping.
“I see you found the left
hand,” a voice said.
Maura spun around. “You scared the
shit out of me.”
“You want some seriously scary
shit?” said Detective Jane Rizzoli. “Just follow me.” She
turned and led Maura up a hallway. Like Frost, Jane looked as if she had just
rolled out of bed. Her slacks were wrinkled, her dark hair a wiry tangle.
Unlike Frost, she moved fearlessly, her paper-covered shoes whishing across the
floor. Of all the detectives who regularly showed up in the autopsy room, Jane
was the one most likely to push right up to the table, to lean in for a closer
look, and she betrayed no hesitation now as she moved along the hall. It was
Maura who lagged behind, her gaze drawn downward to the drips of blood on the
floor.
“Stay along this side,” said
Jane. “We’ve got some indistinct footprints here, going in both
directions. Some kind of athletic shoe. They’re pretty much dry now, but
I don’t want to smear anything.”
“Who called in the report?”
“It was a nine-one-one call. Came
in just after midnight.”
“From where?”
“This residence.”
Maura frowned. “The victim? Did she
try to get help?”
“No voice on the line. Someone just
dialed the emergency operator and left the phone off the hook. First cruiser
got here ten minutes after the call. Patrolman found the door unlocked, came
into the bedroom, and freaked out.” Jane paused at a doorway and glanced
over her shoulder at Maura. A warning look. “Here’s where it gets
hairy.”
The severed hand was bad enough.
Jane moved aside to let Maura gaze into
the bedroom. She did not see the victim; all she saw was the blood. The average
human body contains perhaps five liters of it. The same volume of red paint,
splashed around a small room, could splatter every surface. What her stunned
eyes encountered, as she stared through the doorway, were just such extravagant
splatters, like bright streamers flung by boisterous hands across white walls,
across furniture and linen.
“Arterial,” said Rizzoli.
Maura could only nod, silent, as her gaze
followed the arcs of spray, reading the horror story written in red on these
walls. As a fourth-year medical student serving a clerkship rotation in the ER,
she had once watched a gunshot victim exsanguinate on
the trauma table. With the blood pressure crashing, the surgery resident in
desperation had performed an emergency laparotomy,
hoping to control the internal bleeding. He’d sliced open the belly,
releasing a fountain of arterial blood that gushed out of the torn aorta,
splashing doctors’ gowns and faces. In the final frantic seconds, as
they’d suctioned and packed in sterile towels, all Maura could focus on
was that blood. Its brilliant gloss, its meaty smell. She’d reached into
the open abdomen to grab a retractor, and the warmth that had soaked through
the sleeves of her gown had felt as soothing as a bath. That day, in the
operating room, Maura had seen the alarming spurt that even a weak arterial
pressure can generate.
Now, as she gazed at the walls of the
bedroom, it was once again the blood that held her focus, that recorded the
story of the victim’s final seconds. When the first cut was made, the
victim’s heart was still beating, still generating a blood pressure.
There, above the bed, was where the first machine-gun splatter hit, arcing high
onto the wall. After a few vigorous pulses, the arcs began to decay. The body
would try to compensate for the falling pressure, the arteries clamping down,
the pulse quickening. But with every heartbeat, it would drain itself,
accelerating its own demise. When at last the pressure faded and the heart
stopped, there would be no more spurts, just a quiet trickle as the last blood
seeped out. This was the death Maura saw recorded on these walls, and on this
bed.
Then her gaze halted, riveted on
something she had almost missed among all the splatters. Something that made
the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stand up. On one wall, drawn in
blood, were three upside-down crosses. And beneath that, a series of cryptic
symbols:
“What does that mean?” said
Maura softly.
“We have no idea. We’ve been
trying to figure it out.”
Maura could not tear her gaze from the
writing. She swallowed. “What the hell are we dealing with here?”
“Wait till you see what comes
next.” Jane circled around to the other side of the bed and pointed to
the floor. “The victim’s right here. Most of her, anyway.”
Only as Maura rounded the bed did the
woman come into view. She was lying unclothed and on her back. Exsanguination had drained the skin to the color of
alabaster, and Maura suddenly remembered her visit to a room in the
“It looks like he killed her there,
on the bed,” said Jane. “That would explain the splatters on that
particular wall and all the blood on the mattress. Then he pulled her onto the
floor, maybe because he needed a firm surface to finish cutting.” Jane
took a breath and turned away, as though she had suddenly reached her limit,
and could not look at the corpse any longer.
“You said the first cruiser took
ten minutes to respond to that nine-one-one call,” said Maura.
“That’s right.”
“What was done here —these
amputations, the removal of the head— that would have taken longer than
ten minutes.”
“We realize that. I don’t
think it was the victim who made that call.”
The creak of a footstep made them both
turn, and they saw Barry Frost standing in the doorway, looking less than eager
to enter the room.
“Crime Scene Unit’s
here,” he said.
“Tell them to come on in.”
Jane paused. “You don’t look so hot.”
“I think I’m doing pretty
good. Considering.”
“How’s Kassovitz?
She finished puking? We could use some help in here.”
Frost shook his head. “She’s
still sitting in her car. I don’t think her stomach’s ready for
this one. I’ll go get CSU.”
“Tell her to grow a spine, for
God’s sake!” Jane called after him as he walked out of the room.
“I hate it when a woman lets me down. Gives us all a bad name.”
Maura’s gaze returned to the torso
on the floor. “Have you found—”
“The rest of her?” said Jane.
“Yeah. You’ve already seen the left hand. The right arm’s
sitting in the bathtub. And now I guess it’s time to show you the
kitchen.”
“What’s in there?”
“More surprises.” Jane
started across the room, toward the hallway.
Turning to follow her, Maura caught a
sudden glimpse of herself in the bedroom mirror. Her reflection stared back at
her with tired eyes, the black hair limp from melted snow. But it was not the
image of her own face that made her freeze. “Jane,” she whispered.
“Look at this.”
“What?”
“In the mirror. The symbols.”
Maura turned and stared at the writing on the wall. “Do you see it?
It’s a reverse image! Those aren’t symbols, those are letters,
meant to be read in the mirror.”
Jane looked at the wall, then at the
mirror. “That’s a word?”
“Yes. It spells out Peccavi.”
Jane shook her head. “Even in
reverse, it doesn’t mean a thing to me.”
“It’s Latin, Jane.”
“For what?”
“I have sinned.”
For a moment, the two women stared at
each other. Then Jane gave a sudden laugh. “Well, that’s a doozy of a confession for you. You think a few Hail Marys will erase this particular sin?”
“Maybe this word doesn’t
refer to the killer. Maybe it’s all about the victim.” She looked
at Jane. “I have sinned.”
“Punishment,” said Jane.
“Vengeance.”
“It’s a possible motive. She
did something to anger the killer. She sinned against him. And this is his
payback.”
Jane took a deep breath.
“Let’s go into the kitchen.” She led Maura down the hallway.
At the kitchen doorway she stopped and looked at Maura, who had halted on the
threshold, too stunned by what she saw to say a word.
On the tiled floor, a large red circle
had been drawn in what looked like red chalk. Spaced around its circumference
were five black puddles of wax that had melted and congealed. Candles,
thought Maura. In the center of that circle, positioned so that the eyes were
staring at them, was a woman’s severed head.
A circle. Five black candles. It’s
a ritual offering.
“So now I’m supposed to go
home to my little girl,” said Jane. “In the morning, we’ll
all sit around the tree and open presents and pretend there’s peace on
earth. But I’ll be thinking of… that thing… staring back at
me. Merry frigging Christmas.”
Maura swallowed. “Do we know who
she is?”
“Well, I haven’t dragged in
her friends and neighbors to make a positive ID. Hey, you recognize that
head on the kitchen floor? But based on her driver’s license photo,
I’d say this is Lori-Ann Tucker. Twenty-eight years old. Brown hair,
brown eyes.” Abruptly, Jane laughed. “Put all the body parts
together, and that’s about what you’d get.”
“What do you know about her?”
“We found a paycheck stub in her
purse. She works over at the
They heard voices, and the creak of
footsteps as CSU moved into the house. Jane at once straightened to greet them
with some semblance of her usual aplomb. The unshrinking Detective Rizzoli that
everyone knew.
“Hey guys,” she said as Frost
and two male criminalists gingerly stepped into the
kitchen. “We got ourselves a fun one.”
“Jesus,” one of the criminalists murmured. “Where’s the rest of the
victim?”
“In several rooms. You might want
to start with—” She stopped, her body suddenly snapping straight.
The phone on the kitchen counter was
ringing.
Frost was standing closest to it.
“What do you think?” he asked, glancing at Rizzoli.
“Answer it.”
Gingerly Frost picked up the receiver in
his gloved hand. “Hello? Hello?” After a moment he set it down
again. “They hung up.”
“What’s Caller ID say?”
Frost pressed the call history button.
“It’s a
Jane took out her cell phone and looked
at the number on the display. “I’ll try calling it back,” she
said, and dialed. Stood listening as it rang. “No answer.”
“Let me see if that number’s
called here before,” said Frost. He cycled back through the history,
reviewing every call that had come in or gone out on the line. “Okay,
here’s that call to nine-one-one. Twelve-ten A.M.”
“Our perp,
announcing his handiwork.”
“There’s another call, just
before that one. A
“Did our perp
make two calls from this phone?”
“If it was our perp.”
Jane stared at the phone.
“Let’s think about this. He’s standing here in the kitchen.
He’s just killed her and cut her up. Sliced off her hand, her arm. Sets
her head right here, on the floor. Why call someone? Does he want to brag about
it? And who’s he gonna call?”
“Find out,” said Maura.
Jane once again used her cell phone, this
time to call the
“Who?”
Jane hung up and dialed the number again.
Handed Maura the cell phone.
Maura heard it ring four times. Then the
answering machine picked up and a recording played. The voice was instantly,
chillingly familiar.
You’ve reached Dr. Joyce P.
O’Donnell. I do want to hear from you, so please leave a message, and
I’ll return your call.
Maura disconnected and met Jane’s
equally stunned gaze. “Why would the killer call Joyce
O’Donnell?”
“You’re kidding,” said
Frost. “It’s her number?”
“Who is she?” one of the criminalists asked.
Jane looked at him. “Joyce
O’Donnell,” she said, “is a vampire.”
This was not
where Jane wanted to be on Christmas morning.
She and Frost
sat in her parked Subaru on
“If you
don’t want to do this,” said Frost, “I can talk to
her.”
“You
think I can’t handle this?”
“I think this
has gotta be hard for you.”
“What’ll
be hard is keeping my hands off her throat.”
“You see?
That’s what I mean. Your attitude’s going to get in the way. You
two have a history, and that colors everything. You can’t be
neutral.”
“No one
could be neutral, knowing who she is. What she does.”
“Rizzoli,
she just does what she’s paid to do.”
“So do
whores.” Except whores don’t hurt anyone, thought Jane, staring at
Joyce O’Donnell’s house. A house paid for with the blood of murder
victims. Whores don’t waltz into courtrooms in sleek
“All
I’m saying is, try to keep your cool, okay?” said Frost. “We
don’t have to like her. But we can’t afford to piss her off.”
“You
think that’s my plan?”
“Look at you.
Your claws are already out.”
“Purely
in self-defense.” Jane shoved open the car door. “Because I know
this bitch is going to try to sink hers in me.” She stepped out, sinking
calf-deep into snow, but she scarcely felt the cold seeping through her socks;
her deepest chill was not physical. Her focus was on the house, on the
encounter to come, with a woman who knew Jane’s secret fears only too
well. Who also knew how to exploit those fears.
Frost swung
open the gate, and they walked up the shoveled path. The flagstones were icy,
and Jane was trying so hard not to slip that by the time she reached the porch
steps, she already felt off balance and unsure of her footing. Not the best way
to face Joyce O’Donnell. Nor did it help that when the front door opened,
O’Donnell was looking her usual elegant self, blond hair cut in a sleek
bob, her pink button-down shirt and khaki slacks perfectly tailored to her
athletic frame. Jane, in her tired black pantsuit, with her trouser cuffs damp
from melted snow, felt like the supplicant at the manor house door. Exactly
how she wants me to feel.
O’Donnell
gave a cool nod. “Detectives.” She did not immediately step aside,
a pause intended to demonstrate that here, on her own territory, she was in
command.
“May we
come in?” Jane finally asked. Knowing that, of course, they would be
allowed in. That the game had already begun.
O’Donnell
waved them into the house. “This isn’t how I care to spend
Christmas day,” she said.
“It’s
not exactly how we want to spend it either,” Jane countered. “And
I’m sure it’s not what the victim wanted.”
“As I
told you, the recording’s already been erased,” said
O’Donnell, leading the way into her living room. “You can listen to
it, but there’s nothing to hear.”
Not much had
changed since the last time Jane had visited this house. She saw the same
abstract paintings on the walls, the same richly hued Oriental carpets. The
only new feature was the Christmas tree. The trees of Jane’s childhood
had been decorated with haphazard taste, the branches hung with the mismatched
assortment of ornaments hardy enough to have survived earlier Rizzoli
Christmases. And there’d been tinsel— lots and lots of it. Vegas
trees, Jane used to call them.
But on this
tree, there was not a single strand of tinsel. No Vegas in this house. Instead,
the branches were hung with crystal prisms and silver teardrops, reflecting
wintry sunshine on the walls, like dancing chips of light. Even her damn
Christmas tree makes me feel inadequate.
O’Donnell
crossed to her answering machine. “This is all I have now,” she
said, and pressed Play. The digital voice announced: “You have no new
messages.” She looked at the detectives. “I’m afraid the
recording you asked about is gone. As soon as I got home last night, I played
all my messages. Erased them as I went. By the time I got to your message,
about preserving the recording, it was too late.”
“How many
messages were there?” asked Jane.
“Four.
Yours was the last.”
“The call
we’re interested in would have come in around twelve-ten.”
“Yes, and
the number’s still there, in the electronic log.” O’Donnell
pressed a button, cycling back to the 12:10 call. “But whoever called at
that time didn’t say anything.” She looked at Jane. “There
was no message at all.”
“What did
you hear?”
“I told
you. There was nothing.”
“Extraneous
noises? TV, traffic?”
“Not even
heavy breathing. Just a few seconds of silence, and then the hang-up click.
That’s why I immediately erased it. There was nothing to hear.”
“Is the
caller’s number familiar to you?” asked Frost.
“Should
it be?”
“That’s
what we’re asking you,” Jane said, the bite in her voice
unmistakable.
O’Donnell’s
gaze met hers and Jane saw, in those eyes, a flash of disdain. As though
I’m not even worth her attention. “No, I didn’t recognize
the phone number,” said O’Donnell.
“Do you
know the name Lori-Ann Tucker?”
“No.
Who’s that?”
“She was
murdered last night, in her own home. That call was made from her
telephone.”
O’Donnell
paused and said, reasonably, “It could have been a wrong number.”
“I
don’t think so, Dr. O’Donnell. I think the call was meant to reach you.”
“Why call
me and then say nothing? It’s more likely that she heard the recording on
my answering machine, realized she’d made a mistake, and simply hung
up.”
“I
don’t believe it was the victim who called you.”
Again,
O’Donnell paused, this time longer. “I see,” she said. She
moved to an armchair and sat down, but not because she was shaken. She looked
perfectly unruffled sitting in that chair, an empress holding court. “You
think it was the killer who called me.”
“You
don’t sound at all worried by that possibility.”
“I
don’t know enough yet to be worried. I don’t know anything about
this case. So why don’t you tell me more?” She gestured to the
couch, an invitation for her visitors to sit down. It was the first hint of
hospitality that she’d offered.
Because now we
have something interesting to offer her, thought Jane. She’s
caught a whiff of blood. It’s exactly what this woman craves.
The couch was a
pristine white, and Frost paused before settling onto it, as though afraid to
smudge the fabric. But Jane didn’t give it a second glance. She sat down
in her snow-dampened slacks, her focus on O’Donnell.
“The
victim was a twenty-eight-year-old woman,” said Jane. “She was
killed last night, around midnight.”
“Suspects?”
“We’ve
made no arrests.”
“So you
have no idea who the killer is.”
“I’m
only saying that we’ve made no arrests. What we’re doing is
following leads.”
“And
I’m one of them.”
“Someone
called you from the victim’s home. It could well have been the perp.”
“And why
would he —assuming it’s a he— want to talk to me?”
Jane leaned
forward. “We both know why, Doctor. It’s what you do for a living.
You probably have a nice little fan club out there, all the killers who
consider you their friend. You’re famous, you know, among the murderer
set. You’re the lady shrink who talks to monsters.”
“I try to
understand them, that’s all. Study them.”
“You
defend them.”
“I’m
a neuropsychiatrist. I’m far more qualified to
testify in court than most expert witnesses. Not every killer belongs in
prison. Some of them are seriously damaged people.”
“Yeah, I
know your theory. Bonk a kid on the head, screw up his frontal lobes, and
he’s absolved of all responsibility for anything he does from then on. He
can kill a woman, chop her up into pieces, and you’ll still defend him in
court.”
“Is that
what happened to this victim?” O’Donnell’s face had taken on
a disturbing alertness, her eyes bright and feral. “Was she
dismembered?”
“Why do
you ask?”
“I’d
just like to know.”
“Professional
curiosity?”
O’Donnell
sat back in her chair. “Detective Rizzoli, I’ve interviewed a lot
of killers. Over the years, I’ve compiled extensive statistics on
motives, methods, patterns. So yes, it is professional curiosity.” She
paused. “Dismemberment is not that unusual. Especially if it’s to
aid in disposal of the victim.”
“That
wasn’t the reason for it in this case.”
“You know
that?”
“It’s
pretty clear.”
“Did he
purposefully display the body parts? Was it staged?”
“Why? You
happen to have any sicko pals who’re into that
kind of thing? Any names you want to share with us? They write to you,
don’t they? Your name’s out there. The doctor who loves to hear all
the details.”
“If they
write me, it’s usually anonymous. They don’t tell me their
names.”
“But you
do get letters,” said Frost.
“I hear
from people.”
“Killers.”
“Or
fabricators. Whether they tell the truth or not is impossible for me to
determine.”
“You
think some of them are just sharing their fantasies?”
“And
they’ll probably never act on them. They just need a way to express
unacceptable urges. We all have them. The mildest-mannered man occasionally
daydreams about things he’d like to do to women. Things so twisted he
doesn’t dare tell anyone. I bet that even you entertain a few inappropriate
thoughts, Detective Frost.” She kept her gaze on him, a look that was
meant to make him uncomfortable. Frost, to his credit, did not even flush.
“Has
anyone written you about fantasies of dismemberment?” he asked.
“Not
lately.”
“But
someone has?”
“As I
said, dismemberment is not unusual.”
“As a
fantasy or a real act?”
“Both.”
Jane said,
“Who’s been writing you about their fantasies, Dr.
O’Donnell?”
The woman met
Jane’s gaze. “That correspondence is confidential. That’s why
they feel safe telling me their secrets, their desires, their daydreams.”
“Do these
people ever call you?”
“Rarely.”
“And you
talk to them?”
“I
don’t avoid them.”
“Do you
keep a list of these callers?”
“Hardly a
list. I can’t remember the last time it happened.”
“It
happened last night.”
“Well, I
wasn’t here to answer it.”
“You
weren’t here at two A.M., either,” said Frost. “We called
then, and got your machine.”
“Where
were you last night?” Jane asked.
O’Donnell
shrugged. “Out.”
“At two
A.M., on Christmas Eve?”
“I was
with friends.”
“What
time did you get home?”
“Probably
around two-thirty.”
“They
must be very good friends. You mind telling us their names?”
“Yes, I
do.”
“Why?”
“Why
don’t I want my privacy violated? Do I actually have to answer that
question?”
“This is
a homicide investigation. A woman was slaughtered last night. It was one of the
most brutal crime scenes I’ve ever walked into.”
“And you
want my alibi.”
“I’m
just curious why you won’t tell us.”
“Am I a
suspect? Or are you just trying to show me who’s in charge?”
“You’re
not a suspect. At the moment.”
“Then
I’m under no obligation to even talk to you.” Abruptly,
O’Donnell rose to her feet and started toward the door. “I’ll
walk you out, now.”
Frost, too, started
to get up, then saw that Jane wasn’t budging, and he sank back down
again.
Jane said,
“If you gave one damn about the victim, if you saw what he did to
Lori-Ann Tucker—”
O’Donnell
turned to face her. “Why don’t you tell me? What, exactly, was
done to her?”
“You want
the details, do you?”
“It’s
my field of study. I need to know the details.” She moved toward Jane.
“It helps me understand.”
Or it turns you
on. That’s why you suddenly look interested. Even
eager.
“You said
she was dismembered,” said O’Donnell. “Was the head
removed?”
“Rizzoli,”
said Frost, a cautionary note in his voice.
But Jane did
not need to reveal a thing; O’Donnell had already drawn her own
conclusions. “The head is such a powerful symbol. So personal. So
individual.” O’Donnell stepped closer, moving in like a predator.
“Did he take it with him, as a trophy? A reminder of his kill?”
“Tell us
where you were last night.”
“Or did
he leave the head at the scene? Someplace where it would elicit maximum shock?
Someplace it would be impossible to miss? A kitchen counter, perhaps? Or a
prominent place on the floor?”
“Who were
you with?”
“It’s
a potent message, displaying a head, a face. It’s the killer’s way
of telling you he’s in complete control. He’s showing you how
powerless you are, Detective. And how powerful he is.”
“Who were
you with?” The instant the words were out, Jane knew they were
a mistake. She’d allowed O’Donnell to goad her, and she had lost
her temper. The ultimate sign of weakness.
“My
friendships are private,” O’Donnell said, and added, with a quiet
smile, “Except for the one you already know about. Our mutual
acquaintance. He keeps asking about you, you know. Always wants to know what
you’re up to.” She did not have to say his name. They both knew she
was talking about Warren Hoyt.
Don’t
react, thought Jane. Don’t let her see how deeply she’s dug her
claws into me. But she could feel her own face snap taut and saw Frost
glance at her with concern. The scars that Hoyt had left on Jane’s hands
were only the most obvious wounds; there were far deeper ones. Even now, over
two years later, she flinched at the mention of his name.
“He’s
a fan of yours, Detective,” said O’Donnell. “Even though
he’ll never walk again because of you, he bears you absolutely no
grudge.”
“I
couldn’t care less what he thinks.”
“I went
to see him last week. He showed me his collection of news clippings. His Janie
file, as he calls it. When you were trapped in that hospital siege, over
the summer, he kept the TV on all night. Watched every second of it.” O’Donnell
paused. “He told me you had a baby girl.”
Jane’s
back went rigid. Don’t let her do this to you. Don’t let her dig
those claws in deeper.
“I
believe your daughter’s name is
Jane rose to
her feet, and though she was shorter than O’Donnell, something in
Jane’s eyes made the other woman abruptly step back. “We’ll
be calling on you again,” said Jane.
“Call me
all you want,” said O’Donnell. “I have nothing else to tell
you.”
“She’s
lying,” said Jane.
She yanked open
the car door and slid in behind the wheel. There she sat, staring at a scene
that was Christmas card–pretty, the sun glistening on icicles, the
snow-frosted houses decked in tasteful wreaths and holly. No garish Santas and reindeer on this street, no rooftop
extravaganzas like the ones in
But here on
“She
knows more about this case than she’s telling us.”
“How do
you draw that conclusion?” asked Frost.
“Instinct.”
“I
thought you didn’t believe in instinct. That’s what you always tell
me. That it’s nothing better than a lucky guess.”
“But I
know this woman. I know what makes her tick.” She looked at Frost, whose
winter pallor seemed even more pronounced in the weak sunshine. “She got
more than a hang-up call from the killer last night.”
“You’re
guessing.”
“Why did
she erase it?”
“Why
wouldn’t she? If the caller left no message?”
“That’s
her story.”
“Oh man.
She got to you.” He shook his head. “I knew she would.”
“She
didn’t get close.”
“Yeah?
When she started talking about
“Who
should? You? That weenie Kassovitz?”
“Someone
who doesn’t have a history with her. Someone she can’t
touch.” He gave Jane a probing look that made her want to turn away. They
had been partners for two years now, and even though they were not the closest
of friends, they understood each other in a way that mere friends or even
lovers seldom did, because they had shared the same horrors, fought the same
battles. Frost, better than anyone, even better than her husband, Gabriel, knew
her history with Joyce O’Donnell.
And with the
killer known as the Surgeon.
“She
still scares you, doesn’t she?” he asked quietly.
“All she
does is piss me off.”
“Because she
knows what does scare you. And she never stops reminding you of him,
never forgets to bring up his name.”
“Like
I’m the least bit afraid of a guy who can’t even wiggle his toes?
Who can’t pee unless some nurse shoves a tube up his dick? Oh yeah,
I’m real scared of Warren Hoyt.”
“You
still having the nightmares?”
His question
stopped her cold. She couldn’t lie to him; he’d see it. So she said
nothing at all, but just looked straight ahead, at that perfect street with its
perfect houses.
“I’d
be having them,” he said, “if it’d happened to me.”
But it
didn’t, she thought. I’m the one who felt Hoyt’s blade at my
throat, who bears the scars from his scalpel. I’m the one he still thinks
about, fantasizes about. Though he could never again hurt her, just knowing
that she was the object of his desires made her skin crawl.
“Why are
we talking about him?” she said. “This is about
O’Donnell.”
“You
can’t separate the two.”
“I’m
not the one who keeps bringing up his name. Let’s stick to the subject,
okay? Joyce P. O’Donnell, and why the killer chose to call her.”
“We
can’t be sure it was the perp who called
her.”
“Talking
to O’Donnell is every pervert’s idea of great phone sex. They can
tell her their sickest fantasies, and she’d lap it up and beg for more, all
the while taking notes. That’s why he’d call her. He’d want
to crow about his accomplishment. He’d want a willing ear, and
she’s the obvious person to call. Dr. Murder.” With an angry twist
of the key, she started the car. Cold air blasted from the heating vents.
“That’s why he called her. To brag. To bask in her
attention.”
“Why
would she lie about it?”
“Why
wouldn’t she tell us where she was last night? It makes you wonder who
she was with. Whether that call wasn’t an invitation.”
Frost frowned
at her. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Sometime
before midnight, our perp does his slice-and-dice on
Lori-Ann Tucker. Then he makes a phone call to O’Donnell. She claims she
wasn’t home— that her answering machine picked up. But what if she was
at home at the time? What if they actually spoke to each other?”
“We
called her house at two A.M. She wasn’t answering then.”
“Because
she was no longer at home. She said she was out with friends.”
Jane looked at him. “What if it was just one friend? One bright,
shiny new friend.”
“Come on.
You really think she’d protect this perp?”
“I
wouldn’t put anything past her.” Jane let out the brake and pulled
away from the curb. “Anything.”
“This is no way
to spend Christmas day,” said Angela Rizzoli, glancing up from the stove
at her daughter. Four pots simmered on the burners, lids clattering, as steam
curled in a wispy wreath around Angela’s sweat-dampened hair. She lifted
a pot lid and slid a plateful of homemade gnocchi into the boiling water. They plopped
in, their splash announcing that dinner was now imminent. Jane gazed around the
kitchen at endless platters of food. Angela Rizzoli’s worst fear was that
someone, someday, would leave her house hungry.
Today was not
that day.
On the
countertop was a roasted leg of lamb, fragrant with oregano and garlic, and a
pan of sizzling potatoes browned with rosemary. Jane saw ciabatta
bread and a salad of sliced tomatoes and mozzarella. A green bean salad was the
lone contribution that Jane and Gabriel had brought to the feast. On the stove,
the simmering pots released yet other aromas, and in the boiling water, tender
gnocchi bobbed and swirled.
“What can
I do in here, Mom?” asked Jane.
“Nothing.
You worked today. You sit there.”
“You want
me to grate the cheese?”
“No, no.
You must be tired. Gabriel says you were up all night.” Angela gave the
pot a quick stir with a wooden spoon. “I don’t see why you had to
work today, too. It’s unreasonable.”
“It’s
what I gotta do.”
“But
it’s Christmas.”
“Tell it
to the bad guys.” Jane pulled the grater from the drawer and began
scraping a block of Parmesan cheese across the blades. She could not just sit
still in this kitchen. “How come Mike and Frankie aren’t helping in
here, anyway? You must’ve been cooking all morning.”
“Oh, you
know your brothers.”
“Yeah.”
She snorted. Unfortunately.
In the other
room, football was blaring from the TV, as usual. Men’s shouts joined the
roar of stadium crowds, all cheering some guy with a tight butt and a pigskin
ball.
Angela bustled over
to inspect the green bean salad. “Oh, this looks good! What’s in
the dressing?”
“I
don’t know. Gabriel made it.”
“You’re
so lucky, Janie. You got a man who cooks.”
“You
starve Dad a few days, he’ll know how to cook, too.”
“No, he
wouldn’t. He’d just waste away at the dining table, waiting for
dinner to float in all by itself.” Angela lifted up the pot of boiling
water and turned it upside down, dumping the cooked gnocchi into a colander. As
the steam cleared, Jane saw Angela’s sweating face, framed by tendrils of
hair. Outside, the wind sliced across ice-glazed streets, but here in her
mother’s kitchen, heat flushed their faces and steamed the windows.
“Here’s
Mommy,” said Gabriel, walking into the kitchen with a wide-awake
“She
didn’t sleep long,” said Jane.
“With
that football game going on?” He laughed. “Our daughter is
definitely a Patriots fan. You should have heard her howl when the Dolphins
scored.”
“Let me
hold her.” Jane opened her arms and hugged a squirming
“Hey, Ma,
it’s halftime. When’re we gonna
eat?”
Jane looked up
as her older brother, Frankie, lumbered into the room. The last time Jane had
seen him was a year ago, when he’d flown home from
“Dinner’s
in ten minutes,” said Angela.
“That
means it’ll run into the third quarter,” said Frankie.
“Why
don’t you guys just turn off the TV?” said Jane. “It’s
Christmas dinner.”
“Yeah,
and we’d all be eating a lot earlier if you’d shown up on
time.”
“Frankie,”
snapped Angela. “Your sister worked all night. And look, she’s in
here helping. So don’t you go picking on her!”
There was
sudden silence in the kitchen as both brother and sister stared at Angela in
surprise. Did Mom actually take my side, for once?
“Well.
This is some great Christmas,” said Frankie, and he walked out of the
kitchen.
Angela slid the
colander of drained gnocchi into a serving bowl and ladled on steaming veal
sauce. “No appreciation for what women do,” she muttered.
Jane laughed.
“You just noticed?”
“Like we
don’t deserve some respect?” Angela reached for a chef’s
knife and attacked a bunch of parsley, mincing it with machine-gun raps.
“I blame myself. Should have taught him better. But really, it’s
your father’s fault. He sets the example. No appreciation for me
whatsoever.”
Jane glanced at
Gabriel, who chose just that moment to conveniently escape the room.
“Uh… Mom? Did Dad do something to tick you off?”
Angela looked
over her shoulder at Jane, her knife blade poised over the mangled parsley.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes I
do.”
“I’m
not going to go there, Janie. Oh, no. I believe every father deserves his
child’s respect, no matter what he does.”
“So he
did do something.”
“I told
you, I’m not going to go there.” Angela scooped up the minced parsley
and flung it onto the bowl of gnocchi. Then she stomped to the doorway and
yelled, over the sound of the TV: “Dinner! Sit.”
Despite
Angela’s command, it was a few minutes before Frank Rizzoli and his two
sons could tear themselves away from the TV. The halftime show had begun, and
leggy girls in sequins strutted across the stage. The three Rizzoli men sat
with eyes transfixed on the screen. Only Gabriel rose to help Jane and Angela
shuttle platters of food into the dining room. Though he didn’t say a
word, Jane could read the look he gave her.
Since when did
Christmas dinner turn into a war zone?
Angela slammed
the bowl of roast potatoes on the table, walked into the living room, and
snatched up the remote. With one click, she shut off the TV.
Frankie
groaned. “Aw, Mom. They got Jessica Simpson coming on in
ten…” He saw Angela’s face and instantly shut up.
Mike was the
first to jump up from the couch. Without a word, he scooted obediently into the
dining room, followed at a more sullen pace by his brother Frankie and Frank
senior.
The table was
magnificently set. Candles flickered in crystal holders. Angela had laid out
her blue and gold china and linen napkins and the new wineglasses she’d
just bought over at the Dansk outlet. When Angela sat down and surveyed the
feast, it was not with pride but with a look of sour dissatisfaction.
“This
looks wonderful, Mrs. Rizzoli,” said Gabriel.
“Why, thank
you. I know you appreciate how much work goes into a meal like this.
Since you know how to cook.”
“Well, I didn’t
really have a choice, living on my own for so many years.” He reached
under the table and squeezed Jane’s hand. “I’m lucky I found
a girl who can cook.” When she gets around to it was what he
should have added.
“I taught
Janie everything I know.”
“Ma, can
you pass the lamb?” called Frankie.
“Excuse
me?”
“The
lamb.”
“What
happened to please? I’m not passing it until you say the
word.”
Jane’s
father sighed. “Geez Louise, Angie. It’s
Christmas. Can we just feed the boy?”
“I’ve
been feeding this boy for thirty-six years. He’s not going to starve just
because I ask for a little courtesy.”
“Um…
Mom?” ventured Mike. “Could you, uh, please pass the
potatoes?” Meekly, he added again, “Please?”
“Yes, Mikey.” Angela handed him the bowl.
For a moment no
one spoke. The only sounds were jaws chewing and silverware sawing against
china. Jane glanced at her father, seated at one end of the table, and then at
her mother, seated at the other end. There was no eye contact between them.
They might have been dining in different rooms, so distant were they from each
other. Jane did not often take the time to study her parents, but tonight she
felt compelled to, and what she saw depressed her. When did they get so old?
When did Mom’s eyes start to droop, and Dad’s hair recede to such
thin wisps?
When did they
start hating each other?
“So
Janie, tell us what kept you so busy last night,” said her dad, his gaze
on his daughter, studiously avoiding even a glance at Angela.
“Um, no
one really wants to hear about it, Dad.”
“I
do,” said Frankie.
“It’s
Christmas. I think maybe—”
“Who got
whacked?”
She glanced
across the table at her older brother. “A young woman. It wasn’t
pretty.”
“Doesn’t
bother me any to talk about it,” Frankie said, shoving a chunk of pink lamb
into his mouth. Frankie the Master Sergeant, challenging her to gross him out.
“This one
would bother you. It sure as hell bothers me.”
“Was she
good-looking?”
“What’s
that got to do with it?”
“Just
wondering.”
“It’s
an idiotic question.”
“Why? If
she’s good-looking, it helps you understand the guy’s
motive.”
“To kill
her? Jesus, Frankie.”
“Jane,”
said her dad. “It’s Christmas.”
“Well,
Janie has a point,” snapped Angela.
Frank looked at
his wife in astonishment. “Your daughter cusses at the dinner table, and
you’re getting on my back?”
“You
think that only pretty women are worth killing?”
“Ma, I
didn’t say that,” said Frankie.
“He
didn’t say that,” said his father.
“But
it’s what you think. Both of you. Only good-looking women are worth the
attention. Love ’em or kill ’em, it’s only interesting if they’re pretty.”
“Oh,
please.”
“Please
what, Frank? You know it’s true. Look at you.”
Jane and her
brothers all frowned at their father.
“Look at
him why, Ma?” asked Mike.
“Angela,”
said Frank, “it’s Christmas.”
“I know
it’s Christmas!” Angela jumped to her feet and gave a sob. “I
know.” She walked out of the room, into the kitchen.
Jane looked at
her father. “What’s going on?”
Frank shrugged.
“Women that age. Change of life.”
“This
isn’t just change of life. I’m going to go see what’s
bothering her.” Jane rose from her chair and followed her mother into the
kitchen.
“Mom?”
Angela did not
seem to hear her. She was standing with her back turned, whipping cream in a
stainless steel bowl. The beater clattered, sending flecks of white spraying
across the countertop.
“Mom, are
you okay?”
“Gotta get the dessert started. I completely forgot about
whipping the cream.”
“What’s
the matter?”
“I should
have had this ready before we sat down. You know your brother Frankie gets
impatient if he has to wait too long for the next course. If we make him sit
there for more than five minutes, next thing you know, he’ll turn on that
TV again.” Angela reached for the sugar and sprinkled a spoonful of it
into the bowl as the beater churned up the cream. “At least Mikey tries his best to be nice. Even when all he sees are
bad examples. Every which way he looks, just bad examples.”
“Look, I know
something’s wrong.”
Angela shut off
the beater and, with shoulders slumped, she stared at the cream, now whipped up
so thick it was almost butter. “It’s not your problem,
Janie.”
“If
it’s yours, it’s mine.”
Her mother
turned and looked at her. “Marriage is harder than you think.”
“What did
Dad do?”
Angela untied
her apron and tossed it on the counter. “Can you serve the shortcake for
me? I’ve got a headache. I’m going upstairs to lie down.”
“Mom,
let’s talk about this.”
“I’m
not going to say anything else. I’m not that kind of mother. I’d
never force my kids to choose sides.” Angela walked out of the kitchen
and thumped upstairs to her bedroom.
Bewildered,
Jane went back into the dining room. Frankie was too busy sawing into his
second helping of lamb even to look up. But Mike had an anxious look on his
face. Frankie might be thick as a plank, but Mike clearly understood that
something was seriously wrong tonight. She looked at her father, who was
emptying the bottle of Chianti into his glass.
“Dad? You
want to tell me what this is all about?”
Her father took
a gulp of wine. “No.”
“She’s
really upset.”
“And
that’s between her and me, okay?” He stood up and gave Frankie a
clap on the shoulder. “C’mon. I think we can still catch the third
quarter.”
“This was
the most screwed-up Christmas we’ve ever had,” said Jane as they
drove home.
“For
what?”
“You had
no idea you were marrying into a nuthouse. Now you’re probably wondering
what you got yourself into.”
“Yep.
I’d say it’s time to trade in the wife.”
“Well,
you’re thinking that a little, aren’t you?”
“Jane,
don’t be ridiculous.”
“Hell,
there are times when I’d like to run away from my family.”
“But I
definitely don’t want to run away from you.” He turned his
gaze back to the road, where windblown snow swirled past their headlights. For
a moment they drove without speaking. Then he said, “You know, I never
heard my parents argue. Not once, in all the years I was growing up.”
“Go
ahead, rub it in. I know my family’s a bunch of loudmouths.”
“You come
from a family that makes its feelings known, that’s all. They slam doors
and they yell and they laugh like hyenas.”
“Oh, this
is getting better and better.”
“I wish
I’d grown up in a family like that.”
“Right.”
She laughed.
“My
parents didn’t yell, Jane, and they didn’t slam doors. They
didn’t much laugh, either. No, Colonel Dean’s family was far too
disciplined to ever stoop to anything as common as emotions. I don’t
remember him ever saying, ‘I love you,’ to either me or to my
mother. I had to learn to say it. And I’m still learning.” He
looked at her. “You taught me how.”
She touched his
thigh. Her cool impenetrable guy. There were still a few things left to teach
him.
“So never
apologize for them,” he said. “They’re the ones who made
you.”
“Sometimes
I wonder about that. I look at Frankie and I think, please God, let me be the
baby they found on the doorstep.”
He laughed.
“It was pretty tense tonight. What was the story there,
anyway?”
“I
don’t know.” She sank back against the seat. “But sooner or
later, we’ll hear all about it.”
Jane slipped
paper booties over her shoes, donned a surgical gown, and looped the ties
behind her waist. Gazing through the glass partition into the autopsy lab, she
thought: I really don’t want to go in there. But already Frost was
in the room, gowned and masked, with just enough of his face visible for Jane
to see his grimace. Maura’s assistant, Yoshima,
pulled x-rays out of an envelope and mounted them on the viewing box.
Maura’s back obstructed Jane’s view of the table, hiding what she
had little wish to confront. Just an hour ago, she had been sitting at her
kitchen table,
Instead she
pushed through the door, into the autopsy room.
Maura glanced
over her shoulder, and her face betrayed no qualms about the procedure to
follow. She was merely a professional like any other, about to do her job.
Though they both dealt in death, Maura was on far more intimate terms with it,
far more comfortable staring into its face.
“We were
just about to start,” said Maura.
“I got
hung up in traffic. The roads are a mess out there this morning.” Jane
tied on her mask as she moved toward the foot of the table. She avoided looking
at the remains but focused, instead, on the x-ray viewing box.
Yoshima flipped the switch and the light flickered on,
glowing behind two rows of films. Skull x-rays. But these were unlike any skull
films Jane had seen before. Where the cervical spine should be, she saw only a
few vertebrae, and then… nothing. Just the ragged shadow of soft tissue
where the neck had been severed. She pictured Yoshima
positioning that head for the films. Had it rolled around like a beach ball as
he’d set it on the film cassette, as he’d angled the collimator?
She turned away from the light box.
And found
herself staring at the table. At the remains, displayed in anatomical position.
The torso was on its back, the severed parts laid out approximately where they
should be. A jigsaw puzzle in flesh and bone, the pieces waiting for
reassembly. Though she did not want to look at it, there it was: the head,
which had tilted onto its left ear, as though the victim was turning to look
sideways.
“I need
to approximate this wound,” said Maura. “Can you help me hold it in
position?” A pause. “Jane?”
Startled, Jane
met Maura’s gaze. “What?”
“Yoshima’s going to take photos, and I need to get a
look through the magnifier.” Maura grasped the cranium in her gloved
hands and rotated the head, trying to match the wound edges. “Here, just
hold it in this position. Pull on some gloves and come around to this
end.”
Jane glanced at
Frost. Better you than me, his eyes said. She moved to the head of the
table. There she paused to snap on gloves, then reached down to cradle the
head. Found herself gazing into the victim’s eyes, the corneas dull as
wax. A day and a half in a refrigerator had chilled the flesh, and as she cupped
the face, she thought of the butcher counter in her local supermarket, with its
icy chickens wrapped in plastic. We are all, in the end, merely meat.
Maura bent over
the wound, studying it through the magnifier. “There seems to be a single
sweep across the anterior. Very sharp blade. The only notching I see is quite a
ways back, under the ears. Minimal bread-knife repetition.”
“A bread
knife’s not exactly sharp,” said Frost, his voice sounding very far
away. Jane looked up and saw that he had retreated from the table and was
standing halfway to the sink, his hand covering his mask.
“By
bread-knifing, I’m not referring to the blade,” said Maura.
“It’s a cutting pattern. Repeated slices going deeper, in the same
plane. What we see here is one very deep initial slice, cutting right through
the thyroid cartilage, down to the spinal column. Then a quick disarticulation,
between the second and third cervical vertebrae. It could have taken less than
a minute to complete this decapitation.”
Yoshima moved in with the digital camera, taking photos of
the approximated wound. Frontal view, lateral. Horror from every angle.
“Okay,
Jane,” said Maura. “Let’s take a look at the incision
plane.” Maura grasped the head and turned it upside down. “Hold it
there for me.”
Jane caught a
glimpse of severed flesh and the open windpipe, and she abruptly averted her
gaze, blindly holding the head in place.
Again, Maura
moved in with the magnifier to examine the cut surface. “I see striations
on the thyroid cartilage. I think the blade was serrated. Get some shots of
this.”
Once again, the
shutter clicked as Yoshima leaned in for more photos.
My hands will be in these shots, thought Jane, this moment preserved
for the evidence files. Her head, my hands.
“You
said… you said that was arterial spray on the wall,” said Frost.
Maura nodded.
“In the bedroom.”
“She was
alive.”
“Yes.”
“And this
—decapitation— took only seconds?”
“With a
sharp knife, a skillful hand, a killer could certainly do it in that time. Only
the vertebral column might slow him down.”
“Then she
knew, didn’t she? She must have felt it.”
“I highly
doubt that.”
“If
someone cuts off your head, you’d be conscious for at least a few
seconds. That’s what I heard on The Art Bell Show. Some doctor was
on the radio with him, talking about what it’s like to be guillotined.
That you’re probably still conscious as your head drops into the bucket.
You can actually feel yourself falling into it.”
“That may
be true, but—”
“The
doctor said that Mary, Queen of Scots was still trying to speak, even after
they cut off her head. Her lips kept moving.”
“Jesus,
Frost,” said Jane. “Like I need to be creeped
out even more?”
“It’s
possible, isn’t it? That this victim felt her head come off?”
“It’s
highly unlikely,” said Maura. “And I’m not saying that just
to ease your mind.” She turned the head sideways on the table.
“Feel the cranium. Right here.”
Frost stared at
her in horror. “No, that’s okay. I don’t need to.”
“Come on.
Pull on a glove and run your fingers over the temporal bone. There’s a
scalp laceration. I didn’t see it until we washed away the blood. Palpate
the skull here and tell me what you feel.”
It was clearly
the last thing Frost wanted to do, but he pulled on a glove and tentatively placed
his fingers on the cranium. “There’s a, uh, dip in the bone.”
“A
depressed skull fracture. You can see it on x-ray.” Maura crossed to the
light box and pointed to the skull table. “On the lateral film, you see
fractures fanning out from that impact point. They radiate like a spiderweb across the temporal bone. In fact, that’s
exactly what we call this type of fracture. A mosaic or spiderweb
pattern. It’s in a particularly critical location, because the middle meningeal artery runs right under here. If you rupture
that, the patient bleeds into the cranial cavity. When we open the skull,
we’ll see if that’s what happened.” She looked at Frost.
“This was a significant blow to the head. I think the victim was
unconscious when the cutting began.”
“But
still alive.”
“Yes. She
was definitely still alive.”
“You
don’t know that she was unconscious.”
“There
are no defense wounds on her limbs. No physical evidence that she fought back.
You don’t just let someone cut your throat without a struggle. I think she
was stunned by that blow. I don’t think she felt the blade.” Maura
paused and added, quietly, “At least, I hope not.” She moved to the
corpse’s right side, grasped the amputated arm, and lifted the incised
end to the magnifier. “We have more tool markings here on the cartilage
surface, where he disarticulated the elbow joint,” she said. “It
looks like the same blade was used here. Very sharp, serrated edge.” She
opposed the unattached arm to the elbow, as though assembling a mannequin, and
eyed the match. There was no expression of horror on her face, only
concentration. She might be studying widgets or ball bearings, not incised
flesh. Not the limb of a woman who’d once lifted that arm to brush back
her hair, to wave, to dance. How did Maura do it? How did she walk into this
building every morning, knowing what waited for her? Day after day, picking up
the scalpel, dissecting the tragedy of lives cut short? I deal with those
tragedies, too. But I don’t have to saw open skulls or thrust my hands
into chests.
Maura circled
to the corpse’s left side. Without hesitation, she picked up the severed
hand. Chilled and drained of blood, it looked like wax, not flesh, like a movie
propmaster’s idea of what a real hand would
look like. Maura swung the magnifier over it and inspected the raw, cut
surface. For a moment she said nothing, but a frown was now etched on her
forehead.
She set down
the hand and lifted the left arm to examine the wrist stump. Her frown
deepened. Again she picked up the hand and opposed the two wounds, trying to
match the incised surfaces, hand to wrist, waxy skin to waxy skin.
Abruptly she
set down the body parts and looked at Yoshima.
“Could you put up the wrist and hand films?”
“You’re
done with all these skull x-rays?”
“I’ll
get back to those later. Right now I want to see the left hand and
wrist.”
Yoshima removed the first set of x-rays and mounted a fresh
set. Against the backlight of the viewing box, hand and finger bones glowed,
the columns of phalanges like slender stalks of bamboo. Maura stripped off her
gloves and approached the light box, her gaze riveted on the images. She said
nothing; it was her silence that told Jane that something was very wrong.
Maura turned
and looked at her. “Have you searched the victim’s entire
house?”
“Yes, of
course.”
“The whole
house? Every closet, every drawer?”
“There
wasn’t a lot there. She’d moved in just a few months before.”
“And the
refrigerator? The freezer?”
“CSU went
through it. Why?”
“Come
look at this x-ray.”
Jane pulled off
her soiled gloves and crossed to the light box to scan the films. She saw
nothing there to account for Maura’s sudden tone of urgency, nothing that
did not correspond with what she saw lying on the table. “What am I
supposed to look at?”
“You see
this view of the hand? These little bones here are called the carpals. They
make up the base of the hand, before the finger bones branch off.” Maura
took Jane’s hand to demonstrate, turning it palm side up, revealing the
scar that would forever remind Jane of what another killer had done to her. A
record of violence, marked in her flesh by Warren Hoyt. But Maura made no
comment on the scar; instead she pointed to the meaty base of Jane’s
palm, near the wrist.
“The
carpal bones are here. On the x-ray, they look like eight little stones.
They’re just small chunks of bone, held together by ligaments and muscles
and connective tissue. These give our hands flexibility, allow us to do a whole
range of amazing tasks, from sculpting to playing the piano.”
“Okay.
So?”
“This one
here, in this proximal row” —Maura pointed to the x-ray, to a bone
near the wrist— “it’s called the scaphoid.
You’ll notice there’s a joint space beneath it, and then on this
film, there’s a distinct chip of another bone. It’s part of the styloid process. When he cut off this hand, he also took
off a fragment of the arm bone.”
“I’m
still not getting the significance.”
“Now look
at the x-ray of the arm stump.” Maura pointed to a different film.
“You see the distal end of the two forearm bones. The thinner bone is the
ulna— the funny bone. And the thick one, on the thumb side, is the
radius. Here’s that styloid process I was
talking about earlier. You see what I’m getting at?”
Jane frowned.
“It’s intact. On this arm x-ray, that bone is all here.”
“That’s
right. Not only is it intact, there’s even a chunk of the next bone still
attached to it. A chip from the scaphoid.”
In that chilly
room, Jane’s face suddenly felt numb. “Oh man,” she said
softly. “This is starting to sound bad.”
“It is
bad.”
Jane turned and
crossed back to the table. She stared down at the severed hand, lying beside
what she had believed —what they had all believed— was the arm it
had once been attached to.
“The cut
surfaces don’t match,” said Maura. “Neither do the
x-rays.”
Frost said,
“You’re telling us this hand doesn’t belong to her?”
“We’ll
need DNA analysis to confirm it. But I think the evidence is right here, on the
light box.” She turned and looked at Jane. “There’s another
victim that you haven’t found yet. And we have her left hand.”
July
15, Wednesday. Phase of the moon: New.
These are the
rituals of the Saul family.
At one P.M.,
Uncle Peter comes home from his half day at the clinic. He changes into jeans
and a T-shirt and heads for his vegetable garden, where a jungle of tomato
plants and cucumber vines weigh down their string trellises.
At two P.M.,
little Teddy comes up the hill from the lake, carrying his fishing pole. But no
catch. I have not yet seen him bring home a single fish.
At two-fifteen,
Lily’s two girlfriends walk up the hill, carrying bathing suits and beach
towels. The taller one —I think her name is Sarah— also brings a
radio. Its strange and thumping music now disturbs the otherwise silent
afternoon. Their towels spread out on the lawn, the three girls bask in the sun
like drowsy felines. Their skin gleams with suntan lotion. Lily sits up and
reaches for her bottle of water. As she lifts it to her lips, she suddenly goes
still, her gaze on my window. She sees me watching her.
It is not the
first time.
Slowly she sets
down the water bottle and says something to her two friends. The other girls
now sit up and look in my direction. For a moment they stare at me, as I am
staring at them. Sarah shuts off the radio. They all rise to their feet, shake
out their towels, and come into the house.
A moment later,
Lily knocks on my door. She doesn’t wait for an answer but walks
uninvited into my room.
“Why do
you watch us?” she says.
“I was
just looking out the window.”
“You’re
looking at us.”
“Because you
happen to be there.”
Her gaze falls
on my desk. Lying open there is the book my mother gave me when I turned ten
years old. Popularly known as the Egyptian Book of the Dead, it is a collection
of ancient coffin texts. All the spells and incantations one needs to navigate
the afterlife. She moves closer to the book, but hesitates to touch it, as
though the pages might burn her fingers.
“Are you
interested in death rituals?” I ask.
“It’s
just superstition.”
“How do
you know unless you’ve tried them?”
“You can
actually read these hieroglyphs?”
“My
mother taught me. But those are just minor spells. Not the really powerful
ones.”
“And what
can a powerful spell do?” She looks at me, her gaze so direct and unflinching
that I wonder if she is more than she seems. If I’ve underestimated her.
“The most
powerful spells,” I tell her, “can bring the dead back to
life.”
“You
mean, like in The Mummy?” She laughs.
I hear more
giggles behind me and turn to see her two friends standing in the doorway.
They’ve been eavesdropping, and they look at me with disdain. I am
clearly the weirdest boy they have ever met. They have no idea how different I
really am.
Lily closes the
Book of the Dead. “Let’s go swimming, girls,” she says, and
walks out of the room, trailing the sweet scent of her suntan lotion.
Through my
window, I watch them head down the hill, toward the lake. The house is now
quiet.
I go into
Lily’s room. From her hairbrush, I pull off long brown strands of hair and
slip them into my pocket. I uncap the lotions and creams on her dresser and
sniff them; each scent brings with it the flash of a memory: Lily at the
breakfast table. Lily sitting beside me in the car. I open her drawers, her
closet, and touch her clothes. Clothes that any American teenager might wear.
She’s just a girl after all, nothing more. But she needs watching.
It’s what
I do best.
Lily Saul bolted
awake, straight from a deep sleep, and lay gasping among twisted bedsheets. The amber light of late afternoon glowed through
the crack between the partially closed wooden shutters. In the gloom above her
bed, a fly buzzed, circling in anticipation of a taste of her damp flesh. Her
fear. She sat up on the thin mattress, shoved back tangled hair, and massaged
her head as her heartbeat gradually slowed. Sweat trickled from her armpits,
soaking into her T-shirt. She had managed to sleep through the worst heat of
the afternoon, but the room still felt suffocating, the air thick enough to
smother her. I can’t keep living this way forever, she thought, or
I’ll go insane.
Maybe I’m
already insane.
She rose from
the bed and crossed to the window. Even the ceramic tiles beneath her feet
radiated heat. Throwing open the shutters, she gazed across the tiny piazza, at
buildings baking like stone ovens in the sun. A golden haze leafed domes and
rooftops in umber. The summer heat had driven the sensible locals of Siena
indoors; only the tourists would be out now, wandering wide-eyed through narrow
alleys, huffing and sweating their way up the steep incline to the basilica or
posing for photographs on the Piazza del Campo, their shoe soles melting and
tacky on the scorching brickwork: all the usual tourist things that she herself
had done when she’d first arrived in Siena, before she’d settled
into the rhythms of the natives, before the heat of August had closed in on
this medieval city.
Below her
window, on the piazzetta, not a soul moved. But as
she was turning away, she spied a twitch of motion in the shadow of a doorway.
She went very still, her gaze fixed on the spot. I can’t see him. Can
he see me? Then the inhabitant sheltering in that doorway emerged from its
hiding place, trotted across the piazzetta, and
vanished.
Only a dog.
With a laugh,
she turned from the window. Not every shadow hid a monster. But some did.
Some shadows follow you, threaten you, wherever you go.
In her tiny
bathroom she splashed lukewarm water on her face, pulled back her dark hair in
a ponytail. She did not waste time with makeup; over the past year, she had
shed any habits that slowed her down. She lived out of one small suitcase plus
a backpack, owned only two pairs of shoes, her sandals and sneakers. Jeans and
T-shirts and sweaters took her from the heat of summer to the sleet of winter.
When you got right down to it, survival was all a matter of layering, whether
it was with clothes or emotional defenses. Keep out the elements, ward off
attachments.
Stay safe.
She grabbed her
backpack and stepped out of the room into the gloomy hallway. There she paused,
as she always did, and inserted a torn bit of cardboard matchstick into the
lower jamb as she closed the door and locked it. Not that the ancient lock
would keep anyone out. Like the building, it was probably centuries old.
Bracing herself
for the heat, she walked outside, into the piazzetta.
She paused, scanning the deserted space. It was still too early for most locals
to be out and about, but in another hour or so, they would stir from their
meal-induced naps and start back to their shops, their offices. Lily still had
some time to herself before Giorgio expected her back at work. It was a chance
to walk and clear away the cobwebs, to visit her favorite haunts in her
favorite city. She had been in
I have stayed
here too long already.
She walked through
the piazzetta and headed up the narrow alley leading
to Via di Fontebranda. Her
route took her toward the town’s ancient fountain house, past buildings
that once housed medieval craftsmen and later slaughterhouses. The Fontebranda was a
Moving up the
hill now, her sturdy sandals slapping against griddle-hot stones, she walked
past the Sanctuary and House of Saint Catherine, the patron saint of Siena, who
had survived for long periods on no other food but the Blessed Sacrament. Saint
Catherine had experienced vivid visions of Hell and Purgatory and Heaven, and
had lusted for the glory and divine agony of martyrdom. After a long and
uncomfortable illness, all she’d managed was a disappointingly ordinary
death. As Lily labored up the hill, she thought: I have seen visions of
Hell, too. But I want no part of martyrdom. I want to live. I’ll do
anything to live.
By the time she
climbed to the Basilica di San Domenico,
her T-shirt was soaked with sweat. She stood panting at the top of the hill,
gazing down upon the city, its tiled roofs blurred to soft focus in the summery
haze. It was a view that made her heart ache, because she knew she would have
to leave it. Already she’d lingered in Siena longer than she should have,
and she could now feel the evil catching up to her, could almost smell its
faint, foul odor wafting in on the wind. All around her, doughy-thighed tourists swarmed the hilltop, but she stood in
silent isolation, a ghost among the living. Already dead, she thought. For
me, this is borrowed time.
“Excuse
me, Miss? Do you speak English?”
Startled, Lily
turned to see a middle-aged man and woman wearing matching U Penn T-shirts and
baggy shorts. The man was clutching a complicated-looking camera.
“Do you
want me to take your picture?” Lily asked.
“That’d
be great! Thanks.”
Lily took the
camera. “Is there a trick to this one?”
“No, just
press the button.”
The couple
linked arms and posed with the view of
“You’re
American, aren’t you?” said the woman as Lily handed back the
camera. “So where are you from?” It was merely a friendly question,
something countless tourists asked each other, a way to connect with fellow
travelers far from home. Instantly it put Lily on guard. Their curiosity is
almost certainly innocent. But I don’t know these people. I can’t be
certain.
“
“Really?
Our son lives there! Which city?”
“
“Now,
isn’t it a small world? He lives on
“No.”
Already Lily was backing away, retreating from these overbearing people who
would probably next insist that she join them for coffee, and ask her ever more
questions, probing for details she had no intention of sharing. “Have a
nice visit!”
“Say,
would you like to—”
“I have
to meet someone.” She gave a wave and fled. The doors of the basilica
loomed ahead, offering sanctuary. She stepped inside, into cool silence, and
breathed a sigh of relief. The church was nearly empty; only a few tourists
wandered the vast space, and their voices were blessedly hushed. She walked
toward the Gothic arch, where the sun glowed through stained glass in chips of
jeweled light, past the tombs of Sienese nobles that
lined both walls. Turning into a chapel niche, she stopped before the gilded
marble altar and stared at the tabernacle containing the preserved head of
Saint Catherine of
The
saint’s leathery eye sockets gazed back from behind glass. This is
what death looks like. But you already know, don’t you, Lily Saul?
Shivering, Lily
left the chapel niche and hurried through the echoing church, back toward the
exit. Outside again, she was almost grateful for the heat. But not for the
tourists. So many strangers with cameras. Any one of them might be furtively
snapping her photo.
She left the
basilica and started back downhill, through the Piazza Salimbeni,
past the Palazzo Tolomei. The tangle of narrow
streets easily befuddled tourists, but Lily knew the way through the maze, and
she walked quickly, purposefully, toward her destination. She was late now, because
she’d lingered too long on the hill, and Giorgio would surely scold her.
Not that the prospect offered any sort of terror, for Giorgio’s
grumblings never resulted in consequences of any significance.
So when she
arrived at work fifteen minutes late, she did not feel even a hint of
trepidation. The little bell tinkled on the door, announcing her entrance as
she stepped into the shop, and she inhaled the familiar scents of dusty books
and camphor and cigarette smoke. Giorgio and his son, Paolo, were hunched over
a desk near the back of the shop, both of them wearing magnifying loupes around
their heads. When Paolo looked up, one enormous eye stared like a cyclops at Lily.
“You must
see this!” he called out to her in Italian. “It just arrived. Sent
by a collector from
They were so
excited, they hadn’t even noticed she was late. She set her backpack down
behind her desk and squeezed her way past the antique table and the oak
monastery bench. Past the Roman sarcophagus, which now served ignominiously as
a temporary container for file storage. She stepped over an open crate that had
spilled wooden packing shavings onto the floor, and frowned at the object on
Giorgio’s desk. It was a block of carved marble, perhaps part of an
edifice. She noticed the patina on two adjoining surfaces, a soft gleam left by
centuries of exposure to wind and rain and sun. It was a cornerstone.
Young Paolo
pulled off his loupe, and his dark hair stood up. Grinning at her with those
earlike tufts of hair, he looked like one of the legendary Sienese
werewolves, albeit a perfectly harmless and utterly charming one. Like his
father, Paolo possessed not a single ounce of cruelty, and were it not for the
fact that she would inevitably be forced to break his heart, Lily would happily
have taken him as a lover.
“I think
you will like this piece,” he said, and offered her his magnifier.
“It is just the sort of thing you’re always interested in.”
She bent over
the cornerstone and studied the manlike figure carved there. It was standing upright,
with a skirt around its waist and decorative bracelets and anklets. But the
head was not human. She slid the magnifier over her head and leaned in closer.
As the details came alive through the lens, she felt a sudden chill. She saw
jutting canine teeth and fingers tipped with claws. And horns.
She
straightened, her throat dry, her voice oddly distant. “You said the
collector is from
Giorgio nodded
and took off his loupe, revealing an older, plumper version of Paolo. The same dark
eyes, but webbed with laugh lines. “This man is new to us. So we’re
not sure of the provenance. Whether to trust him.”
“How did
he happen to send us this piece?”
Giorgio
shrugged. “It arrived in the crate today. That’s all I know.”
“He wants
you to sell it for him?”
“He asked
only for an appraisal. What do you think?”
She rubbed a
finger across the patina. Felt the chill again, seeping from the stone to her
flesh. “Where does he say it comes from?”
Giorgio reached
for a bundle of papers. “He says he acquired it eight years ago, in
“Persian,”
she murmured. “This is Ahriman.”
“What is Ahriman?” asked Paolo.
“Not a
what, a who. In ancient
Giorgio gave a
laugh and rubbed his hands in glee. “You see, Paolo? I told you
she’d know. Devils, demons, she knows them all. Every time, she has the
answer.”
“Why?”
Paolo looked at her. “I never understood why you’re so interested
in evil things.”
How could she
answer that question? How could she tell him that she’d once looked the
Beast in the eye, and It had looked right back at her? Had seen her? It’s
been pursuing me ever since.
“So it is
authentic?” asked Giorgio. “This cornerstone?”
“Yes, I
believe it is.”
“Then I
should write him at once, eh? Our new friend in Tel Aviv. Tell him he has sent
it to the right dealer, one who understands its value.” With great care,
he set the stone back into its packing crate. “For something this
special, we will certainly find a buyer.”
Who would want
that monstrosity in their home? Lily thought. Who’d want to have evil
staring at you from your own wall?
“Ah, I
almost forgot,” said Giorgio. “Did you know you have an
admirer?”
Lily frowned at
him. “What?”
“A man,
he came to the shop at lunchtime. He asked if an American woman worked for
me.”
She went very
still. “What did you tell him?”
Paolo said,
“I stopped Father from saying anything. We could get into trouble, since
you have no permit.”
“But now
I’ve been thinking about it some more,” said Giorgio. “And I
think maybe the man’s just sweet on you. And that’s why he
inquired.” Giorgio winked.
She swallowed.
“Did he say his name?”
Giorgio gave
his son a playful slap on the arm. “You see?” he scolded.
“You move too slowly, boy. Now another man will come and swoop her away
from us.”
“What was
his name?” Lily asked again, her voice sharper. But neither father nor
son seemed to register the change in her demeanor. They were too busy teasing
each other.
“He
didn’t leave one,” said Giorgio. “I think he wants to play
the incognito game, eh? Make you guess.”
“Was he a
young man? What did he look like?”
“Oh. So
you’re interested.”
“Was
there anything” —she paused— “unusual about him?”
“What do
you mean, unusual?”
Not human was what she
wanted to say.
“He had
very blue eyes,” offered Paolo brightly. “Strange eyes. Bright,
like an angel’s.”
Quite the
opposite of an angel.
She turned and
immediately crossed to the window, where she peered out through dusty glass at
passersby. He’s here, she thought. He’s found me in
“He’ll
come back, cara mia.
Just be patient,” said Giorgio.
And when he
does, I can’t be here.
She snatched up
her backpack. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not
feeling well.”
“What’s
the matter?”
“I think
I shouldn’t have eaten that fish last night. It’s not agreeing with
me. I need to go home.”
“Paolo
will walk you there.”
“No!
No.” She yanked open the door, setting off a violent jangle of the bell.
“I’ll be fine.” She fled the shop and did not glance back,
for fear that Paolo would try to run after her, would insist on playing the
gentleman and escort. She couldn’t afford to let him slow her down. Haste
was everything now.
She took a
circuitous route back to her flat, avoiding crowded piazzas and major streets.
Instead she cut through tiny alleys, scrambled up narrow steps between medieval
walls, steadily circling toward the Fontebranda neighborhood.
It would take her only five minutes to pack. She had learned to be mobile, to
move at an instant’s notice, and all she had to do was toss her clothes
and toilet case into the suitcase and grab the stash of Euros from its hiding
place behind the dresser. These past three months, Giorgio had paid her under
the table in cash, knowing full well that she had no work permit. She’d
collected a nice nest egg to tide her over between jobs, enough to last her
till she settled into a new town. She should grab the cash and suitcase and
just go. Straight to the bus station.
No. No, on
second thought, that’s where he’d expect her to go. A taxi would be
better. Costly, yes, but if she used it only to get out of town, maybe as far
as San Gimignano, she could catch a train to
Florence. There, among the teeming crowds, she could disappear.
She did not
enter her building through the piazzetta; instead,
she approached through the shadowy side street, past rubbish cans and locked
bicycles, and climbed the back stairs. Music was blaring in one of the other
flats, spilling out an open doorway into the hall. It was that sullen teenager
next door. Tito and his damn radio. She caught a glimpse of the boy, slouched
like a zombie on the couch. She continued past his flat, toward hers. She was
just taking out her keys when she spotted the torn matchstick and froze.
It was no
longer wedged in the doorjamb; it had fallen to the floor.
Her heart
pounded as she backed away. As she retreated past Tito’s doorway, the boy
looked up from the couch and waved. Of all the inconvenient times for him to
start being friendly. Don’t say a word to me, she silently
pleaded. Don’t you dare say a word.
“You’re
not at work today?” he called out in Italian.
She turned and
ran down the stairs. Almost tripped over the bicycles as she fled into the
alley. I’m too fucking late, she thought as she hurtled around the
corner and scrambled up a short flight of steps. Ducking into an overgrown
garden, she crouched behind a crumbling wall and froze there, scarcely daring
to breathe. Five minutes, ten. She heard no footsteps, no sounds of pursuit.
Maybe the
matchstick fell by itself. Maybe I can still get my suitcase. My money.
Risking a
glance over the wall, she stared up the alley. No one.
Do I chance it?
Do I dare?
She slipped
into the alley again. Made her way down a series of narrow streets until she
reached the outskirts of the piazzetta. But she did
not step into the open; instead she edged toward the corner of a building and
peered up at the window of her own flat. The wooden shutters were open, as
she’d left them. Through the gathering twilight, she saw something move
in that window. A silhouette, just for a second, framed by the shutters.
She jerked back
behind the building. Shit. Shit.
She unzipped her
backpack and rifled through her wallet. Forty-eight Euros. Enough for a few
meals and a bus ticket. Maybe enough for a cab ride to San Gimignano,
but not much more. She had an ATM card, but she dared not use it except in
large cities, where she could easily slip straight into a crowd. The last time
she’d used it was in
Not here, she thought. Not
in
She left the piazzetta and headed deep into the back alleys of the Fontebranda. Here was the neighborhood she knew best; here
she could elude anyone. She found her way to a tiny coffee bar that she’d
discovered weeks ago, frequented only by locals. Inside, it was gloomy as a
cave and thick with cigarette smoke. She settled at a corner table, ordered a
cheese and tomato sandwich and an espresso. Then, as the evening passed,
another espresso. And another. Tonight, she would not be sleeping. She could
walk to
She devoured
her sandwich, swept every last crumb into her mouth. No telling when
she’d eat again. By the time she stepped out of the coffee bar, night had
fallen and she could move through dark streets with little fear of being
recognized. There was one other option. It was risky, but it would save her
from a twenty-five-mile hike.
And Giorgio
would do it for her. He would drive her to
She walked and
walked, giving the busy Campo a wide berth, sticking to the side streets. By
the time she reached Giorgio’s residence, her calves were aching, her
feet sore from the uneven cobblestones. She paused in the cover of darkness,
gazing at the window. Giorgio’s wife had died years ago, and father and
son now shared the flat. The lights were on inside, but she saw no movement on
the first floor.
She was not
foolhardy enough to knock at the front door. Instead she circled around to the
small garden in back, let herself in through the gate, and brushed past
fragrant thyme and lavender to knock at the kitchen door.
No one
answered.
She strained to
hear if the TV was on, thinking that perhaps they couldn’t hear her, but
she heard only the muted sounds of traffic from the street.
She tried the
knob; the door swung open.
One look was
all it took. One glimpse of blood, of splayed arms and ruined faces. Of Giorgio
and Paolo, tangled together in a last embrace.
She backed
away, hand clapped to her mouth, her vision blurred in a wash of tears. My
fault. This is all my fault. They were killed because of me.
Stumbling
backward through lavender, she collided with the wooden gate. The jolt snapped
her back to her senses.
Go. Run.
She scrambled
out of the garden, not bothering to latch the gate behind her, and fled down
the street, her sandals slapping against the cobblestones.
She did not
slow her pace until she reached the outskirts of
“Are we
absolutely certain there is a second victim?” asked Lieutenant
Marquette. “We don’t have DNA confirmation yet.”
“But we
do have two different blood types,” said Jane. “The amputated hand
belonged to someone with O positive blood. Lori-Ann Tucker is A positive. So
Dr. Isles was absolutely correct.”
There was a
long silence in the conference room.
Dr. Zucker said softly, “This is getting very
interesting.”
Jane looked
across the table at him. Forensic psychologist Dr. Lawrence Zucker’s
intent stare had always made her uncomfortable. He looked at her now as though
she were the sole focus of his curiosity, and she could almost feel his gaze
tunneling into her brain. They had worked together during the Surgeon
investigation two and a half years ago, and Zucker
knew just how haunted she’d been in the aftermath. He knew about her
nightmares, her panic attacks. He’d seen the way she used to rub
incessantly at the scars on her palms, as though to massage away the memories.
Since then, the nightmares of Warren Hoyt had faded. But when Zucker looked at her this way, she felt exposed, because he
knew just how vulnerable she’d once been. And she resented him for it.
She broke off
her gaze and focused instead on the other two detectives, Barry Frost and Eve Kassovitz. Adding Kassovitz to
the team had been a mistake. The woman’s very public barfing into the
snow bank was now common knowledge in the unit, and Jane could have predicted
the practical jokes that followed. The day after Christmas, a giant plastic
bucket, labeled with Kassovitz’s name, had
mysteriously appeared on the unit’s reception desk. The woman should have
just laughed it off, or maybe gotten pissed about it. Instead she looked as
beaten down as a clubbed seal, and she sat slumped in her chair, too
demoralized to say much. No way was Kassovitz going
to survive this boys’ club if she didn’t learn to punch back.
“So we
have a killer who not only dismembers his victims,” said Zucker, “but he also transfers body parts between his
crime scenes. Do you have a photo of the hand?”
“We have
lots of photos,” said Jane. She passed the autopsy file to Zucker. “By its appearance, we’re pretty sure
the hand is a female’s.”
The images were
gruesome enough to turn anyone’s stomach, but Zucker’s
face betrayed no shock, no disgust, as he flipped through them. Only keen
curiosity. Or was that eagerness she saw in his eyes? Did he enjoy the view of
atrocities visited on a young woman’s body?
He paused over
the photo of the hand. “No nail polish, but the fingers definitely look
manicured. Yes, I agree it looks like a woman’s.” He glanced at
Jane, his pale eyes peering at her over wire-rim glasses. “What do you
have back on these fingerprints?”
“The
owner of that hand has no criminal record. No military service. Nothing in
NCIC.”
“She’s
not in any database?”
“Not her
fingerprints, anyway.”
“And this
hand isn’t medical waste? A hospital amputation, maybe?”
Frost said,
“I checked with every medical center in the greater
“This
hand was not dug up out of hospital waste,” said Jane. “And it
wasn’t mangled. It was sliced off with a very sharp, serrated blade.
Also, it wasn’t done with any particular surgical skill. The tip of the
radius was sheared off, with no apparent attempt at controlling blood loss. No
tied-off vessels, no dissection of skin layers. Just a clean cut.”
“Do we
have any missing persons it might match?”
“Not in
“It could
have been frozen,” said
“No,”
said Jane. “There’s no cellular damage under the microscope.
That’s what Dr. Isles said. When you freeze tissue, the expansion of
water ruptures cells, and she didn’t find that. The hand may have been
refrigerated, or packed in ice water, like they do to transport harvested
organs. But it wasn’t frozen. So we think the owner of that hand was
probably killed no more than a few days ago.”
“If she
was killed,” said Zucker.
They all stared
at him. The terrible implication of his words made them all pause.
“You
think she could still be alive?” said Frost.
“Amputations
in and of themselves aren’t fatal.”
“Oh,
man,” said Frost. “Cut off her hand without killing
her…”
Zucker flipped through the rest of the autopsy photos,
pausing over each one with the concentration of a jeweler peering through his
loupe. At last he set them down. “There are two possible reasons why a
killer would cut up a body. The first is purely practical. He needs to dispose
of it. These are killers who are self-aware and goal-directed. They understand
the need to dispose of forensic evidence and hide their crimes.”
“Organized
killers,” said Frost.
“If
dismemberment is followed by the scattering or concealment of body parts, that
would imply planning. A cognitive killer.”
“These
parts weren’t in any way concealed,” said Jane. “They were
left around the house, in places where he knew they’d be found.”
She handed another stack of photos to Zucker.
“Those are from the crime scene.”
He opened the
folder and paused, staring at the first image. “This gets even more
interesting,” he murmured.
He looks at a
severed hand on a dinner plate, and that’s the word that comes to mind?
“Who set
the table?” He looked up at her. “Who laid out the dishes, the
silverware, the wineglasses?”
“We
believe the perp did.”
“Why?”
“Who the
hell knows why?”
“I mean,
why do you assume he was the one who did it?”
“Because
there was a smear of blood under one of the plates, where he handled it.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Unfortunately,
no. He wore gloves.”
“Evidence
of advance planning. Forethought.” Zucker
directed his gaze, once again, at the photo. “This is a setting for four.
Is that significant?”
“Your
guess is as good as ours. There were eight plates in the cabinet, so he could
have put down more. But he chose to use only four.”
Lieutenant
Marquette asked, “What do you think we’re dealing with here, Dr. Zucker?”
The
psychologist didn’t answer. He paged slowly through the photos, pausing
at the image of the severed arm in the bathtub. Then he flipped to the photo of
the kitchen, and he stopped. There was a very long silence as he stared at the
melted candles, at the circle drawn on the floor. At what sat at the center of
that circle.
“It
looked like some kind of a weird ritual setup to us,” said Frost.
“The chalk circle, the burned candles.”
“This
certainly appears ritualistic.” Zucker looked
up, and the glitter in his eyes made a chill wash up the back of Jane’s
neck. “Did the perp draw this circle?”
Jane hesitated,
startled by his question. “You mean— as opposed to the
victim?”
“I’m
not making any assumptions here. I hope you don’t either. What makes you
so certain the victim didn’t draw this circle? That she didn’t
start off as a willing participant in the ritual?”
Jane felt like
laughing. Yeah, I’d volunteer to get my head cut off, too. She
said, “It had to be the killer who drew that circle and lit those
candles. Because we found no pieces of chalk in the house. After he used it to
draw on that kitchen floor, he took it with him.”
Zucker leaned back in his chair, thinking. “So this
killer dismembers, but doesn’t conceal the body parts. He doesn’t
disfigure the face. He leaves little in the way of forensic evidence,
indicating an awareness of law enforcement. Yet he hands us—so to speak—the
biggest clue of all: the body part of another victim.” He paused.
“Was there semen left behind?”
“None was
detected in the victim’s body.”
“And the
crime scene?”
“CSU went
all over that house with UV. The CrimeScope picked up
hairs too numerous to count, but no semen.”
“Again,
characteristic of cognitive behavior. He leaves no evidence of sexual activity.
If he is indeed a sexual killer, then he’s controlled enough to wait
until it’s safe to enjoy his release.”
“And if
he’s not a sexual killer?” asked
“Then
I’m not entirely sure what all of this represents,” said Zucker. “But the dismemberment, the display of body
parts. The candles, the chalk circle.” He looked around the table.
“I’m sure we’re all thinking the same thing. Satanic rituals.”
“It was
Christmas Eve,” added
“And our
killer isn’t there to honor the Prince of Peace,” said Zucker. “No, he’s trying to summon the Prince
of Darkness.”
“There’s
one other photo you should look at,” said Jane, pointing to the stack of
images that Zucker hadn’t yet seen.
“There was some writing, left on the wall. Drawn in the victim’s
blood.”
Zucker found the photo. “Three upside-down
crosses,” he said. “These could well have satanic meanings. But
what are these symbols beneath the crosses?”
“It’s
a word.”
“I
don’t see it.”
“It’s
a reverse image. You can read it if you hold it up to a mirror.”
Zucker’s eyebrow lifted. “You do know, don’t
you, the significance of mirror writing?”
“No.
What’s the significance?”
“When the
Devil makes a deal to buy your soul, the pact is drawn up and signed in mirror
writing.” He frowned at the word. “So what does it say?”
“Peccavi. It’s Latin. It means: ‘I
have sinned.’”
“A
confession?” suggested
“Or a
boast,” said Zucker. “Announcing to
Satan, ‘I’ve done your bidding, Master.’” He gazed at
all the photos laid out on the table. “I would love to get this killer
into an interview room. There’s so much symbolism here. Why did he
arrange the body parts in just this way? What’s the meaning of the hand
on the plate? The four place settings on the dining table?”
“The Four
Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” Detective Kassovitz
said softly. It was one of the few times she’d spoken during the meeting.
“Why do
you suggest that?” asked Zucker.
“We’re
talking about Satan. About sin.” Kassovitz
cleared her throat, seemed to gain her voice as she sat straighter.
“These are biblical themes.”
“The four
place settings could also mean he has three invisible friends who are joining
him for a midnight snack,” said Jane.
“You
don’t buy into the biblical theme?” said Zucker.
“I know
it looks like Satanism,” said Jane. “I mean, we’ve got
it all here— the circle and the candles. The mirror writing, the upside
down crosses. It’s like we’re supposed to come to that conclusion.”
“You
think it was merely staged this way?”
“Maybe to
hide the real reason Lori-Ann Tucker was killed.”
“What
motives would there be? Did she have romantic problems?”
“She’s
divorced, but her ex-husband lives in
“She had
a job?”
Eve Kassovitz said, “I interviewed her supervisor over at
the
Zucker asked, “Are we absolutely sure about
that?” He directed his question at Jane, not Kassovitz,
a snub that made Kassovitz flush. It was yet another
blow to her already battered self-esteem.
“Detective
Kassovitz just told you what we know,” said
Jane, backing up her teammate.
“Okay,”
said Zucker. “Then why was this woman killed?
Why stage it to look like Satanism, if it really isn’t?”
“To make
it interesting. To draw attention.”
Zucker laughed. “As if it wouldn’t already
draw our attention?”
“Not
ours. The attention of someone who’s much more important to this perp.”
“You’re
talking about Dr. O’Donnell, aren’t you?”
“We know
the killer called O’Donnell, but she claims she wasn’t home.”
“You
don’t believe her?”
“We
can’t confirm it, since she erased any phone message. She said it was a
hang-up call.”
“What
makes you think that’s not the truth?”
“You know
who she is, don’t you?”
He regarded her
for a moment. “I know you two have had conflicts. That her friendship
with Warren Hoyt bothers you.”
“This
isn’t about me and O’Donnell—”
“But it
is. She maintains a friendship with the man who almost killed you, the man
whose most deeply held fantasy is to complete that job.”
Jane leaned
forward, every muscle suddenly taut. “Don’t go there, Dr. Zucker,” she said quietly.
He stared at
her, and something he saw in her eyes made him slowly lean back in retreat.
“You consider O’Donnell a suspect?” he said.
“I
don’t trust her. She’s a gunslinger for the bad guys. Pay her
enough to testify, and she’ll walk into court and defend just about any
killer. She’ll claim he’s neurologically damaged and not
responsible for his actions. That he belongs in a hospital, not a jail.”
“Look,
even if we loved her,” said Jane, “we’re still left
with unanswered questions. Why did the killer call her from the crime scene?
Why wasn’t she at home? Why won’t she tell us where she was?”
“Because
she knows you’re already hostile.”
She has no idea
how hostile I can get.
“Detective
Rizzoli, are you implying that Dr. O’Donnell had something to do with
this crime?”
“No. But
she’s not above exploiting it. Feeding off it. Whether she meant to or
not, she inspired it.”
“How?”
“You know
how a pet cat will sometimes kill a mouse and bring it home to its master as
sort of an offering? A token of affection?”
“You
think our killer is trying to impress O’Donnell.”
“That’s
why he called her. That’s why he set up this elaborate death scene, to
pique her interest. Then, to make sure his work gets noticed, he calls
nine-one-one. And a few hours later, while we’re standing in the kitchen,
he calls the victim’s house from a pay phone, just to make sure
we’re there. This perp is reeling us all in.
Law enforcement. And O’Donnell.”
“She
didn’t seem too impressed.”
“What
does it take to scare that woman?”
“Maybe
when he sends her that little token of affection. The equivalent of a dead
mouse.” Jane paused. “Let’s not forget. Lori-Ann
Tucker’s hand is still missing.”
Jane could not
stop thinking about that hand as she stood in her kitchen, slicing cold chicken
for a late-night snack. She carried it to the table, where her usually
impeccably groomed husband was sitting with his sleeves rolled up, baby drool
on his collar. Was there anything sexier than a man patiently burping his
daughter?
Then she looked
down at the sliced chicken and she thought of what had rested on another dinner
plate, on another woman’s dining table. She pushed the plate aside.
We are just
meat. Like chicken. Like beef.
“I
thought you were hungry,” said Gabriel.
“I guess
I changed my mind. It suddenly doesn’t look so appetizing.”
“It’s
the case, isn’t it?”
“I wish I
could stop thinking about it.”
“I saw
the files you brought home tonight. Couldn’t help looking through them.
I’d be preoccupied, too.”
Jane shook her
head. “You’re supposed to be on vacation. What are you doing,
checking out autopsy photos?”
“They
were lying right there on the counter.” He set
She glanced at
“She
can’t understand us. So talk to me.”
Jane got up and
went to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Adam’s Ale, and popped off
the top.
“Jane?”
“You
really want to hear the details?”
“I want
to know what’s bothering you so much.”
“You saw
the photos. You know what’s bothering me.” She sat down again and
took a gulp of beer. “Sometimes,” she said quietly, looking down at
the sweating bottle, “I think it’s crazy to have children. You love
them, raise them. Then you watch them walk into a world where they just get
hurt. Where they meet up with people like…” Like Warren Hoyt
was what she was thinking, but she didn’t say his name; she almost never
said his name. It was as if saying it aloud was to summon the Devil himself.
The sudden buzz
of the intercom made her snap straight. She looked up at the wall clock.
“It’s ten-thirty.”
“Let me
see who it is.” Gabriel walked into the living room and pressed the intercom
button. “Yes?”
An unexpected
voice responded over the speaker. “It’s me,” said
Jane’s mother.
“Come on
up, Mrs. Rizzoli,” said Gabriel, and buzzed her in. He shot a surprised
look at Jane.
“It’s
so late. What’s she doing here?”
“I’m
almost afraid to ask.”
They heard
Angela’s footsteps on the stairs, slower and more ponderous than usual,
accompanied by an intermittent thumping, as though she were hauling something
behind her. Only when she reached the second-floor landing did they see what it
was.
A suitcase.
“Mom?”
said Jane, but even as she said it, she could not quite believe that this woman
with the wild hair and even wilder eyes was her mother. Angela’s coat was
unbuttoned, the flap of her collar was turned under, and her slacks were soaked
to the knees, as though she’d trudged through a snow bank to reach their
building. She gripped the suitcase with both hands and looked ready to fling it
at someone. Anyone.
She looked
dangerous.
“I need
to stay with you tonight,” said Angela.
“What?”
“Well, can
I come in or not?”
“Of
course, Mom.”
“Here,
let me get that for you, Mrs. Rizzoli,” Gabriel said, taking the
suitcase.
“You
see?” said Angela, pointing to Gabriel. “That’s how a
man’s supposed to behave! He sees that a woman needs help, and he steps
right up to the plate. That’s what a gentleman’s supposed to
do.”
“Mom,
what happened?”
“What
happened? What happened? I don’t know where to begin!”
At once, Angela
scurried into the kitchen and lifted her granddaughter from the infant seat.
“Oh baby, poor little girl! You have no idea what you’re in for
when you grow up.” She sat down at the table and rocked the baby, hugging
her so tightly that
“Okay,
Mom,” sighed Jane. “What did Dad do?”
“You
won’t hear it from me.”
“Then who
am I going to hear it from?”
“I
won’t poison my children against their father. It’s not right for
parents to bad-mouth each other.”
“I’m
not a kid anymore. I need to know what’s going on.”
But Angela did
not offer an explanation. She continued to rock back and forth, hugging the
baby.
“Um…
how long do you think you’ll be with us, Mom?”
“I
don’t know.”
Jane looked up
at Gabriel, who’d been wise enough so far to stay out of the
conversation. She saw the same flash of panic in his eyes.
“I might
need to find a new place to live,” said Angela. “My own
apartment.”
“Wait,
Mom. You’re not saying you’re never going back.”
“That’s
exactly what I’m saying. I’m going to make a new life,
Janie.” She looked at her daughter, her chin jutting up in defiance.
“Other women do it. They leave their husbands and they do just fine. We
don’t need them. We can survive all by ourselves.”
“Mom, you
don’t have a job.”
“What do
you think I’ve been doing for the past thirty-seven years? Cooking and
cleaning for that man? You think he ever appreciated it? Just comes home
and gulps down what I put in front of him. Doesn’t taste the care that
goes into it. You know how many people have told me I should open up a
restaurant?”
Actually, thought Jane, it’d
be a great restaurant. But she wasn’t about to say anything to
encourage this insanity.
“So
don’t ever say to me, You don’t have a job. My job was to
take care of that man, and I’ve got nothing to show for it. I might as
well do the same work and get paid.” She hugged
“All
right, Mom.” Jane sighed and crossed to the telephone. “If you
won’t tell me what’s going on, maybe Dad will.”
“What are
you doing?”
“Calling
him. I bet he’s all ready to apologize.” I bet he’s hungry
and wants his personal chef back. She picked up the receiver and dialed.
“Don’t
even bother,” said Angela.
The phone rang
once, twice.
“I’m
telling you, he won’t answer. He’s not even there.”
“Well,
where is he?” asked Jane.
“He’s
at her house.”
Jane froze as
the phone in her parents’ home rang and rang unanswered. Slowly she hung
up and turned to face her mother. “Whose house?”
“Hers.
The slut’s.”
“Jesus,
Ma.”
“Jesus
has nothing to do with it.” Angela took in a sudden gulp of air and her
throat clamped down on a sob. She rocked forward,
“Dad’s
seeing another woman?”
Wordlessly,
Angela nodded. Lifted her hand up to wipe her face.
“Who?
Who’s he seeing?” Jane sat down to look her mother in the eye.
“Mom, who is she?”
“At
work…” Angela whispered.
“But he
works with a bunch of old guys.”
“She’s
new. She— she’s”— Angela’s voice suddenly
broke— “younger.”
The phone rang.
Angela’s
head shot up. “I won’t talk to him. You tell him that.”
Jane glanced at
the number on the digital readout, but she didn’t recognize it. Maybe it
was her dad calling. Maybe he was calling from her phone. The
slut’s.
“Detective
Rizzoli,” she snapped.
A pause, then,
“Having a rough night, are you?”
And getting
worse, she thought, recognizing the voice of Detective Darren Crowe.
“What’s
up?” she asked.
“Bad
things. We’re up on
“Isn’t
this your night?”
“This one
belongs to all of us, Rizzoli.” Crowe sounded grimmer than she’d
ever heard him, without a trace of his usual sarcasm. He said, quietly,
“It’s one of ours.”
One of ours. A cop.
“Who is
it?” she asked.
“It’s
Eve Kassovitz.”
Jane
couldn’t speak. She stood with her fingers growing numb around the
telephone, thinking, I saw her only a few hours ago.
“Rizzoli?”
She cleared her
throat. “Give me the address.”
When she hung
up, she found that Gabriel had taken
Angela gave a
demoralized shrug. “Of course. You go.”
“We’ll
talk when I get back.” She bent to kiss her mom’s cheek and saw up
close Angela’s sagging skin, her drooping eyes. When did my mother get
so old?
She buckled on
her weapon and pulled her coat out of the closet. As she buttoned up, she heard
Gabriel say, “This is pretty bad timing.”
She turned to
look at him. What happens when I get old, like my mom? Will you leave me for
a younger woman, too? “I could be gone awhile,” she said.
“Don’t wait up.”
Maura stepped
out of her Lexus and her boots crunched on rime-glazed pavement, cracking
through ice as brittle as glass. Snow that had melted during the warmer
daylight hours had been flash-frozen again in the brutally cold wind that had
kicked up at nightfall, and in the multiple flashes from cruiser lights, every
surface gleamed, slick and dangerous. She saw a cop skate his way along the
sidewalk, arms windmilling for balance, and saw the
CSU van skid sideways as it braked, barely kissing the rear bumper of a parked
cruiser.
“Watch
your step there, Doc,” a patrolman called out from across the street.
“Already had one officer go down on the ice tonight. Think he mighta broke his wrist.”
“Someone
should salt this road.”
“Yeah.”
He gave a grunt. “Someone should. Since the city sure ain’t keeping up with the job tonight.”
“Where’s
Detective Crowe?”
The cop waved a
gloved hand toward the row of elegant town homes. “Number forty-one.
It’s a few houses up the street. I can walk you there.”
“No,
I’m fine. Thank you.” She paused as another cruiser rounded the
corner and skidded up against the curb. She counted at least eight parked
cruisers already clogging the narrow street.
“We’re
going to need room for the morgue van to get through,” she said.
“Do all these patrol cars really need to be here?”
“Yeah,
they do,” the cop said. The tone of his voice made her turn to look at
him. Lit by the strobe flashes of rack lights, his face was carved in bleak
shadows. “We all need to be here. We owe it to her.”
Maura thought
about the death scene on Christmas Eve, when Eve Kassovitz
had stood doubled over in the street, retching into a snow bank. She
remembered, too, how the patrol officers had snickered about the barfing girl
detective. Now that detective was dead, and the snickers were silent, replaced
by the grim respect due every police officer who has fallen.
The cop’s
breath came out in an angry rush. “Her boyfriend, he’s one,
too.”
“Another
police officer?”
“Yeah.
Help us get this perp, Doc.”
She nodded.
“We will.” She started up the sidewalk, aware, suddenly, of all the
eyes that must be watching her progress, all the officers who had surely taken
note of her arrival. They knew her car; they all knew who she was. She saw nods
of recognition among the shadowy figures who stood huddled together, their breaths
steaming, like smokers gathered for a furtive round of cigarettes. They knew
the grim purpose of her visit, just as they knew that any one of them might
someday be the unfortunate object of her attention.
The wind
suddenly kicked up a cloud of snow, and she squinted, lowering her head against
the sting. When she raised it again she found herself staring at someone she
had not expected to see here. Across the street stood Father Daniel Brophy, talking softly to a young police officer who had
sagged backward against a Boston PD cruiser, as though too weak to stand on his
own feet. Brophy put his arm around the other
man’s shoulder to comfort him, and the officer collapsed against him,
sobbing, as Brophy wrapped both arms around him.
Other cops stood nearby in awkward silence, boots shuffling, their gazes to the
ground, clearly uncomfortable with this display of raw grief. Although Maura
could not hear the words Brophy murmured, she saw the
young cop nod, heard him force out a tear-choked response.
I could never
do what Daniel does, she thought. It was far easier to cut dead flesh
and drill through bone than to confront the pain of the living. Suddenly
Daniel’s head lifted and he noticed her. For a moment they just stared at
each other. Then she turned and continued toward the town house, where a
streamer of crime scene tape fluttered from the porch’s cast-iron
railing. He had his job and she had hers. It was time to focus. But even as she
kept her gaze on the sidewalk ahead, her mind was on Daniel. Whether he would
still be there when she finished her task here. And if he was, what happened
next? Should she invite him out for a cup of coffee? Would that make her seem
too forward, too needy? Should she simply say good night and go her own way, as
always?
What do I want
to happen?
She reached the
building and paused on the sidewalk, gazing up at the handsome three-story
residence. Inside, every light was blazing. Brick steps led up to a massive
front door, where a brass knocker gleamed in the glow of decorative gaslight
lanterns. Despite the season, there were no holiday decorations on this porch.
This was the only front door on the street without a wreath. Through the large
bow windows, she saw the flicker of a fire burning in the hearth, but no
twinkle of Christmas tree lights.
“Dr.
Isles?”
She heard the
squeal of metal hinges and glanced at the detective who had just pushed open
the wrought-iron gate at the side of the house. Roland Tripp was one of the
older cops in the homicide unit and tonight he was definitely showing his age.
He stood beneath the gaslight lamp and the glow yellowed his skin, emphasizing
his baggy eyes and drooping lids. Despite the bulky down jacket, he looked
chilled, and he spoke with a clenched jaw, as though trying to suppress
chattering teeth.
“The
victim’s back here,” he said, holding open the gate to let her in.
Maura walked
through, and the gate clanged shut behind them. He led the way into a narrow
side yard, their path lit by the jerky beam of his flashlight. The walkway had
been shoveled since the last storm, and the bricks had only a light dusting of
windblown snow. Tripp halted, his flashlight aimed at the low mound of snow at
the edge of the walkway. At the splash of red.
“This is
what got the butler worried. He saw this blood.”
“There’s
a butler here?”
“Oh,
yeah. We’re talking that kind of money.”
“What
does he do? The owner of this house?”
“He says
he’s a retired history professor. Taught at
“I had no
idea history professors did this well.”
“You
should take a look inside. This ain’t no
professor’s house. This guy’s got other money.” Tripp aimed
his flashlight at a side door. “
Maura stared at
the ground. “The victim was dragged along this walkway.”
“I’ll
show you.” Detective Tripp continued toward the rear of the town house,
into a small courtyard. His flashlight swept across ice-glazed flagstones and
flower beds, now covered with a winter protection of pine boughs. At the center
of the courtyard was a white gazebo. In the summertime, it would no doubt be a
delightful spot to linger, a shady place to sit and sip coffee and breathe in
the scents of the garden.
But the current
occupant of that gazebo was not breathing at all.
Maura took off
her wool gloves and pulled on latex ones instead. They were no protection
against the chill wind that pierced straight to her flesh. Crouching down, she
pulled back the plastic sheet that had been draped over the crumpled form.
Detective Eve Kassovitz lay flat on her back, arms at her sides, her
blond hair matted with blood. She was dressed in dark clothes— wool
pants, a pea coat, and black boots. The coat was unbuttoned, and the sweater
halfway pulled up to reveal bare skin smeared with blood. She was wearing a
holster, and the weapon was still buckled in place. But it was the
corpse’s face that Maura stared at, and what she saw made her draw back
in horror. The woman’s eyelids had been sliced away, her eyes left wide
open in an eternal stare. Trickles of blood had dried on both temples, like red
tears.
“I saw
her just six days ago,” said Maura. “At another death scene.”
She looked up at Tripp. His face was hidden in shadow, and all she saw was that
hulking silhouette looming above her. “The one over in
He nodded.
“Eve joined the unit just a few weeks ago. Came over from Narcotics and
Vice.”
“Does she
live in this neighborhood?”
“No,
ma’am. Her apartment’s down in Mattapan.”
“Then
what’s she doing here on
“Even her
boyfriend doesn’t know. But we have some theories.”
Maura thought
of the young cop she’d just seen sobbing in Daniel’s arms.
“Her boyfriend is that police officer? The one with Father Brophy?”
“Ben’s
taking it pretty hard. Goddamn awful way to find out about it, too. Out on
patrol when he heard the chatter on the radio.”
“And he
has no idea what she’s doing in this neighborhood? Dressed in black, and
packing a weapon?”
Tripp
hesitated, just long enough for Maura to notice.
“Detective
Tripp?” she said.
He sighed.
“We gave her kind of a hard time. You know, about what happened on
Christmas Eve. Maybe the teasing got a little out of hand.”
“This is
about her getting sick at the crime scene?”
“Yeah. I
know it’s juvenile. It’s just something we do to each other in the
unit. We kid around, insult each other. But Eve, I’m afraid she took it
pretty personally.”
“That
still doesn’t explain what she’s doing on
“Ben says
that after all the teasing, she was pretty fixed on proving herself. We think
she was up here working the case. If so, she didn’t bother to tell anyone
else on her team.”
Maura looked
down at Eve Kassovitz’s face. At the staring
eyes. With gloved hands, she pulled aside strands of blood-stiffened hair to
reveal a scalp laceration, but she could palpate no fractures. The blow that
had ripped that flap of scalp did not seem serious enough to have caused death.
She focused next on the torso. Gently she lifted the sweater, uncovering the
rib cage, and stared at the bloodstained bra. The stab wound penetrated the
skin just beneath the sternum. Already, the blood had dried, a frozen crust of
it obscuring the margins of the wound.
“What
time was she found?”
“Around
ten P.M. Butler came out earlier, around six P.M., to bring out a trash bag,
and didn’t see her then.”
“He took
out the trash twice tonight?”
“There
was a dinner party for five people inside the house. Lotta
cooking, lotta garbage.”
“So
we’re looking at a time of death between six and ten P.M.”
“That’s
right.”
“And the
last time Detective Kassovitz was seen alive by her
boyfriend?”
“About
three this afternoon. Just before he headed to his shift.”
“So he
has an alibi.”
“Airtight.
Partner was with him all evening.” Tripp paused. “You need to take
a body temp or something? ’Cause we already got the ambient temperature
if you need it. It’s twelve degrees.”
Maura eyed the
corpse’s heavy clothes. “I’m not going to take a rectal temp
here. I don’t want to undress her in the dark. Your witness has already narrowed
down the time of death. Assuming he’s correct about the times.”
Tripp gave a
grunt. “Probably down to the split second. You should meet this butler
guy, Jeremy. I now know the meaning of anal retentive.”
A light slashed
the darkness. She glanced up to see a silhouette approaching, flashlight beam
sweeping the courtyard.
“Hey,
Doc,” said Jane. “Didn’t know you were already here.”
“I just
arrived.” Maura rose to her feet. In the gloom, she could not see
Jane’s face, only the voluminous halo of her hair. “I didn’t
expect to see you here. Crowe was the one who called me.”
“He
called me, too.”
“Where is
he?”
“He’s
inside, interviewing the home owner.”
Tripp gave a
snort. “Of course he is. It’s warm in there. I’m the one who
has to freeze his butt out here.”
“Geez, Tripp,” said Jane. “Sounds like you love
Crowe as much as I do.”
“Oh yeah,
such a lovable guy. No wonder his old partner took early retirement.” He
huffed out a breath, and the steam spiraled up into darkness. “I think we
should rotate Crowe around the unit. Spread the pain a little. We can each take
turns putting up with Pretty Boy.”
“Believe
me, I’ve already put up with him more than I should have to,” said
Jane. She focused on Eve Kassovitz, and her voice
softened. “He was an asshole to her. That was Crowe’s idea,
wasn’t it? The puke bucket on the desk?”
“Yeah,”
Tripp admitted. “But we’re all responsible, in a way. Maybe she
wouldn’t be here if…” He sighed. “You’re right.
We were all assholes.”
“You said
she came here working the case,” said Maura. “Was there a
lead?”
“O’Donnell,”
said Jane. “She was one of the dinner guests tonight.”
“Kassovitz was tailing her?”
“We
briefly discussed surveillance. It was just a consideration. She never told me
she was going to act on it.”
“O’Donnell
was here, in this house?”
“She’s
still inside, being interviewed.” Jane’s gaze was back on the body.
“I’d say O’Donnell’s devoted fan has just left her
another offering.”
“You
think this is the same perp.”
“I know
it is.”
“There’s
mutilation of the eyes here, but no dismemberment. No ritualistic symbols like
in
Jane glanced at
Tripp. “You didn’t show her?”
“I was
about to.”
“Show me
what?” asked Maura.
Jane raised her
flashlight and shone it on the back door of the residence. What Maura saw sent
a chill coiling up her spine. On the door were three upside-down crosses. And
drawn beneath it, in red chalk, was a single staring eye.
“I’d
say that’s our boy’s work,” said Jane.
“It could
be a copycat. A number of people saw those symbols in Lori-Ann Tucker’s bedroom.
And cops talk.”
“If you
still need convincing…” Jane aimed her flashlight at the bottom of
the door. On the single granite step, leading into the house, was a small
cloth-covered bundle. “We unwrapped it just enough to look inside,”
said Jane. “I think we’ve found Lori-Ann Tucker’s left
hand.”
A sudden gust
of wind swept the courtyard, kicking up a mist of snow that stung Maura’s
eyes, flash-froze her cheeks. Dead leaves rattled across the patio, and the
gazebo creaked and shuddered above them.
“Have you
considered the possibility,” said Maura softly, “that this murder
tonight has nothing to do with Joyce O’Donnell?”
“Of
course it does. Kassovitz tails O’Donnell here.
The killer sees her, chooses her as his next victim. It still gets back to
O’Donnell.”
“Or he
could have seen Kassovitz on Christmas Eve. She was
there at the crime scene. He could have been watching Lori-Ann Tucker’s
house.”
“You
mean, enjoying all the action?” said Tripp.
“Yes.
Enjoying the fact that all the excitement, all the cops, were because of him.
Because of what he’d just done. What a sense of power.”
“So he
follows Kassovitz here,” said Tripp,
“because she caught his eye that night? Man, that puts a different spin
on this.”
Jane looked at
Maura. “It means he could’ve been watching any one of us.
He’d know all our faces now.”
Maura bent down
and pulled the sheet back over the body. Her hands were numb and clumsy as she
stripped off the latex gloves and pulled on her wool ones. “I’m
freezing. I can’t do anything else out here. We should just move her to
the morgue. And I need to defrost my hands.”
“Have you
already called for pickup?”
“They’re
on their way. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll wait for them in my
car. I want to get out of this wind.”
“I think
we should all get out of this wind,” said Tripp.
They walked
back along the side yard and stepped through the iron gate into the liverish
glow of the gas lamp. Across the street, silhouetted in strobe by cruiser rack
lights, was a huddle of cops. Daniel stood among them, taller than the other
men, hands buried in the pockets of his overcoat.
“You can
come inside with us and wait,” said Jane.
“No,”
said Maura, her gaze on Daniel. “I’ll just sit in my car.”
Jane was silent
for a moment. She’d noticed Daniel, too, and she could probably guess why
Maura was lingering outside.
“If
you’re looking to get warm, Doc,” said Jane, “you’re
not going to find it out here. But I guess that’s your choice.” She
clapped Tripp on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go back inside. See
how Pretty Boy’s doing.” They walked up the steps, into the house.
Maura paused on
the sidewalk, her gaze on Daniel. He did not seem to notice that she was there.
It was awkward with all those cops standing around him. But what was there to
be embarrassed about, really? She was here to do her job, and so was he.
It’s the most natural thing in the world for two acquaintances to greet
each other.
She crossed the
street, toward the circle of cops. Only then did Daniel see her. So did the
other men, and they all fell silent as she approached. Though she dealt with
police officers every day, saw them at every crime scene, she had never felt
entirely comfortable with them, or they with her. That mutual discomfort was
never more obvious than at this moment, when she felt their gazes on her. She
could guess what they thought of her. The chilly Dr. Isles, never a barrel of
laughs. Or maybe they were intimidated; maybe it was the MD behind her name
that set her apart, made her unapproachable.
Or maybe
it’s just me. Maybe they are afraid of me.
“The
morgue van should be here any minute,” she said, opening the conversation
on pure business. “If you could make room for it on the street.”
“Sure
thing, Doc,” one of the cops said, and coughed.
Another silence
followed, the cops looking off in other directions, everywhere but at her,
their feet shuffling on cold pavement.
“Well,
thank you,” she said. “I’ll be waiting in my car.” She
didn’t cast a glance at Daniel, but simply turned and walked away.
“Maura?”
She glanced back
at the sound of his voice, and saw that the cops were still watching. There’s
always an audience, she thought. Daniel and I are never alone.
“What do
you know so far?” he asked.
She hesitated,
aware of all the eyes. “Not much more than anyone else, at this
point.”
“Can we
talk about it? It might help me comfort Officer Lyall
if I knew more about what happened.”
“It’s
awkward. I’m not sure…”
“You
don’t have to tell me anything you don’t feel comfortable
revealing.”
She hesitated.
“Let’s sit in my car. It’s right down the street.”
They walked
together, hands thrust in pockets, heads bent against icy gusts. She thought of
Eve Kassovitz, lying alone in the courtyard, her
corpse already chilled, her blood freezing in her veins. On this night, in this
wind, no one wanted to keep company with the dead. They reached her car and
slid inside. She turned on the engine to run the heater, but the air that
puffed through the vents offered no warmth.
“Officer Lyall was her boyfriend?” she asked.
“He’s
devastated. I don’t think I was able to offer much comfort.”
“I
couldn’t do your job, Daniel. I’m not good at dealing with
grief.”
“But you
do deal with it. You have to.”
“Not on
the level you do, when it’s still so raw, so fresh. I’m the one
they expect all the answers from, not the one they call in to give
comfort.” She looked at him. In the gloom of her car he was just a
silhouette. “The last Boston PD chaplain lasted only two years. I’m
sure the stress contributed to his stroke.”
“Father
Roy was sixty-five, you know.”
“And he
looked eighty the last time I saw him.”
“Well,
taking night calls isn’t easy,” he admitted, his breath steaming
the window. “It’s not easy for cops, either. Or doctors or firemen.
But it’s not all bad,” he added with a soft laugh, “since
going to death scenes is the only time I ever get to see you.”
Although she
could not read his eyes, she felt his gaze on her face and was grateful for the
darkness.
“You used
to visit me,” he said. “Why did you stop?”
“I came
for midnight Mass, didn’t I?”
He gave a weary
laugh. “Everyone shows up at Christmas. Even the ones who don’t
believe.”
“But I was
there. I wasn’t avoiding you.”
“Have you
been, Maura? Avoiding me?”
She said
nothing. For a moment they regarded each other in the gloom of her car. The air
blowing from the vent had barely warmed and her fingers were still numb, but
she could feel heat rise to her cheeks.
“I know
what’s going on,” he said quietly.
“You have
no idea.”
“I’m
just as human as you are, Maura.”
Suddenly she
laughed. It was a bitter sound. “Well, this is a cliché.
The priest and the woman parishioner.”
“Don’t
reduce it to that.”
“But it
is a cliché. It’s probably happened a thousand times before.
Priests and bored housewives. Priests and lonely widows. Is it the first time for
you, Daniel? Because it sure as hell is the first time for me.” Suddenly
ashamed that she had turned her anger on him, she looked away. What had he
done, really, except offer her his friendship, his attention? I am the
architect of my own unhappiness.
“If it
makes you feel any better,” he said quietly, “you’re not the
only one who’s miserable.”
She sat
perfectly still as air hissed from the vents. She kept her gaze focused
straight ahead, on the windshield now fogged with condensation, but all her
other senses were painfully focused on him. Even if she were blind and deaf,
she’d still know he was there, so attuned was she to every aspect of his
presence. Attuned, as well, to her own pounding heart, to the sizzling of her
nerves. She’d felt a perverse thrill from his declaration of unhappiness.
At least she was not the only one suffering, not the only one who lay sleepless
at night. In affairs of the heart, misery yearns for company.
There was a
loud rapping on her window. Startled, she turned to see a ghostly silhouette
peering in through the fogged glass. She lowered her window and stared into the
face of a Boston PD cop.
“Dr.
Isles? The morgue van just arrived.”
“Thank
you. I’ll be right there.” Her window hummed shut again, leaving
the glass streaked with watery lines. She shut off the car engine and looked at
Daniel. “We have a choice,” she said. “We can both be
miserable. Or we can move on with our lives. I’m choosing to move
on.” She stepped out of the car and closed the door. She took one breath
of air so cold it seemed to sear her throat. But it also swept any last
indecision from her brain, leaving it clearer and focused with laser intensity
on what she had to do next. She left her car and did not look back. Once again,
she headed up the sidewalk, moving from pool to pool of light as she passed
beneath streetlamps. Daniel was behind her now; ahead waited a dead woman. And
all these cops, standing around. What were they waiting for? Answers that she
might not be able to give them?
She pulled her
coat tighter, as though to ward off their stares, thinking of Christmas Eve and
another death scene. Of Eve Kassovitz, who’d
lingered on the street that night, emptying her stomach into the snow bank. Had
Kassovitz experienced even a flicker of a premonition
that she would be the next object of Maura’s attention?
The cops all
gathered in silence near the house as the morgue team wheeled Eve Kassovitz along the side yard. When the stretcher bearing
the shrouded corpse emerged through the iron gate, they stood with heads bared
in the frigid wind, a solemn blue line honoring one of their own. Even after
the stretcher had disappeared into the vehicle and the doors had swung shut,
they did not break ranks. Only when the taillights winked away into the
darkness did the hats go back on, and they began to drift back to their
cruisers.
Maura, too, was
about to walk to her car when the front door of the residence opened. She
looked up as warm light spilled out and saw the silhouette of a man standing
there, looking at her.
“Excuse
me. Are you Dr. Isles?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Sansone would like to invite you to step inside the house.
It’s a great deal warmer in here, and I’ve just made a fresh pot of
coffee.”
She hesitated
at the foot of the steps, looking up at the warm glow that framed the
manservant. He stood very straight, watching her with an eerie stillness that
made her think of a life-size statue she’d once seen in a gag store, a
papier-mâché butler holding a tray of fake drinks. She glanced
down the street toward her car. Daniel had already left, and she had nothing to
look forward to but a lonely drive home and an empty house.
“Thank
you,” she said, and started up the steps. “I could use a cup of
coffee.”
She stepped into the warmth of the front parlor. Her face was still numb
from the bite of the wind. Only as she stood before the fireplace, waiting for
the butler to notify Mr. Sansone, did sensation
slowly creep back into her cheeks; she felt the pleasant sting of reawakened
nerves, of flushing skin. She could hear the murmur of conversation in another
room— Detective Crowe’s voice, pointed with questioning, answered
by a softer response, barely audible. A woman’s. In the fireplace, sparks
popped and smoke puffed up, and she realized these were real logs burning, that
it was not the fake gas fireplace she’d assumed it was. The medieval oil
painting that hung above the hearth might well be authentic as well. It was a
portrait of a man wearing robes of wine-red velvet, with a gold crucifix around
his neck. Though he was not young, and his dark hair was woven with silver, his
eyes burned with a youthful fire. In that room’s flickering light, those
eyes seemed piercingly alive.
She shivered and turned away, strangely intimidated by the stare of a man
almost certainly long dead. The room had other curiosities, other treasures to
examine. She saw chairs upholstered in striped silk, a Chinese vase that
gleamed with the patina of centuries, a rosewood butler’s table that held
a cigar box and a crystal decanter of brandy. The carpet she stood on bore a
well-worn path down its center, evidence of its age and the countless shoes
that had trod across it, but the relatively untouched perimeter revealed the
unmistakable quality of thick wool and the craftsmanship of the weaver. She
looked down at her feet, at a tapestry of intricate vines twining across
burgundy to frame a unicorn reclining beneath a bower of trees. Suddenly she
felt guilty that she was standing on such a masterpiece. She stepped off it,
onto the wood floor, and closer to the hearth.
Once again, she was facing the portrait over the mantelpiece. Once again,
her gaze lifted to the priest’s piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to stare
straight back at her.
“It’s been in my family for generations. It’s amazing,
isn’t it, how vivid the colors still are? Even after four
centuries.”
Maura turned to face the man who had just stepped into the room. He had
entered so quietly, it was as though he had simply materialized behind her, and
she was too taken by surprise to know quite what to say. He was dressed in a
dark turtleneck, which made his silver hair all the more striking. Yet his face
looked no older than fifty. Had they merely passed each other on the street,
she would have stared at him because his features were so arresting and so
hauntingly familiar. She saw a high forehead, an aristocratic bearing. His dark
eyes caught the flicker of firelight, so that they seemed lit from within. He
had referred to the portrait as an heirloom, and she saw at once the familial
resemblance between the portrait and the living man. The eyes were the same.
He held out his hand. “Hello, Dr. Isles. I’m Anthony Sansone.” His gaze was focused with such intensity on
her face that she wondered if they had met before.
No. I certainly would have remembered a man this
attractive.
“I’m glad to finally make your acquaintance,” he said,
shaking her hand. “After everything I’ve heard about you.”
“From whom?”
“Dr. O’Donnell.”
Maura felt her hand go cold in his grasp, and she pulled away. “I
can’t imagine why I’d be a subject of conversation.”
“She had only good things to say about you. Believe me.”
“That’s a surprise.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t say the same thing about her,” she
said.
He gave a knowing nod. “She can be off-putting. Until you get the
chance to know her. Value her insights.”
The door swung open so quietly, Maura did not hear it. Only the gentle
clink of chinaware alerted her to the fact that the butler had stepped into the
room, carrying a tray with cups and a coffeepot. He set them on an end table,
regarded Sansone with a questioning look, then
withdrew from the room. Not a single word had passed between them; the only
communication had been that look, and the returning nod— all the
vocabulary needed between two men who obviously knew each other well enough to
dispense with unnecessary words.
Sansone
gestured for her to sit down, and Maura sank into an empire armchair
upholstered in striped silk.
“I apologize for confining you to the front parlor,” he said.
“But Boston PD seems to have commandeered the other rooms while they
conduct their interviews.” He poured coffee and handed her a cup.
“I take it you’ve examined the victim?”
“I saw her.”
“What did you think?”
“You know I can’t comment.”
He leaned back in his chair, looking perfectly at ease against blue and
gold brocade. “I’m not talking about the body itself,” he
said. “I perfectly understand why you can’t discuss your medical
findings. I was referring to the scene itself. The gestalt of the crime.”
“You should ask the lead investigator, Detective Rizzoli.”
“I’m more interested in your impressions.”
“I’m a physician. Not a detective.”
“But I’m guessing you have a special insight into what
happened in my garden tonight.” He leaned forward, coal-dark eyes riveted
on hers. “You saw the symbols drawn on my back door?”
“I can’t talk about—”
“Dr. Isles, you won’t be giving away anything. I saw the
body. So did Dr. O’Donnell. When Jeremy found the woman, he came straight
into the house to tell us.”
“And then you and O’Donnell tramped outside like tourists to
have a look?”
“We’re the furthest thing from tourists.”
“Did you stop to think about the footprints you might have
destroyed? The trace evidence you’ve contaminated?”
“We understood exactly what we were doing. We had to see the crime
scene.”
“Had to?”
“This house isn’t just my residence. It’s also a
meeting place for colleagues from around the world. The fact that violence has
struck so close alarms us.”
“It would alarm anyone to find a dead body in their garden. But most
people wouldn’t troop outside with their dinner guest to look at
it.”
“We needed to know if it was merely an act of random
violence.”
“As opposed to what?”
“A warning, meant specifically for us.” He set down his
coffee cup and focused his attention so completely on her that she felt pinned
to the silk-upholstered chair. “You did see the chalk symbols on the
door? The eye. The three upside-down crosses?”
“Yes.”
“I understand there was another slaying, on Christmas Eve. Another
woman. Another crime scene with reverse crosses drawn on the bedroom
wall.”
She didn’t need to confirm it; this man had surely read the answer
in her face. She could almost feel his gaze probing deep, and seeing too much.
“We might as well talk about it,” he said. “I already
know the pertinent details.”
“How do you know? Who told you?”
“People I trust.”
She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Dr. O’Donnell being one of
them?”
“Whether you like her or not, she is an authority in her field.
Look at her body of work on serial murderers. She understands these
creatures.”
“Some would say she identifies with them.”
“On some level, you’d have to. She’s willing to crawl
inside their heads. Examine every crevice.”
The way Maura herself had felt examined by Sansone’s
gaze only moments ago.
“It takes a monster to know one,” said Maura.
“You really believe that?”
“About Joyce O’Donnell, yes. I do believe that.”
He leaned even closer, and his voice dropped to an intimate murmur.
“Could your dislike of Joyce be merely personal?”
“Personal?”
“Because she knows so much about you? About your family?”
Maura stared back, stunned into silence.
“She told us about Amalthea,” he
said.
“She had no right to.”
“Your mother’s incarceration is a matter of public record. We
all know what Amalthea did.”
“This is my private life—”
“Yes, and she’s one of your personal demons. I understand
that.”
“Why the hell is this of any interest to you?”
“Because you’re of interest. You’ve looked evil
in the eye. You’ve seen it in your own mother’s face. You know
it’s there, in your bloodline. That’s what fascinates me, Dr.
Isles— that you come from such violent stock, yet here you are, working
on the side of the angels.”
“I work on the side of science and reason, Mr. Sansone.
Angels aren’t involved.”
“All right, so you don’t believe in angels. But do you
believe in their counterparts?”
“Do you mean demons?” She gave a laugh. “Of
course not.”
He regarded her for a moment with a look of vague disappointment.
“Since your religion seems to be science and reason, as you put it, how
does science explain what happened in my garden tonight? What happened to that
woman on Christmas Eve?”
“You’re asking me to explain evil.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t. Neither can science. It just is.”
He nodded. “That’s exactly right. It just is, and it’s
always been with us. A real entity, living among us, stalking us. Waiting for
its chance to feed. Most people aren’t aware of it, and they don’t
recognize it, even when it brushes up against them, when it passes them on the
street.” His voice had dropped to a whisper. In the momentary hush, she
heard the crackle of flames in the hearth, the murmur of voices in the other
room. “But you do,” he said. “You’ve seen it
with your own eyes.”
“I’ve only seen what every homicide cop has seen.”
“I’m not talking about everyday crimes. Spouses killing
spouses, drug dealers shooting the competition. I’m talking about what
you saw in your mother’s eyes. The gleam. The spark. Not divine, but
something unholy.”
A draft moaned down the flue, scattering ashes against the fire screen.
The flames shuddered, quailing before an invisible intruder. The room suddenly
felt cold, as though all heat, all light, had just been sucked from it.
“I understand perfectly,” he said, “why you
wouldn’t want to talk about Amalthea.
It’s a terrible bloodline to inherit.”
“She has nothing to do with who I am,” Maura said. “She
didn’t raise me. I didn’t even know she existed until a few months
ago.”
“Yet you’re sensitive about the subject.”
She met his gaze. “I really don’t care.”
“I find it strange that you don’t care.”
“We don’t inherit our parents’ sins. Or their
virtues.”
“Some legacies are too powerful to ignore.” He pointed to the
painting over the hearth. “Sixteen generations separate me from that man.
Yet I’ll never escape his legacy. I’ll never be washed clean of the
things he did.”
Maura stared at the portrait. Once again, she was struck by the
resemblance between the living man sitting beside her and the face on the
canvas. “You said that painting was an heirloom.”
“Not one that I was happy to inherit.”
“Who was he?”
“Monsignore Antonino
Sansone. This portrait was painted in
“Antonino Sansone?
Your name?”
“I’m his direct descendent.”
She frowned at the painting. “But he—”
“He was a priest. That’s what you’re about to say,
isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“It would take all night to tell you his story. Another time,
maybe. Let’s just say that Antonino was not a
godly man. He did things to other human beings that would make you question the
very meaning of—” He paused. “He’s not an ancestor
I’m proud of.”
“Yet you have his portrait hanging in your house.”
“As a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“Look at him, Dr. Isles. He looks like me, don’t you
think?”
“Eerily so.”
“In fact, we could be brothers. That’s why he’s hanging
there. To remind me that evil has a human face, maybe even a pleasant face. You
could walk past that man, see him smile back at you, and you’d never
imagine what he’s thinking about you. You can study a face all you want,
but you never really know what lies beneath the mask.” He leaned toward
her, his hair reflecting firelight like a silvery helmet. “They look just
like us, Dr. Isles,” he said softly.
“They? You make it sound like a separate species.”
“Maybe they are. Throwbacks to an ancient era. All I know is, they
are not like us. And the only way to identify them is to track what they do.
Follow the bloody trail, listen for the screams. Search for what most police
departments are too overwhelmed to notice: the patterns. We look beyond the
background noise of everyday crimes, of routine bloodshed, to see the hot
spots. We watch for the footprints of monsters.”
“Who do you mean by we?”
“The people who were here tonight.”
“Your dinner guests.”
“We share a belief that evil isn’t just a concept. It’s
real, and it has a physical presence. It has a face.” He paused.
“At some time in our lives, we’ve each seen it in the flesh.”
Maura’s eyebrow lifted. “Satan?”
“Whatever name you want to use.” He shrugged. “There’ve
been so many names, dating back to the ancients. Lucifer, Abigor,
Samael, Mastema. Every
culture has its name for evil. My friends and I have each personally brushed up
against it. We’ve seen its power, and I’ll admit it, Dr. Isles.
We’re scared.” His gaze met hers. “Tonight, more than
ever.”
“You think this killing in your garden—”
“It has to do with us. With what we do here.”
“Which is?”
“We monitor the work of monsters. Around the country, around the
world.”
“A club of armchair detectives? That’s what it sounds like to
me.” Her gaze moved back to the portrait of Antonino
Sansone, which was no doubt worth a fortune. Just a
glance around this drawing room told her that this man had money to burn. And
the time to waste on eccentric interests.
“Why was that woman killed in my garden, Dr. Isles?” he said.
“Why choose my house, on this particular evening?”
“You think it’s all about you and your club?”
“You saw the chalk drawings on my door. And the drawings at the
Christmas Eve slaying.”
“And I have no idea what any of them mean.”
“The upside-down crosses are common satanic symbols. But what
interests me is the chalk circle in Lori-Ann Tucker’s house. The one
drawn on her kitchen floor.”
There was no point denying the facts; this man already knew the details.
“So what does the circle mean?”
“It could be a ring of protection. Another symbol taken from
satanic rituals. By drawing that circle, Lori-Ann may have been trying to
shield herself. She may have been trying to control the very forces she was
calling from the darkness.”
“Wait. You think the victim drew it, to ward off the
devil?” Her tone of voice left no doubt what she thought of his theory: utter
nonsense.
“If she did draw it, then she had no idea who —or what—
she was summoning.”
The fire suddenly fluttered, flames reaching up in a bright claw. Maura
turned as the inner door swung open and Dr. Joyce O’Donnell emerged. She
paused, clearly surprised to see Maura. Then her attention shifted to Sansone.
“Lucky me. After two hours of questions,
“Let’s hope I never do,” said Sansone.
“Let me get your coat.” He rose and pushed open a wooden panel, exposing
a hidden closet. He held up O’Donnell’s fur-trimmed coat and she
slipped her arms into the sleeves with feline grace, her blond hair brushing
across his hands. Maura saw familiarity in that momentary contact, a
comfortable dance between two people who knew each other well.
Perhaps very well.
As she buttoned, O’Donnell’s gaze settled on Maura.
“It’s been a while, Dr. Isles,” she said. “How is your
mother?”
She always goes straight for the jugular.
Don’t let her see she’s drawn blood.
“I have no idea,” said Maura.
“You haven’t been back to see her?”
“No. But you probably already know that.”
“Oh, I finished my interviews with Amalthea
over a month ago. I haven’t seen her since.” Slowly,
O’Donnell pulled woolen gloves over long, elegant fingers. “She was
doing well when I last saw her, in case you’re interested.”
“I’m not.”
“They have her working in the prison library now. She’s
turned into quite the bookworm. Reads every psychology textbook she can get her
hands on.” O’Donnell paused to give her glove a last tug. “If
she’d ever had the chance to go to college, she could have been a
star.”
Instead, my mother chose a different path. Predator.
Butcher. No matter how
hard Maura worked to distance herself, no matter how deeply she buried any
thoughts of Amalthea, she could not look at her own
reflection without seeing her mother’s eyes, her mother’s jaw. The
monster peering back from the mirror.
“Her case history will take up a whole chapter in my next
book,” said O’Donnell. “If you’re ever willing to sit
down and talk with me, it would contribute a great deal to her history.”
“I have absolutely nothing to add.”
O’Donnell simply smiled, clearly expecting the snub. “Always
worth asking,” she said, and looked at Sansone.
A gaze that lingered, as though she had something more to say, but could not
say it in Maura’s presence. “Good night, Anthony.”
“Shall I have Jeremy follow you home, just to be sure?”
“Absolutely not.” She flashed him a smile that struck Maura
as distinctly flirtatious. “I can take care of myself.”
“These are different circumstances, Joyce.”
“Afraid?”
“We’d be crazy if we weren’t.”
She flung her scarf around her neck, a theatrical flourish to emphasize
that she, for one, was not going to let something as trivial as fear slow her
down. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He opened the door, letting in a whoosh of frigid air, a flurry of
snowflakes that scattered like glitter across the antique carpet. “Stay
safe,” he said. He waited in the doorway, watching as O’Donnell
walked to her car. Only after she drove away did he close the door. Once again,
he faced Maura.
“So you and your friends think you’re on the side of the
angels,” said Maura.
“I believe we are.”
“Whose side is she on?”
“I know there’s no love lost between her and law enforcement.
It’s her job as a defense witness to be at odds with the prosecution. But
I’ve known Joyce for three years now. I know where she stands.”
“Can you really be sure?” Maura picked up her coat, which
she’d left draped over a settee. He did not attempt to help her on with
it; perhaps he sensed that she, unlike O’Donnell, was not in the mood to
be indulged. As she buttoned her coat, she felt she was being watched by two
sets of eyes. The portrait of Antonino Sansone was watching her as well, his gaze piercing the
mist of four centuries, and she could not help a glance in the portrait’s
direction, at the man whose actions, so many generations ago, could still make
his namesake shudder.
“You say you’ve looked evil in the eye,” she said,
turning back to her host.
“We both have.”
“Then you should know by now,” she said, “that it wears
a pretty damn good disguise.”
She stepped out of the house and breathed in air that sparkled with
frozen mist. The sidewalk stretched before her like a dark river; streetlamps
cast pale islands of light. A lone Boston PD cruiser was parked across the
street, engine idling, and she saw the silhouette of a patrolman sitting in the
driver’s seat. She raised her hand in a wave.
He waved back.
No reason to be nervous, she thought, as she started walking. My car’s just down the
street, and a cop’s nearby. So was Sansone.
She glanced back and saw that he was still standing on his front steps,
watching her. Nevertheless she pulled out her car keys, kept her thumb poised
on the panic button. Even as she moved down the sidewalk, she scanned shadows,
searching for even a flicker of movement. Only after she’d climbed into
her car and locked it did she feel the tension ease from her shoulders.
Time to go home. Time for a stiff drink.
When she walked into her house, she found two new messages on her
answering machine. She went into the kitchen first, to pour herself a glass of
brandy, came back into the living room, sipping her drink, and pressed Play. At
the sound of the first caller’s voice, she went very still.
“It’s Daniel. I don’t care how late it is when you hear
this. Just call me, please. I hate to think that you and I—” A
pause. “We need to talk, Maura. Call me.”
She did not move. Just stood clutching her brandy, her fingers numb
around the glass as the second message played.
“Dr. Isles, it’s Anthony Sansone. I
just wanted to make sure you got home safely. Give me a call and let me know,
will you?”
The machine went silent. She took a breath, reached for the phone, and
dialed.
“Sansone residence. This is Jeremy.”
“It’s Dr. Isles. Could you—”
“Hello, Dr. Isles. Let me get him for you.”
“Just let him know that I’m home.”
“I know that he’d like very much to talk to you
himself.”
“There’s no need to disturb him. Good night.”
“Good night, Doctor.”
She hung up and hovered over the receiver, poised to make the second
call.
A sharp thump on her porch made her back snap straight. She went to the
front door and flipped on the porch light. Outside, the wind swirled snow fine as
dust. On the porch, a fallen icicle lay in glistening shards, like a broken
dagger. She turned off the light but lingered at the window and watched as a
municipal truck rumbled past, scattering sand across the icy road.
She returned to the couch and stared at the phone as she drank the last
of her brandy.
We need to talk, Maura. Call me.
She set down the glass, turned off the lamp, and went to bed.
July 22. Phase of the moon: First Quarter.
Aunt Amy stands
at the stove stirring a pot of stew, her face as contented as a cow’s. On
this overcast day, with dark clouds gathering in the western sky, she seems
oblivious to the rumble of thunder. In my aunt’s world, every day is a
sunny one. She sees no evil, fears no evil. She is like the livestock fattening
on clover on the farm down the road, the cattle that know nothing of the
slaughterhouse. She cannot see beyond the glow of her own happiness, to the
precipice just beyond her feet.
She is nothing
like my mother.
Aunt Amy turns
from the stove and says, “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“I’ll
set the table,” I offer, and she flashes me a grateful smile. It takes so
little to please her. As I set the plates and napkins on the table and lay the
forks tines-down, in the French way, I feel her loving gaze. She sees only a
quiet and agreeable boy; she’s blind to who I really am.
Only my mother
knows. My mother can trace our bloodline all the way back to the Hyksos, who ruled
I say little as
we sit down to dinner. The family chatters enough to fill any silence. They
talk about what Teddy did at the lake today, what Lily heard while at
Lori-Ann’s house. What a nice crop of tomatoes they’ll be
harvesting in August.
When we have
finished eating, Uncle Peter says, “Who wants to go into town for ice
cream?”
I am the only
one who chooses to stay home.
I watch from
the front door as their car drives away. As soon as it vanishes down the hill,
I climb the stairs and walk into my aunt and uncle’s bedroom. I’ve
been waiting for the chance to explore it. The room smells like lemon furniture
polish. The bed is neatly made, but there are minor touches of disorder
—my uncle’s jeans draped over a chair, a few magazines on the
nightstand— to confirm that real people live in this room.
In their
bathroom, I open the medicine cabinet and find, along with the usual headache
pills and cold capsules, a two-year-old prescription, made out to Dr. Peter
Saul: “Valium, 5 mg. Take one tablet three times a day as needed for back
spasms.”
There are at
least a dozen pills still left in the bottle.
I return to the
bedroom. I open dresser drawers and discover that my aunt’s bra size is
36B, that her underwear is cotton, and that my uncle wears medium jockey
shorts. In a bottom drawer, I also find a key. It’s too small for a door.
I think I know what it opens.
Downstairs, in
my uncle’s study, I fit the key into a lock, and the cabinet door swings
open. On the shelf inside is his handgun. It’s an old one that he
inherited from his father, which is the only reason he has not gotten rid of
it. He never takes it out; I think he is a little afraid of it.
I lock the
cabinet and return the key to its drawer.
An hour later,
I hear their car pulling into the driveway, and I go downstairs to greet them
as they come back into the house.
Aunt Amy smiles
when she sees me. “I’m so sorry you didn’t come with us. Were
you terribly bored?”
The squeal of
the truck’s air brakes startled Lily Saul awake. She raised her head,
groaning at the ache in her neck, and blinked with sleepy eyes at the passing
countryside. Dawn was just breaking and the morning mist was a haze of gold
over sloping vineyards and dew-laden orchards. She hoped that poor Paolo and
Giorgio had passed on to a place this beautiful; if anyone deserved Heaven,
they did.
But I will not
be seeing them there. This will be my only chance at Heaven. Here, now. A
moment of peace, infinitely sweet because I know it won’t last.
“You’re
awake at last,” the driver said in Italian, dark eyes appraising her.
Last night, when he had stopped at the side of the road just outside
When Hell
freezes over, thought Lily. Not that she hadn’t slept with a stranger or
two. Or three, when desperate measures were called for. But those men had not
been without their charms, and they had offered what she’d sorely needed
at the time— not shelter, but the comfort of a man’s arms. The
chance to enjoy the brief but lovely delusion that someone could protect her.
“If you
need a place to stay,” the driver said, “I have an apartment, in
the city.”
“Thank
you, but no.”
“You have
some place to go?”
“I
have… friends. They’ve offered to let me stay.”
“Where is
their address in
He knew she was
lying. He was testing her.
“Really,”
he said. “It is no trouble.”
“Just
leave me at the train station. They live near there.”
Again, his gaze
raked across her face. She did not like his eyes. She saw meanness there, like
the gleam of a coiled snake that could, at any instant, strike.
Suddenly he
gave a shrug, a grin, as if it didn’t matter to him in the least.
“You have
been to
“Yes.”
“Your
Italian is very good.”
But not good
enough, she thought. I open my mouth and they know I’m foreign.
“How long
will you stay in the city?”
“I
don’t know.” Until it’s no longer safe. Until I can plan
my next move.
“If you
ever need help, you can call me.” He pulled a business card from his
shirt pocket and handed it to her. “The number for my mobile.”
“I’ll
give you a call sometime,” she said, dropping the card inside her
backpack. Let him hang on to his fantasy. He’d give her less trouble when
she left.
At
Behind the truck,
a taxicab blared its horn; only then did the truck move on.
She emerged
from the station and wandered into Piazza della Repubblica where she paused, dazed by the crowds, by the
heat and noise and gas fumes. Just before leaving
But she had to
be cautious.
Pausing outside
a sundries store, she considered how she could most easily alter her appearance.
A dye job? No. In the land of dark-haired beauties, it was best to stay a
brunette. A change of clothes, perhaps. Stop looking so American. Ditch the
jeans for a cheap dress. She wandered into a dusty shop and emerged a half hour
later wearing a blue cotton frock.
In a fit of
extravagance, she next treated herself to a heaping plate of spaghetti
Bolognese, her first hot meal in two days. It was a mediocre sauce, and the
noodles were soggy and overcooked, but she devoured it all, sopping up every
particle of meat with the stale bread. Then, her belly full, the heat weighing
down on her shoulders, she trudged sleepily in search of a hotel. She found one
on a dirty side street. Dogs had left their stinking souvenirs near the front
entrance. Laundry flapped from windows, and a trash can, buzzing with flies,
overflowed with garbage and broken glass.
Perfect.
The room she
checked into looked over a shadowy interior courtyard. As she unbuttoned her
dress, she stood gazing down at a scrawny cat pouncing on something too small
for Lily to make out. A piece of string? A doomed mouse?
Stripped down
to her underwear, she collapsed onto the lumpy bed and listened to the rattle
of window air conditioners in the courtyard, to the honking horns and roaring
buses of the
Not even the
Devil.
Edwina
Felway’s house was in the suburb of
“What do you think?” asked
Jane as she stared out the car window at the house. “Two million? Two and
a half?”
“This neighborhood, right on the golf
course? I’m guessing more like four,” said Barry Frost.
“For that weird old house?”
“I don’t think it’s all
that old.”
“Well, someone went to a lot of
trouble to make it look old.”
“Atmospheric. That’s what
I’d call it.”
“Right. Home of the Seven Dwarfs.”
Jane turned the car into the driveway and parked beside a van. As they stepped
out, onto well-sanded cobblestones, Jane noticed the handicapped placard on the
van’s dashboard. Peering through the rear window, she saw a wheelchair
lift.
“Hello, there! Are you the
detectives?” a booming voice called out. The woman who stood on the porch
waving at them was obviously able-bodied.
“Mrs. Felway?”
said Jane.
“Yes. And you must be Detective
Rizzoli.”
“And my partner, Detective
Frost.”
“Watch those cobblestones,
they’re slippery. I try to keep the driveway sanded for visitors, but
really, there’s no substitute for sensible shoes.” Sensible
was a word that clearly applied to Edwina Felway’s
wardrobe, Jane noted, as she climbed the steps to shake the woman’s hand.
Edwina wore a baggy tweed jacket and wool trousers and rubber
“I’ve put the kettle
on,” said Edwina, ushering them into the house. “In case
you’d like some tea.” She shut the door, pulled off her boots, and
shoved her stocking feet into worn slippers. From upstairs came the excited
barking of dogs. Big dogs, by the sound of them. “Oh, I’ve shut
them up in the bedroom. They’re not all that disciplined around
strangers. And they’re quite intimidating.”
“Do you want us to take off our
shoes?” asked Frost.
“Heavens, forget it. The dogs are
in and out all the time anyway, tracking in sand. I can’t worry about the
floor. Here, let me take your coats.”
As Jane pulled off her jacket, she could
not help staring upward at the ceiling that arched overhead. The open rafters
were like the beams of a medieval hall. The stained-glass ocular that she had
noticed outside beamed in a circle of candy-colored light. Everywhere she
looked, on every wall, she saw oddities. A niche with a wooden Madonna, decorated
in gold leaf and multicolored glass. A Russian Orthodox triptych painted in
jewel tones. Carved animal statues and Tibetan prayer shawls, and a row of
medieval oaken pews. Against one wall was a Native American totem pole that
thrust all the way to the two-story ceiling.
“Wow,” said Frost.
“You’ve got a really interesting place here, ma’am.”
“My husband was an anthropologist.
And a collector, until we ran out of space to put it all.” She pointed at
the eagle’s head that glared down from the totem pole. “That thing
was his favorite. There’s even more of this stuff in storage. It’s
probably worth a fortune, but I’ve gotten attached to every hideous piece
and I can’t bring myself to let any of it go.”
“And your husband is—”
“Dead.” She said it without
hesitation. Just a fact of life. “He was quite a bit older than me.
I’ve been a widow for years now. But we had a good fifteen years
together.” She hung up their coats, and Jane caught a glimpse into the
cluttered closet, saw an ebony walking stick topped by a human skull. That
monstrosity, she thought, I would’ve tossed out a long time ago.
Edwina shut the closet door and looked at
them. “I’m sure you detectives have your hands full with this
investigation. So we thought we’d make things easier for you.”
“Easier?” asked Jane.
The rising squeal of a teakettle made
Edwina glance toward the hallway. “Let’s go sit in the
kitchen,” she said, and led the way up the hall, her worn slippers
whisking across the tired oak floor. “Anthony warned us you’d have
a lot of questions, so we wrote out a complete timeline for you. Everything we
remember from last evening.”
“Mr. Sansone
discussed this with you?”
“He called last night, to tell me
everything that happened after I left.”
“I’m sorry he did. It would
have been better if you hadn’t talked to him about it.”
Edwina paused in the hallway. “Why?
So we can approach this like blind men? If we want to be helpful to the police,
we need to be sure of our facts.”
“I’d rather have independent
statements from our witnesses.”
“Every member of our group is quite
independent, believe me. We each maintain our own opinions. Anthony
wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s why we work so well
together.”
The scream of the teakettle abruptly cut
off, and Edwina glanced toward the kitchen. “Oh, I guess he got
it.”
He? Who else was in the house?
Edwina scurried into the kitchen and
said, “Here, let me do it.”
“It’s fine, Winnie,
I’ve already filled the pot. You wanted Irish breakfast tea,
right?”
The man sat in a wheelchair, his back
turned to the visitors. Here was the owner of the van in the driveway. He
pivoted his chair around to greet them, and Jane saw a thatch of limp brown
hair and eyeglasses with thick tortoiseshell frames. The gray eyes that met her
gaze were focused and curious. He looked young enough to be Edwina’s
son—no older than his mid-twenties. But he sounded American, and there
was no family resemblance between the robustly healthy Edwina and this pale
young man.
“Let me introduce you,” said
Edwina. “This is Detective Frost and Detective Rizzoli. And this is
Oliver Stark.”
Jane frowned at the young man. “You
were one of the dinner guests last night. At Sansone’s
house.”
“Yes.” Oliver paused, reading
her face. “Is that a problem?”
“We had hoped to talk to you
separately.”
“They’re not happy
we’ve already discussed the case amongst ourselves,” Edwina told
him.
“Didn’t I predict
they’d say that, Winnie?”
“But it’s so much more
efficient this way, nailing down the details together. It saves everyone
time.” Edwina crossed to the kitchen table and gathered up a huge
mountain of newspapers, everything from the Bangkok Post to The Irish
Times. She moved them to a countertop, then pulled out two chairs.
“Come, everyone, sit down. I’ll go up and get the file.”
“File?” asked Jane.
“Of course we’ve already
started a file. Anthony thought you’d want copies.” She strode out
of the kitchen and they heard her thump solidly up the stairs.
“Like a mighty redwood, isn’t
she?” said Oliver. “I never knew they grew them that big in
“That would be Gottfried
Baum?” asked Jane. “The fourth dinner guest?”
“Yes. He had to catch a flight back
to
Jane sighed. “You know, Mr.
Stark—”
“No one calls me that. I’m
Ollie.”
Jane sat down so that her gaze was level
with his. He met her look with one of mild amusement, and it irritated her. It
said: I’m smart and I know it. Certainly smarter than some
policewoman. It also irritated her that he was probably right; he looked
like the stereotypical boy genius that you always dreaded sitting next to in
math class. The kid who handed in his algebra exam while everyone else was
still struggling with problem number one.
“We’re not trying to mess up
your usual protocol,” said Oliver. “We just want to be helpful. And
we can be, if we work together.”
Upstairs, the dogs were barking, claws
tapping back and forth across the floor as Edwina shushed them, and a door
thudded shut.
“You can help us by just answering
our questions,” said Jane.
“I think you misunderstand.”
“What am I not getting?”
“How useful we can be to you. Our
group.”
“Right. Mr. Sansone
told me about your little crime-fighting club.”
“It’s a society, not a
club.”
“What’s the
difference?” asked Frost.
Oliver looked at him. “Gravity,
Detective. We have members around the world. And we’re not
amateurs.”
“Are you a law enforcement
professional, Ollie?” asked Jane.
“Actually, I’m a
mathematician. But my real interest is symbology.”
“Excuse me?”
“I interpret symbols. Their origins
and their meanings, both apparent and hidden.”
“Uh-huh. And Mrs. Felway?”
“She’s an anthropologist. She
just joined us. Came highly recommended from our
“And Mr. Sansone?
He’s certainly not law enforcement.”
“He might as well be.”
“He told us he’s a retired
academic. A
Oliver laughed. “Anthony would
underplay himself. That’s just like him.”
Edwina came back into the kitchen,
carrying a file folder. “Just like whom, Ollie?”
“We’re talking about Anthony.
The police think he’s just a retired college professor.”
“And that’s just the way he
likes it.” Edwina sat down. “It doesn’t help to
advertise.”
“What are we supposed to know about
him, anyway?” asked Frost.
“Well, you know he’s quite
wealthy,” said Edwina.
“That was pretty obvious.”
“I mean, seriously wealthy.
That house on Beacon Hill, it’s nothing compared to his estate in
“Or his house in
“And we’re supposed to be
impressed by that?” said Jane.
Edwina’s response was a cool stare.
“Money alone seldom makes a man impressive. It’s what he does with
it.” She placed the file folder on the table in front of Jane. “For
you, Detective.”
Jane opened the folder to the first page.
It was a neatly typed chronology of last night’s events, as recalled by
three of the dinner guests, Edwina and Oliver and the mysterious Gottfried
Baum.
(All times are approximate)
6:00: Edwina and Gottfried arrive
6:15: Oliver Stark arrives.
6:20: Joyce O’Donnell arrives.
6:40: First course served by
Jeremy…
The entire menu was listed.
Consommé followed by salmon aspic and a salad of baby lettuces. Beef
tournedos with crisp potato cakes. A tasting of port to accompany slivers of Reblochon cheese. And finally, with coffee, a Sacher torte and thick cream.
At nine-thirty, Edwina and Gottfried
departed together for
At nine forty-five Oliver left
“And that’s what we remember
of the timeline,” said Edwina. “We tried to be as accurate as
possible.”
Right down to the consommé,
thought Jane, scanning the chronology. There was nothing particularly helpful
here; it repeated the same information that Sansone
and his butler had already provided, but with the additional culinary details.
The overall picture was the same: A winter’s night. Four guests arrive on
Some crime-fighting club. These amateurs
are less than useless.
The next page in the folder was a sheet of
stationery with only a single letter printed at the top: “M,” in a
gothic font. And beneath it, the handwritten note: “Oliver, your
analysis? A.S.” Anthony Sansone? Jane flipped
to the next page and stared at a photograph that she immediately recognized:
the symbols that had been drawn on Sansone’s
garden door.
“This is from the crime scene last
night,” said Jane. “How did you get this?”
“Anthony sent it over this morning.
It’s one of the photos he took last night.”
“This isn’t meant for public
distribution,” said Jane. “It’s evidence.”
“Very interesting evidence,”
said Oliver. “You know the significance, don’t you? Of those
symbols?”
“They’re satanic.”
“Oh, that’s the automatic
answer. You see weird symbols at a crime scene and you just assume it’s
the work of some nasty satanic cult. Everyone’s favorite villains.”
Frost said, “Do you think this is
something else?”
“I’m not saying this couldn’t
be a cult. Satanists do use the reverse cross as a symbol of the Antichrist.
And that slaying on Christmas Eve, the one with the decapitation, there was
that circle drawn on the floor around the victim’s head. And the burned
candles. That certainly calls to mind a satanic ritual.”
“How do you know about all
this?”
Oliver glanced at Edwina. “They
really think we’re clueless, don’t they?”
“It doesn’t matter how we
learned the details,” said Edwina. “The fact is, we do know about
the case.”
“Then what do you think about this
symbol?” asked Frost, pointing to the photograph. “The one that
looks like an eye? Is that satanic as well?”
“It depends,” said Oliver.
“First, let’s consider what you saw at the Christmas Eve death
scene. There was a red chalk circle where he’d placed the victim’s
severed head. And there were five candles burned at the perimeter.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, circles in and of themselves
are quite primitive symbols, and they are universal. They can mean all sorts of
things. The sun, the moon. Protection. Eternity. Rebirth, the cycle of life.
And yes, it’s also used by satanic cults to represent the female sexual
organ. We don’t really know what it meant to the person who drew it that
night.”
“But it could have a satanic
meaning,” said Frost.
“Of course. And the five candles
may represent the five points of a pentagram. Now, let’s look at what was
drawn last night, on Anthony’s garden door.” He pointed to the
photograph. “What do you see?”
“An eye.”
“Tell me more about this
eye.”
“It’s got, like, a teardrop.
And an eyelash sticking out below it.”
Oliver took a pen from his shirt pocket
and flipped the sheet of stationery to its blank side. “Let me draw it
more clearly, so you’ll see exactly what the different elements are in
this symbol.” On the sheet of paper, he reproduced the drawing:
“It still looks like an eye,”
said Frost.
“Yes, but all these features
—the eyelash, the teardrop— that makes it a very specific eye. This
symbol is called Udjat. Experts on satanic cults will
tell you this is a symbol for Lucifer’s all-seeing eye. The teardrop is
because he mourns for those souls outside his influence. Some conspiracy
theorists claim it’s the same eye printed on
“You mean on the top of the
pyramid?”
“Right. Their so-called proof that
the world’s finances are run by worshippers of Satan.”
“So we’re back to satanic
symbols,” said Jane.
“That’s one
interpretation.”
“What others are there?”
“This is also a symbol used by the ancient
fraternity of Freemasons. In which case it has quite a benign meaning. For
them, it symbolizes enlightenment, illumination.”
“The seeking of knowledge,”
said Edwina. “It’s about learning the secrets of their
craft.”
Jane said, “You’re saying
this murder was done by a Freemason?”
“Good grief, no!” said
Oliver. “That’s not at all what I’m saying. The poor
Freemasons have been the target of so many malicious accusations, I’m not
even going to repeat them. I’m just giving you a quick history lesson.
This is my field, you know, the interpretation of symbols. I’m trying to
explain that this symbol, Udjat, is quite an old one.
It’s been used throughout history for various purposes. For some people,
its meaning is sacred. For others, it’s terrifying, a symbol of evil. But
its original meaning, in the time of ancient
“What did it mean then?”
“It represented the eye of Horus,
the sun god. Horus is usually depicted in paintings or sculptures as a falcon’s
head on a man’s body. He was personified on earth by the Pharaoh.”
Jane sighed. “So it could be a
satanic symbol, or a symbol for illumination. Or the eye of some Egyptian god
with a bird’s head.”
“There’s yet another
possibility.”
“I thought you’d say
that.”
Oliver picked up the pen again and drew
another variation of the eye. “This symbol,” he said, “came
into use in
“Is that still the eye of
Horus?” asked Frost.
“Yes, but notice how the eye is now
made up of separate sections. The iris is represented by this circle, between
two halves of the sclera. Then there’s the teardrop and the curling lash,
as you called it. It looks like just a stylized version of Udjat,
but it actually had a very practical use, as a mathematical symbol. Each part
of the eye represents a fraction.” He wrote numbers on the sketch now:
“These fractions arise by dividing
subsequent numbers in half. The entire eye represents the whole number, one.
The left half of the sclera represents the fraction one half. The eyelash is
one thirty-second.
“Are we getting around to some kind
of point here?” asked Jane.
“Of course.”
“And that would be?”
“That maybe there’s a
specific message in this eye. In the first death scene, the severed head
was enclosed by a circle. In the second scene, there’s a drawing of Udjat on the door. What if they’re connected, those
two symbols? What if one symbol was supposed to be the key to
interpreting the other?”
“A mathematical key, you
mean?”
“Yes. And the circle, at the first
killing, represented an element of Udjat.”
Jane frowned at Oliver’s sketches,
at the numbers he had jotted in the various sections of the all-seeing eye.
“You’re saying that the circle at the first killing is really
supposed to be the iris.”
“Yes. And it has a value.”
“You mean it represents a number? A
fraction.” She looked up at Oliver and saw that he was leaning toward
her, a flush of excitement in his cheeks.
“Exactly,” he said.
“And that fraction would be?”
“One fourth,” she said.
“Right.” He smiled. “Right.”
“One fourth of what?” asked
Frost.
“Oh, that we don’t know yet.
It could mean a quarter moon. Or one of the four seasons.”
“Or it could mean he’s
completed only a quarter of his task,” said Edwina.
“Yes,” said Oliver.
“Maybe he’s telling us there are more kills to come. That
he’s planning a total of four.”
Jane looked at Frost. “There were
four place settings at the dining table.”
In the pause that followed, the ringing
of Jane’s cell phone sounded startlingly loud. She recognized the number
for the crime-scene lab and answered it at once.
“Rizzoli.”
“Hi, Detective. It’s
“Yeah. We’re talking about it
right now.”
“I’ve compared that pigment
with the symbols from the
“So our perp
used the same red chalk at both scenes.”
“Well, that’s why I’m
calling. It’s not red chalk.”
“What is it?”
“It’s something a lot more
interesting.”
The crime lab
was in the south wing of Boston PD’s
Criminalist Erin Volchko was waiting
for them. As soon as Jane and Frost walked into the room, she swiveled around
from the microscope that she’d been hunched over and swept up a file that
was sitting on the countertop. “You two owe me a stiff drink,” she
said, “after all the work I put into this one.”
“You
always say that,” said Frost.
“This
time I mean it. Out of all the trace evidence that came in from that first
scene, I thought this would be the one we’d have the least trouble with.
Instead, I had to chase all over the place to find out what that circle was
drawn with.”
“And
it’s not plain old chalk,” said Jane.
“Nope.”
Jane opened the
file. On top was a photographic sheet with a series of images. Red blobs on a
blurred background.
“I
started with high-magnification light microscopy,” said
“So what
does this mean?”
“A few
things. You can see there are varying degrees of color. The particles
aren’t uniform. The refractive index also varied, from 2.5 to 3.01, and
many of those particles are birefringent.”
“Meaning?”
“Those
are anhydrous iron oxide particles. A quite common substance found around the
world. It’s what gives clay its distinctive hues. It’s used in
artists’ pigments to produce the colors red, yellow, and brown.”
“That
doesn’t sound like anything special.”
“That’s
what I thought, until I dug deeper into the subject. I assumed it came from a
piece of chalk or a pastel crayon, so I ran comparisons against samples we
obtained from two local artists’ supply stores.”
“Any
matches?”
“None.
The difference was immediately apparent under the microscope. First, the red
pigment granules in the pastel crayons showed far less variability in color and
refractive index. That’s because most anhydrous iron oxide used in
pigments today is synthetic— manufactured, not mined from the earth. They
commonly use a compound called Mars Red, a mixture of iron and aluminum
oxides.”
“So these
pigment granules here, in this photo, aren’t synthetic?”
“No, this
is naturally occurring anhydrous iron oxide. It’s also called hematite,
derived from the Greek word for blood. Because it’s sometimes red.”
“Do they
use the natural stuff in art supplies?”
“We did
find a few specialty chalks and pastel crayons that use natural hematite as a
pigment. But chalks contain calcium carbonate. And manufactured pastel crayons
usually use a natural glue to bind the pigment. Some kind of starch, like
methyl cellulose or gum tragacanth. It’s all
mixed together into a paste, which is then extruded through a mold to make
crayons. We found no traces of gum tragacanth or any
binding starch in the crime-scene samples. Nor did we find enough calcium
carbonate to indicate that this came from colored chalk.”
“Then
we’re not dealing with something you’d find at an art supply
store.”
“Not
locally.”
“So where
did this red stuff come from?”
“Well,
let’s talk about this red stuff first. What it is, exactly.”
“You
called it hematite.”
“Right.
Anhydrous iron oxide. But when it’s found in tinted clay, it has another
name as well: ocher.”
Frost said,
“Isn’t that, like, what American Indians used to paint their
faces?”
“Ocher
has been used by mankind for at least three hundred thousand years. It’s
even been found in Neanderthal graves. Red ocher in particular seems to have
been universally valued in death ceremonies, probably because of its similarity
to blood. It’s found in Stone Age cave paintings and on walls in
“Including
satanic ceremonies?”
“It’s
the color of blood. Whatever your religion, that color has symbolic
power.”
“I think
we already know that,” said Jane.
“What I
mean is, he’s in touch with history. He doesn’t use common chalk
for his ritual drawings. Instead he uses the same primitive pigment that was
used in the Paleolithic era. And he didn’t just dig it up in his own
backyard.”
“But you
said that red ocher is found in common clay,” said Frost. “So maybe
he did dig it up.”
“Not if
his backyard is anywhere around here.”
Jane flipped to
the next page and saw a computer printout. A graph with multiple spikes.
“You want to interpret this for us?”
“Sure.
First, the Raman spectroscopy.”
“Never
heard of it.”
“It’s
an archaeologist’s technique for analysis of historic artifacts. It uses
the light spectrum of a substance to determine its properties. The big
advantage for archaeologists is that it doesn’t destroy the artifact
itself. You can analyze the pigments on everything from mummy wrappings to the
Shroud of Turin and not damage the article in any way. I asked Dr. Ian MacAvoy, from the Harvard archaeology department, to
analyze the Raman spectra results, and he confirmed that the sample contains
iron oxide plus clay plus silica.”
“That’s
red ocher?”
“Yes. Red
ocher.”
“But you
already knew that.”
“Still,
it was nice to have him confirm it. Then Dr. MacAvoy
offered to help me track down its source. Where in the world this particular
red ocher came from.”
“You can
actually do that?”
“The
technique’s still in its research stages. It probably wouldn’t hold
up in court as evidence. But he was curious enough to run a comparison against
a library of ocher profiles he’s compiled from around the world. He
determines the concentrations of eleven other elements in the samples, such as
magnesium, titanium, and thorium. The theory is, a particular geographic source
will have a distinctive trace element profile. It’s like looking at soil
samples from a car tire and knowing that it has the lead-zinc profile of a
mining district in
“Those
other trace elements.”
“Right.
And archaeologists have compiled a library of ocher sources.”
“Why?”
“Because
it helps determine the provenance of an artifact. For instance, where did the
pigment on the Shroud of Turin come from? Was it
“What do
we know about our pigment sample?” asked Frost.
“Well.”
“It’s
Italian?”
“No. The
Venetians imported it from elsewhere. When Dr. MacAvoy
compared the entire elemental profile, he found that it matched one location in
particular, a place where they’re still mining red ocher even today. The
Jane said,
“I need to see a world map.”
Jane flipped to
the page. “Okay, I see. It’s in the Mediterranean, just south of
“It seems
to me that red chalk would’ve been a lot easier to use,” said
Frost.
“And far
cheaper. Your killer chose an unusual pigment, from an obscure source. Maybe he
has ties to
“Or he
could just be playing games with us,” said Frost. “Drawing weird
symbols. Using weird pigments. It’s like he wants to screw around with
our heads.”
Jane was still
studying the map. She thought of the symbol drawn on the door in Anthony Sansone’s garden. Udjat,
the all-seeing eye. She looked at Frost. “
“You’re
thinking of the eye of Horus?”
“What’s
that?”
“That
symbol left at the
“Is that
a satanic symbol?”
“We
don’t know what it means to this perp,”
said Frost. “Everyone’s got a theory. He’s a Satanist.
He’s a history buff. Or it could just be plain old-fashioned
insanity.”
Jane closed the
folder. “You know, I kind of hope our perp is
crazy, too.”
“Why?”
asked
“Because
I’m a lot more scared of the alternative. That this killer is perfectly
sane.”
Jane and Frost
sat in the car as the engine warmed and the defroster melted the fog from the
windshield. If only it was so easy to clear the mist cloaking the killer. She
couldn’t form a picture of him; she couldn’t begin to imagine what
he looked like. A mystic? An artist? An historian? All I do know is that
he’s a butcher.
Frost shifted
into gear, and they pulled into traffic, which was moving far more slowly than
usual, on roads slick with ice. Under clear skies, the temperature was
dropping, and tonight the cold would be the bitterest so far this winter. It
was a night to stay home and eat a hearty stew, a night, she hoped, when evil
would stay off the streets.
Frost drove
east on
She noticed
they were approaching
“Aren’t
we going to Sansone’s place?”
“Just
turn here.”
“If you
say so.” He made a right.
“Keep
going. Toward
“We going
to the M.E.’s?”
“No.”
“So where
we headed?”
“It’s
right down here. Another few blocks.” She watched the addresses go by,
and said, “Stop. Right here.” She stared across the street.
Frost pulled
over to the curb and frowned at her. “Kinko’s?”
“My dad
works there.” She glanced at her watch. “And it’s just about
noon.”
“What are
we doing?”
“Waiting.”
“Aw geez, Rizzoli. This isn’t about your mom, is
it?”
“It’s
screwing up my whole life right now.”
“Your
parents are having a tiff. It happens.”
“Wait
till your mother moves in with you. See how
“I’m
sure this’ll blow over and your mom’ll go
home.”
“Not if
there’s another woman involved.” She sat up straight. “There
he is.”
Frank Rizzoli
stepped out the front door of Kinko’s and zipped up his jacket. He
glanced at the sky, gave a visible shiver, and exhaled a breath that swirled
white in the cold.
“Looks
like he’s going on his lunch break,” said Frost.
“What’s the big deal?”
“That,”
said Jane softly. “That’s the big deal.”
A woman had
just stepped out the door as well, a big-haired blond wearing a black leather
jacket over skin-tight blue jeans. Frank grinned and slipped his arm around her
waist. They began to walk down the street, away from Jane and Frost, arms
wrapped around each other.
“What the
fuck,” said Jane. “It’s true.”
“You
know, I think we should probably just move on.”
“Look at
them. Look at them!”
Frost started
the engine. “I could really use some lunch. How about we go
to—”
Jane shoved
open the door and stepped out.
“Aw,
Rizzoli! Come on.”
She darted
across the street and stalked up the sidewalk, right behind her father.
“Hey,” she yelled. “Hey!”
Frank halted, his
arm dropping from around the woman’s waist. He turned to stare,
slack-jawed, as his daughter approached. The blond had not yet released her
grip and she continued to cling to Frank, even as he made futile attempts to
extricate himself. From a distance, the woman had looked like a real
eye-catcher, but as Jane drew closer she saw, fanning out from the
woman’s eyes, deep creases that even thick makeup couldn’t conceal,
and she caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. This was the piece of ass
Frank had traded up to, a bimbo with big hair? This human equivalent of a
golden retriever?
“Janie,”
said Frank. “This isn’t the time to—”
“When is
the time?”
“I’ll
call you, okay? We’ll talk about it tonight.”
“Frankie
honey, what’s going on?” the blond asked.
Don’t you
call him Frankie! Jane glared at the woman. “And what’s your
name?”
The
woman’s chin jutted up. “Who wants to know?”
“Just
answer the fucking question.”
“Yeah,
make me!” The blond looked at Frank. “Who the hell is this?”
Frank lifted a
hand to his head and gave a moan, as though in pain. “Oh, man.”
“Boston
PD,” said Jane. She pulled out her ID and thrust it in the woman’s
face. “Now tell me your name.”
The blond
didn’t even look at the ID; her startled gaze was on Jane. “Sandie,” she murmured.
“Sandie what?”
“Huffington.”
“ID,”
ordered Jane.
“Janie,”
said her dad. “That’s enough.”
Sandie obediently pulled out her wallet to show her
driver’s license. “What did we do wrong?” She shot a
suspicious look at Frank. “What’d you do?”
“This is
all bullshit,” he said.
“And
when’s the bullshit going to end, huh?” Jane shot back at him.
“When are you going to grow up?”
“This is
none of your beeswax.”
“Oh no?
She’s sitting in my apartment right now, probably crying her eyes out.
All because you can’t keep your goddamn pants zipped.”
“She?”
said Sandie. “Who’re we talking
about?”
“Thirty-seven
years of marriage, and you dump her for boom-boom here?”
“You
don’t understand,” said Frank.
“Oh, I
understand just fine.”
“You have
no idea what it’s like. Just a damn worker bee, that’s all I am.
Some drone to put food on the table. I’m sixty-one years old, and what do
I got to show for it? You don’t think I deserve a little fun, for once in
my life?”
“You
think Mom’s having any fun?”
“That’s
her problem.”
“It’s
mine, too.”
“Well, I
take no responsibility for that.”
“Hey,”
said Sandie. “This is your daughter?” She
looked at Jane. “You said you were a cop.”
Frank sighed.
“She is a cop.”
“You’re
breaking her heart, you know that?” said Jane. “Do you even
care?”
“What
about my heart?” Sandie cut in.
Jane ignored
the bimbo and kept her gaze on Frank. “I don’t even know who you
are anymore, Dad. I used to respect you. Now look at you! Pathetic, just
pathetic. This blondie shakes her ass and
you’re like some idiot dog, sniffing at it. Oh yeah, Dad, hump
away.”
Frank shoved a
finger at her. “That’s enough outta you!”
“You
think boom-boom here is gonna take care of you when
you’re sick, huh? You think she’ll stand by you? Hell, does she
even know how to cook?”
“How dare
you,” said Sandie. “You used your badge
to scare me.”
“Mom’ll take you back, Dad. I know she will. Go talk
to her.”
“There’s
a law against what you did,” said Sandie.
“There’s gotta be! It’s police
harassment!”
“I’ll
show you what police harassment is,” Jane shot back. “You just keep
pushing me.”
“What’re
you gonna do, arrest me?” Sandie
leaned into her, eyes narrowed to slits of mascara. “Go ahead.” The
woman shoved her finger against Jane’s chest and gave a hard shove.
“I dare you.”
What happened
next was purely reflexive. Jane didn’t even stop to think, but simply
reacted. With one sweep of her hand, she grasped Sandie’s
wrist, twisted her around. Through the rushing of her own blood, she heard Sandie screaming obscenities. Heard her dad yell,
“Stop it! For God’s sake, stop!” But she was operating on
automatic now, all nerves firing on full thrust as she shoved Sandie to her knees, the way she’d handle any perp. But this time there was rage fueling her, making her
twist harder than she had to, making her want to hurt this woman. Humiliate
her.
“Rizzoli!
Jesus, Rizzoli, that’s enough!”
The sound of
Frost’s voice finally penetrated the pounding of her own pulse. Abruptly
she released Sandie and stepped back, breathing hard.
She stared down at the woman who knelt whimpering on the sidewalk. Frank
dropped to his knees beside Sandie and helped her to
her feet.
“What the
hell’re you gonna do
now?” Frank looked up at his daughter. “Arrest her?”
“You saw
it. She shoved me.”
“She was
upset.”
“She
made the first contact.”
“Rizzoli,”
Frost said quietly. “Let’s just drop it, okay?”
“I could
arrest her,” said Jane. “Damn it, I could.”
“Yeah,
okay,” said Frost. “You could. But do you really want to?”
She heaved out
a breath. “I got better things to do,” she muttered. Then she
turned and walked back to the car. By the time she climbed in, her dad and the
blond had already vanished around the corner.
Frost slid in
beside her and pulled his door shut. “That,” he said, “was
not a cool thing to do.”
“Just
drive.”
“You went
in looking for a fight.”
“Did you
see her? My dad’s going out with a friggin’
bimbo!”
“All the
more reason why you need to stay a hundred miles away from her. You two were gonna kill each other.”
Jane sighed and
dropped her head in her hand. “What do I tell my mom?”
“Nothing.”
Frost started the car and pulled away from the curb. “Their marriage is
not your business.”
“I’m
gonna have to go home and look at her face. See all
the hurt there. That makes it my business.”
“Then be
a good daughter. Give her a shoulder to cry on,” he said. “Because
she’s gonna need one.”
What do I tell
my mom?
Jane pulled
into a parking space outside her apartment and sat for a moment, dreading what
came next. Maybe she shouldn’t tell her what happened today. Angela already
knew about Dad and Miss Golden Retriever. Why rub her face in it? Why humiliate
her even more?
Because if I
were Mom, I’d want to be told. I wouldn’t want my daughter keeping
secrets from me, no matter how painful they were.
Jane stepped
out of the car, debating what to say, knowing that, no matter what she decided,
this was going to be a miserable evening, and that little she could do or say
would ease her mother’s pain. Be a good daughter, Frost had said; give
her a shoulder to cry on. Okay, that much she could manage.
She climbed the
stairs to the second floor, her feet feeling heavier with every step as she
silently cursed Miss Sandie Huffington,
who had screwed up all their lives. Oh, I’ve got my eye on you. You so
much as jaywalk, Bimbo, and I’m gonna be right
there. Outstanding parking tickets? Bad news for you. Mom can’t hit back,
but I sure as hell can. She thrust her key into her apartment door and paused,
frowning at the sound of her mother’s voice inside. The sound of her
laughter.
Mom?
Pushing open
the door, she inhaled the scent of cinnamon and vanilla. Heard a different
laugh now, startlingly familiar. A man’s. She walked into the kitchen and
stared at retired detective Vince Korsak, who sat at
the table with a cup of coffee. In front of him was a huge plate of sugar
cookies.
“Hey,”
he said, lifting his coffee cup in greeting. Baby
“Um…what
are you doing here?”
“Janie!”
scolded Angela, setting a pan of freshly baked cookies on the stovetop to cool.
“What a thing to say to Vince.”
Vince?
She’s calling him Vince?
“He
called to invite you and Gabriel to a party,” said Angela.
“And you,
too, Mrs. Rizzoli,” Korsak said, winking at
Angela. “The more chicks that come, the better!”
Angela flushed,
and it wasn’t from the oven’s heat.
“And I
bet he smelled the cookies over the phone,” said Jane.
“I just
happened to be here baking. I told him that if he came right over, I’d
whip up an extra batch for him.”
“No way
I’d pass up an offer like that,” laughed Korsak.
“Hey, pretty nice having your mom here, huh?”
Jane eyed the
crumbs all over his wrinkled shirt. “I see you’re off your
diet.”
“And I
see you’re in a good mood.” He took a sloppy gulp of coffee and
swiped a fat hand across his mouth. “I hear you caught yourself a freakin’ weird one.” He paused, glanced at
Angela. “Pardon my French, Mrs. Rizzoli.”
“Oh, say
whatever you want,” said Angela. “I want you to feel right at
home.”
Please
don’t encourage him.
“Some kinda satanic cult,” he said.
“You
heard that?”
“Retirement
didn’t make me deaf.”
Or dumb. As
much as he might irritate her with his crude jokes and appalling hygiene, Korsak was one of the sharpest investigators she knew.
Although retired since his heart attack last year, he had never really left the
badge behind. On a weekend night, she could still find him hanging out at JP
Doyle’s, a favorite Boston PD watering hole, catching up on the latest
war stories. Retired or not, Vince Korsak would die a
cop.
“What
else did you hear?” asked Jane, sitting down at the table.
“That
your perp’s an artist. Leaves cute little
drawings behind. And he likes to” —Korsak
paused and glanced at Angela, who was sliding cookies off the pan—
“slice and dice. Am I warm?”
“A little
too warm.”
Angela lifted
off the last of the cookies and sealed them in a ziplock
bag. With a flourish, she placed them in front of Korsak.
This was not the Angela whom Jane had expected to come home to. Her mother was
actually bustling around the kitchen now, gathering pans and bowls,
splashing soapsuds as she washed up in the sink. She didn’t look
miserable or abandoned or depressed; she looked ten years younger. Is this
what happens when your husband walks out on you?
“Tell
Jane more about your party,” said Angela, refilling Korsak’s
coffee cup.
“Oh
yeah.” He took a noisy slurp. “See, I signed my divorce papers last
week. Almost a year of wrangling over money, and it’s finally over. I
figured it was time to celebrate my new status as a free man. I got my
apartment all decorated. Nice leather couch, big-screen TV. I’m gonna buy a few cases, get some friends together, and
we’re all gonna par-tee!”
He’d
turned into a fifty-five-year-old teenager with a potbelly and a comb-over.
Could he get any more pathetic?
“So
you’re coming, right?” he asked Jane. “Second Saturday in
January.”
“Let me
check the date with Gabriel.”
“If he
can’t make it, you can always come stag. Just be sure to bring your older
sister here.” He gave Angela a wink, and she giggled.
This was
getting more painful by the minute. Jane was almost relieved to hear the
muffled ringing of her cell phone. She went into the living room, where
she’d left her purse, and dug out her phone.
“Rizzoli,”
she said.
Lieutenant
Marquette did not waste time with pleasantries. “You need to be more
respectful of Anthony Sansone,” he said.
In the kitchen,
she could hear Korsak laughing, and the sound
suddenly irritated her. If you’re going to flirt with my mom, for
God’s sake, take it somewhere else.
“I hear
you’ve been giving him and his friends a hard time,” said
“Maybe
you could define what you mean by hard time?”
“You
questioned him for nearly two hours. Grilled his butler, his dinner guests.
Then you went back to see him again this afternoon. You’re making him
feel as if he’s the one under investigation.”
“Well,
gee, I’m sorry if I hurt his feelings. We’re just doing what we
always do.”
“Rizzoli,
try to keep in mind the man is not a suspect.”
“I
haven’t reached that conclusion yet. O’Donnell was in his house.
Eve Kassovitz was killed in his garden. And when his
butler finds the body, what does Sansone do? He takes
photos. Passes them around to his friends. You wanna
know the truth? These people are not normal. Certainly Sansone
isn’t.”
“He’s
not a suspect.”
“I
haven’t eliminated him.”
“You can
trust me on this. Leave him alone.”
She paused.
“You want to tell me more, Lieutenant?” she asked quietly.
“What do I not know about Anthony Sansone?”
“He’s
not a man we want to alienate.”
“Do you know
him?”
“Not
personally. I’m just conveying the word from above. We’ve been told
to treat him with respect.”
She hung up.
Moving to the window, she stared out at an afternoon sky that was no longer
blue. More snow was probably on the way. She thought: One minute you think
you can see forever, and then the clouds move in and obscure everything.
She reached for
her cell phone again and began to dial.
Maura watched
through the viewing window as Yoshima, wearing a lead
apron, positioned the collimator over the abdomen. Some people walk into work
on Monday mornings dreading nothing worse awaiting them than a stack of fresh
paperwork or message slips. On this Monday morning, what had awaited Maura was
the woman who lay on that table, her body now stripped bare. Maura saw Yoshima reemerge from behind the lead shield to retrieve
the film cassette for processing. He glanced up and gave a nod.
Maura pushed
through the door, back into the autopsy lab.
The night she
had crouched shivering in Anthony Sansone’s
garden, she had seen this body only under the glow of flashlight beams. Today,
Detective Eve Kassovitz lay fully bared to view,
harsh lights washing out every shadow. The blood had been rinsed away,
revealing raw, pink injuries. A scalp laceration. A stab wound on the chest,
beneath the sternum. And the lidless eyes, the corneas now clouded from
exposure. That was what Maura could not help staring at: those mutilated eyes.
The whish of
the door announced Jane’s arrival. “You haven’t started
yet?” Jane asked.
“No. Is
anyone else joining us?”
“It’s
just me today.” Jane paused in the midst of tying on her gown, her gaze
suddenly fixed on the table. On the face of her dead colleague. “I should
have stood up for her,” she said quietly. “When those jerks in the
unit started in with the stupid jokes, I should have put a stop to it right
there.”
“They’re
the ones who should feel guilty, Jane. Not you.”
“But
I’ve been there myself. I know how it feels.” Jane kept looking
down at the exposed corneas. “They won’t be able to pretty up these
eyes for the funeral.”
“It will
have to be a closed coffin.”
“The eye
of Horus,” Jane said softly.
“What?”
“That
drawing on Sansone’s door. It’s an
ancient symbol, dating back to the Egyptians. It’s called Udjat, the all-seeing eye.”
“Who told
you about that?”
“One of Sansone’s dinner guests.” She looked at Maura.
“These people —Sansone and his
friends— they’re weird. The more I find out about them, the more
they creep me out. Especially him.”
Yoshima came out of the processing room, carrying a sheaf
of freshly developed films. They gave a musical twang as he clipped them to the
light box.
Maura reached
for the ruler and measured the scalp laceration, jotting its dimensions on a
clipboard. “He called me that night, you know,” she said, without
looking up. “To make sure I got home safely.”
“Sansone did?”
Maura glanced
up. “Do you consider him a suspect?”
“Think
about this: After they found the body, do you know what Sansone
did? Before he even called the police? He got out his camera and snapped some
photos. Had his butler deliver them to his friends the next morning. Tell me
that isn’t weird.”
“But do
you consider him a suspect?”
After a pause,
Jane admitted, “No. And if I did, it would present problems.”
“What do
you mean?”
“Gabriel
tried to do a little digging for me. He called around to find out more about
the guy. All he did was ask a few questions, and suddenly doors slammed shut.
The FBI, Interpol, no one wanted to talk about Sansone.
Obviously he has friends in high places who are ready to protect him.”
Maura thought
of the house on
“It’s
all inherited. He sure didn’t make his fortune teaching medieval history
at
“How wealthy
are we talking about?”
“That
house on
“He
didn’t strike me as the kind of man you’d find on the party
circuit.”
“What
else did you think about him?”
“We
didn’t have that long a conversation.”
“But you did
have one that night.”
“It was
freezing outside, and he invited me in for coffee.”
“Didn’t
that seem a little weird?”
“What?”
“That he
made a special effort to invite you in?”
“I
appreciated the gesture. And for the record, it was the butler who came out to
get me.”
“You,
specifically? He knew who you were?”
Maura
hesitated. “Yes.”
“What did
he want from you, Doc?”
Maura had moved
on to the torso, and she now measured the stab wound on the chest and jotted
the dimensions on her clipboard. The questions were getting too pointed, and
she didn’t like the implications: that she’d let herself be used by
Anthony Sansone. “I didn’t reveal
anything vital about the case, Jane. If that’s what you’re
asking.”
“But you
did talk about it?”
“About a
number of things. And yes, he wanted to know what I thought. It’s not
surprising, since the body was found in his garden. Understandably, he’s
curious. And maybe a little eccentric.” She met Jane’s gaze and
found it uncomfortably probing. She dropped her attention back to the corpse,
to wounds that did not disturb her nearly as much as Jane’s questions.
“Eccentric?
That’s the only word you can think of?”
She thought of
the way Sansone had studied her that night, how his
eyes had reflected the firelight, and other words came to mind. Intelligent.
Attractive. Intimidating.
“You
don’t think he’s just a little bit creepy?” asked Jane.
“Because I sure do.”
“Why?”
“You saw
his house. It’s like stepping into a time warp. And you never saw the
other rooms, with all those portraits staring from the walls. It’s like
walking into Dracula’s castle.”
“He’s
a history professor.”
“Was.
He’s not teaching anymore.”
“Those
are probably heirlooms, and priceless. Clearly he appreciates his family
legacy.”
“Oh yeah,
the family legacy. That’s where he got lucky. He’s a
fourth-generation trust-funder.”
“Yet he
pursued a successful academic career. You have to give him some credit for
that. He didn’t just turn into an idle playboy.”
“Here’s
the interesting twist. The family trust fund was established back in 1905, by
his great-grandfather. Guess what the name of that trust fund is?”
“I have
no idea.”
“It’s
called the Mephisto Foundation.”
Maura glanced
up, startled. “Mephisto?” she murmured.
“You gotta wonder,” said Jane, “with a name like
that, what kind of family legacy are we talking about?”
Yoshima asked, “What’s the significance of that
name? Mephisto?”
“I looked
it up,” said Jane. “It’s short for Mephistopheles. Doc here
probably knows who he was.”
“The name
comes from the legend of Dr. Faustus,” said Maura.
“Who?”
asked Yoshima.
“Dr.
Faustus was a magician,” said Maura. “He drew secret symbols to
summon the Devil. An evil spirit named Mephistopheles appeared and offered him
a deal.”
“What
kind of deal?”
“In
exchange for the full knowledge of magic, Dr. Faustus sold his soul to the
Devil.”
“So Mephisto is…”
“A
servant of Satan.”
A voice
suddenly spoke over the intercom. “Dr. Isles,” said Maura’s
secretary, Louise. “You have an outside call on line one. It’s a
Mr. Sansone. Do you want to pick up, or shall I take
a message?”
Speak of the
Devil.
Maura met
Jane’s gaze and saw Jane give a quick nod.
“I’ll
take the call,” said Maura. Stripping off her gloves, she crossed to the
wall phone and picked up the receiver. “Mr. Sansone?”
“I hope
I’m not interrupting you,” he said.
She looked at
the body on the table. Eve Kassovitz won’t
mind, she thought. There is no one as patient as the dead. “I
have a minute to talk.”
“This
Saturday, I’m hosting a supper here at my home. I’d love to have
you join us.”
Maura paused,
acutely aware that Jane was watching her. “I’ll need to think about
it,” she said.
“I’m
sure you’re wondering what this is all about.”
“Actually,
I am.”
“I
promise not to pick your brain about the investigation.”
“I
can’t talk about it anyway. You do know that.”
“Understood.
That’s not why I’m inviting you.”
“Then
why?” A blunt, inelegant question, but she had to ask it.
“We share
common interests. Common concerns.”
“I’m
not sure I understand what you mean.”
“Join us
on Saturday, around seven. We can talk about it then.”
“Let me
check my schedule first. I’ll let you know.” She hung up.
“What was
that all about?” asked Jane.
“He just
invited me to dinner.”
“He wants
something from you.”
“Not a
thing, he claims.” Maura crossed to the cabinet for a fresh pair of
gloves. Although her hands were steady as she pulled them on, she could feel
her face flushing, her pulse throbbing in her fingertips.
“You
believe that?”
“Of
course not. That’s why I’m not going.”
Jane said
quietly, “Maybe you should.”
Maura turned to
look at her. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’d
like to know more about the Mephisto Foundation. Who
they are, what they do at their secret little meetings. I may not be able to
get the information any other way.”
“So you
want me to do it for you?”
“All
I’m saying is, I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad idea if
you go. As long as you’re careful.”
Maura crossed
to the table. Staring down at Eve Kassovitz, she
thought: This woman was a cop and she was armed. Yet even she wasn’t careful
enough. Maura picked up the knife and began to cut.
Her blade
traced a Y on the torso, two incisions slicing from both shoulders to meet
lower than usual beneath the sternum. To preserve the stab wound. Even before
the ribs were cut, before the chest was opened, she knew what she would find
inside the thorax. She could see it in the chest films now hanging on the light
box: the globular outline of the heart, far larger than it should be in a
healthy young woman. Lifting off the shield of breastbone and ribs, she peered
into the chest and slid her hand beneath the swollen sac that contained the
heart.
It felt like a
bag filled with blood.
“Pericardial
tamponade,” she said, and looked up at Jane.
“She bled into the sac that surrounds her heart. Since it’s a
confined space, the sac becomes so taut, the heart can’t pump. Or the
stab itself may have caused a fatal arrhythmia. Either way, this was a quick
and efficient kill. But he had to know where to aim the blade.”
“He knew
what he was doing.”
“Or he
got lucky.” She pointed to the wound. “You can see the blade
pierced just below the xiphoid process. Anywhere
above that, the heart’s pretty well protected by the sternum and ribs.
But if you enter here, where this wound is located, and aim the blade at just the
right angle…”
“You’ll
hit the heart?”
“It’s
not difficult. I did it as an intern, on my ER rotation. With a needle, of
course.”
“On a
dead person, I hope.”
“No, she
was alive. But we couldn’t hear her heartbeat, her blood pressure was crashing,
and the chest x-ray showed a globular heart. I had to do something.”
“So you stabbed
her?”
“With a
cardiac needle. Removed enough blood from the sac to keep her alive until she
could make it to surgery.”
“It’s
like that spy novel, Eye of the Needle,” said Yoshima.
“The killer stabs his victims straight in the heart, and they die so
fast, there’s hardly any blood. It makes a pretty clean kill.”
“Thank
you for that useful tip,” said Jane.
“Actually,
Yoshima raises a good point,” said Maura.
“Our perp chose a quick method to kill Eve Kassovitz. But with Lori-Ann Tucker, he took his time
removing the hand, the arm, the head. And then he drew the symbols. With this
victim, he didn’t waste a lot of time. Which makes me think Eve was
killed for a more practical reason. Maybe she surprised him, and he simply had
to get rid of her, on the spot. So he did it the fastest way he could. A blow
to the head. And then a quick stab to the heart.”
“He took
the time to draw those symbols on the door.”
“How do
we know he didn’t draw them first? To go with the bundle he’d just
delivered on the doorstep?”
“You mean
the hand.”
Maura nodded.
“His offering.”
Her blade was
back at work, cutting, resecting. Out came lungs,
which she dropped into a steel basin, where they formed a spongy mass. A glance
at the pink surface, a few slices into each of the lobes, told her these had
been the healthy lungs of a nonsmoker, designed to serve their owner well into
old age. Maura moved on to the peritoneal cavity, gloved hands reaching into
the abdomen to resect stomach and pancreas and liver.
Eve Kassovitz’s belly had been enviably flat,
the reward no doubt of many hours laboring at sit-ups and stomach crunches. How
easily all that effort was reduced by a scalpel to incised muscle and gaping
skin. The basin slowly filled with organs, loops of small intestine glistening
like tangled eels, liver and spleen settling into a bloody mound. Everything
healthy, so healthy. She sliced into the retroperitoneum,
removed velvety smooth kidneys, sliced off tiny chunks, which she dropped into
a specimen jar. They sank into formalin, trailing swirls of blood.
Straightening,
she looked at Yoshima. “Can you put up the
skull films now? Let’s see what we have.”
He pulled down
the torso x-rays and began mounting a new set, which she had not yet examined.
Films of the head now glowed on the viewing box. She focused on the table of
bone just beneath the scalp laceration, searching the outline of the cranium
for some telltale fracture line or depression that she’d been unable to
palpate, but she saw none. Even without a fracture, the blow could still have
been enough to stun the victim into submission, to bring her down long enough
for the killer to yank open her jacket and lift her sweater.
To thrust the
blade into her heart.
At first, the
skull was what held Maura’s focus. Then she moved on to a lateral view
and focused on the neck, her gaze stopping on the hyoid bone. Posterior to it
was a cone-shaped opacity unlike anything she had seen before. Frowning, she
moved closer to the light box and stood staring at the anomaly. On the frontal
view, it was almost hidden against the greater density of the cervical
vertebrae. But on the lateral view it was clearly visible, and it was not part
of the skeletal structure.
“What on
earth is this?” she murmured.
Jane moved
beside her. “What’re you looking at?”
“This
thing here. It’s not bone. It’s not a normal part of the
neck.”
“Is that
something in her throat?”
Maura turned
back to the table and said to Yoshima, “Could
you get the laryngoscope for me?”
Standing at the
head of the table, Maura tilted up the chin. She had first used a laryngoscope
as a fourth-year medical student, when she’d tried to insert an endotracheal tube into a man who was not breathing. The
circumstances were frantic, the patient in cardiac arrest. Her supervising
resident allowed Maura only one attempt at the intubation. “You get ten
seconds,” he’d said, “and if you can’t, then I take
over.” She’d slipped in the laryngoscope and peered into the
throat, looking for the vocal cords, but all she could see was tongue and
mucosa. As the seconds ticked by, as a nurse pumped on the chest and the Code
Blue team watched, Maura had struggled with the instrument, knowing that with
every second the patient was deprived of oxygen, more brain cells could die.
The resident finally took the instrument from her hands and nudged her aside to
do the job himself. It had been a humiliating demonstration of her
incompetence.
The dead do not
require such speedy intervention. Now, as she slid the laryngoscope blade into
the mouth, there was no squealing heart monitor, no Code Blue team staring at
her, no life hanging in the balance. Eve Kassovitz
was a patient subject as Maura tilted the blade, lifting the tongue out of the
way. She bent down and peered into the throat. The neck was long and slender,
and on her first try, Maura easily spotted the vocal cords, like pale pink
straps flanking the airway. Trapped between them was an object that glistened
back at her.
“Forceps,”
she said, holding out her hand. Yoshima placed the
instrument in her palm.
“You see
it?” asked Jane.
“Yes.”
Maura snagged
the object and gently withdrew it from the throat. She dropped it onto a
specimen tray, and it clattered against stainless steel.
“Is that
what I think it is?” said Jane.
Maura turned
over the specimen, and it gleamed like a pearl under the bright lights.
A seashell.
The
afternoon light had darkened to a somber gray by the time Jane drove onto the
Eve Kassovitz
was a cop, too. Yet she never saw death coming.
Jane buttoned up her coat collar and
started toward the
She climbed the granite stairs and
stepped into the building, and into a different era. Wood floors creaked
beneath her feet. She smelled the dust of many decades and the heat of ancient
radiators, and saw row after row of wooden display cabinets.
But no people. The entrance hall was
deserted.
She walked deeper into the building, past
glass-enclosed specimen cases, and paused to stare at a collection of insects
mounted on pins. She saw monstrous black beetles with pincers poised to nip
tender skin, and winged roaches, carapaces gleaming. With a shudder she walked
on, past butterflies bright as jewels, past a cabinet with birds’ eggs
that would never hatch, and mounted finches that would never again sing.
The creak of a footstep told her she was
not alone.
She turned and stared up the narrow aisle
between two tall cabinets. Backlit by the wintry light glowing through the
window, the man was just a bent and faceless silhouette shuffling toward her.
Only as he moved closer, emerging at last from his dusty hiding place, did she
see the creased face, the wire-rim spectacles. Distorted blue eyes peered at
her through thick lenses.
“You wouldn’t be that woman
from the police, would you?” he asked.
“Dr. Von Schiller? I’m
Detective Rizzoli.”
“I knew you had to be. No one else
would wander in this late in the day. The door’s normally locked by now,
so you’re getting a bit of a private tour here.” He gave a wink, as
though this special treat should stay a secret between them. A rare chance to ogle
dead bugs and stuffed birds without the hordes pressing in. “Well, did
you bring it?” he asked.
“I’ve got it right
here.” She removed the evidence bag from her pocket, and his eyes lit up
at the sight of the contents, visible through the clear plastic.
“Come, on, then! Let’s go up
to my office where I can get a good look at it under my magnifier. My eyes
aren’t so good anymore. I hate the fluorescent lamp up there, but I do
need it for something like this.”
She followed him toward the stairwell,
matching her pace to his agonizingly slow shuffle. Could this guy still be
teaching? He seemed far too old to even make it up the stairs. But Von Schiller
was the name recommended to her when she’d called the comparative zoology
department, and there was no mistaking the gleam of excitement in his eyes when
he’d spotted what she had brought in her pocket. He could not wait to get
his hands on it.
“Do you know much about seashells,
Detective?” Von Schiller asked as he slowly climbed the stairs, his
gnarled hand grasping the carved banister.
“Only what I’ve learned from
eating clams.”
“You mean you’ve never
collected them?” He glanced back. “Did you know Robert Louis
Stevenson once said, ‘It is perhaps a more fortunate destiny to have a
taste for collecting shells than to be born a millionaire’?”
“Did he, now?” I think
I’d rather be a millionaire.
“It’s a passion I’ve
had since I was a child. My parents would take us every year to the
“Did you get a look at the photos I
e-mailed you?”
“Oh, yes. I forwarded the photo to
Stefano Rufini, an old friend of mine. Consults for a
company called Medshells. They locate rare specimens
from around the world and sell them to wealthy collectors. He and I agree about
your shell’s probable origins.”
“So what is this shell?”
Von Schiller glanced back at her with a
smile. “You think I’d give you a final answer without actually
examining it?”
“You seem to know already.”
“I’ve narrowed it down,
that’s all I can tell you.” He resumed climbing the stairs.
“Its class is Gastropoda,” he said.
Climbed another step. “Order: Caenogastropoda.”
Another step, another chant. “Superfamily: Buccinacea.”
“Excuse me. What does all that
mean?”
“It means that your little seashell
is, first of all, a gastropod, which translates to stomach foot.
It’s the same general class of mollusk as a land snail or a limpet.
They’re univalves, with a muscular foot.”
“That’s the name of this
shell?”
“No, that’s just the phylogenetic class. There are at least fifty thousand
different varieties of gastropods around the world, and not all of them are
ocean dwellers. The common land slug, for instance, is a gastropod, even though
it has no shell.” He reached the top of the stairs and led the way
through a hall with yet more display cases containing a silent menagerie of
creatures, their glassy eyes staring back at Jane in disapproval. So vivid was
her impression of being watched that she paused and glanced back at the
deserted gallery, at cabinet after cabinet of mounted specimens.
Nobody here but us murdered animals.
She turned to follow Von Schiller.
He had vanished.
For a moment she stood alone in that vast
gallery, hearing only the thump of her own heartbeat, feeling the hostile gazes
of those countless creatures trapped behind glass. “Dr. Von
Schiller?” she called, and her voice seemed to echo through hall after
hall.
His head popped out from behind a
cabinet. “Well, aren’t you coming?” he asked. “My
office is right here.”
Office was too grand a word for the space he occupied. A door with
the plaque —DR. HENRY VON SCHILLER, PROFESSOR EMERITUS— led to a
windowless nook scarcely larger than a broom closet. Crammed inside were a
desk, two chairs, and little else. He flipped on the wall switch and squinted
in the harsh fluorescent glare.
“Let’s see it, then,”
he said, and eagerly snatched the ziplock bag that
she held out to him. “You say you found this at a crime scene?”
She hesitated, then said, merely, yes. Rammed
down the throat of a dead woman was what she didn’t say.
“Why do you think it’s
significant?”
“I’m hoping you can tell
me.”
“May I handle it?”
“If you really need to.”
He opened the bag and, with arthritic
fingers, he removed the seashell. “Oh yes,” he murmured as he squeezed
behind his desk and settled into a creaking chair. He turned on a gooseneck
lamp and pulled out a magnifying glass and a ruler. “Yes, it’s what
I thought. Looks like about, oh, twenty-one millimeters long. Not a
particularly nice specimen. These striations aren’t all that pretty, and
it’s got a few chips here, you see? Could be an old shell that’s
been tumbled around in some hobbyist’s collection box.” He looked
up, blue eyes watery behind spectacles. “Pisania
maculosa.”
“Is that its name?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
He set down the magnifying lens with a
thud and stood up. “You don’t trust me?” he snapped.
“Come on, then.”
“I’m not saying I don’t
trust—”
“Of course that’s what
you’re saying.” Von Schiller scuttled out of his office, moving with
a speed she had not known he was capable of. Annoyed and in a hurry to defend
himself, he shuffled through gallery after gallery, leading Jane deep into a
gloomy maze of specimen cabinets, past the stares of countless dead eyes, and
down a row of display cases tucked into the farthest corner of the building.
Clearly, this was not a well-visited section of the museum. Typed display
labels were yellowed with age, and dust filmed the glass cases. Von Schiller
squeezed down a narrow corridor between cabinets, pulled open a drawer, and
took out a specimen box.
“Here,” he said, opening the
box. He took out a handful of shells and placed them, one by one, on top of a
glass case. “Pisania maculosa. And here’s another, and another. And
here’s yours.” He looked at her with the indignation of an
insulted academic. “Well?”
Jane scanned the array of seashells, all
of them with the same graceful curves, the same spiraling striations.
“They do look alike.”
“Of course they do! They’re
the same species! I know what I’m talking about. This is my field,
Detective.”
And what a really useful field it is, she thought as she took out her
notebook. “What’s the species name again?”
“Here, give that to me.” He
snatched away her notebook and she watched him write down the name, scowling as
he did it. This was not a nice old guy. No wonder they hid him away in a broom
closet.
He handed back the notebook.
“There. Properly spelled.”
“So what does this mean?”
“It’s the name.”
“No, I mean what’s the
significance of this particular shell?”
“Is it supposed to mean something?
You’re Homo sapiens sapiens, this is Pisania maculosa.
That’s just the way it is.”
“This shell, is it rare?”
“Not at all. You can easily buy
them over the Internet, from any number of dealers.”
Which made the shell little more than
useless as a way to track a killer. With a sigh, she put away her notebook.
“They’re quite common in the
She looked up. “The
“And the
“I’m sorry. I’m not
really clear exactly where the
He gave her a sour look of disbelief.
Then he waved her over to one of the cases, where dozens of shells were
displayed, along with a faded map of the
“And nowhere else? The
“I’ve just told you its
range. Those shells I brought out to show you—they were all collected in
She was silent a moment, her gaze still on
the case. She could not remember the last time she’d really studied a map
of the
Her eyes then focused on the eastern
corner of the
Red ocher. Seashells. What is the killer
trying to tell us?
“Oh,” said Von Schiller.
“I didn’t know anyone else was here.”
Jane had not heard any footsteps, even on
the creaking wood floors. She turned to see a young man looming right behind
her. Most likely a graduate student, judging by his rumpled shirt and blue
jeans. He certainly looked like a scholar, with heavy black-framed glasses, his
face washed out to a wintry pallor. He stood so silent that Jane wondered if
the man could speak.
Then the words came out, his stuttering
so tortured that it was painful to hear. “P-p-professor Von Schiller.
It’s t-t-time to c-c-close.”
“We’re just finishing up
here, Malcolm. I wanted to show Detective Rizzoli some examples of Pisania.” Von Schiller placed the
shells back in their box. “I’ll lock up.”
“B-b-but it’s
my—”
“I know, I know. Just because
I’ve gotten on in years, no one trusts me to turn one stupid key anymore.
Look, I’ve still got papers on my desk that I need to sort through. Why
don’t you show the detective out? I promise I’ll lock the door when
I leave.”
The young man hesitated, as though trying
to come up with the words to protest. Then he simply sighed and nodded.
Jane slipped the evidence bag containing
the shell back into her pocket. “Thank you for your help, Dr. Von
Schiller,” she said. But the old man was already shuffling away to return
the box of shells to its drawer.
The young man said nothing as he led Jane
through the gloomy exhibit halls, past animals trapped behind glass, his
sneakers setting off barely a creak on the wood floors. This was hardly the
place a young man should be spending a Sunday evening, she thought. Keeping
company with fossils and pierced butterflies.
Outside, through the gloom of early
evening, Jane trudged back toward the parking lot, her shoes crunching across
gritty snow. Halfway there she slowed, stopped. Turning, she scanned the
darkened buildings, the pools of light cast by streetlamps. No one, nothing,
moved.
On the night she died, did Eve Kassovitz see her killer coming?
She quickened her pace, her keys already
in hand, and crossed to her car, which now sat alone in the lot. Only after
she’d slid inside and locked the door did she let down her guard. This
case is freaking me out, she thought. I can’t even walk across a
parking lot without feeling like the Devil’s at my back.
And closing in.
August 1. Phase of the moon: Full.
Last
night my mother spoke to me in my dreams. A scolding. A reminder that I have
been undisciplined. “I have taught you all the ancient rituals, and for
what?” she asked. “So that you will ignore them? Remember who you
are. You are the chosen one.”
I have
not forgotten. How could I? Since my earliest years, she has recited the tales
of our ancestors, about whom Manetho of Sebennytos, in the age of Ptolemy the Second, wrote,
“They set our towns on fire. They caused the people to suffer every
brutality. They waged war, desiring to exterminate the race.”
In my
veins runs the sacred blood of hunters.
These
are secrets that even my distracted and oblivious father did not know. Between
my parents, the ties were merely practical. But between my mother and me, the
bonds reach across time, across continents, into my very dreams. She is
displeased with me.
And so
tonight, I lead a goat into the woods.
It
comes willingly, because it has never felt the sting of human cruelty. The moon
is so bright I need no flashlight to show me the way. Behind me I hear the
confused bleating of the other goats that I’ve just released from the
farmer’s barn, but they don’t follow me. Their calls recede as I
walk deeper into the woods, and now all I hear is the sound of my footfalls and
the goat’s hooves on the forest floor.
When we
have walked far enough, I tie the goat to a tree. The animal senses what is to
come and gives an anxious bleat as I take off my clothes, stripping down to
naked skin. I kneel on the moss. The night is cool, but my shivering is from
anticipation. I raise the knife, and the ritual words flow from my lips as
easily as they always have before. Praise to our lord Seth, to the god of my
ancestors. The god of death and destruction. Through countless millennia, he
has guided our hands, has led us from the Levant to the lands of
The
blood spurts in a hot fountain.
When it
is over, I walk naked, except for my shoes, to the lake. Under the moon’s
glow I wade into the water and wash away the goat’s blood. I emerge cleansed
and exhilarated. Only as I pull on my clothes does my heartbeat finally slow,
and exhaustion suddenly drapes its heavy arm around my shoulders. I could
almost fall asleep on the grass, but I don’t dare lie down; I am so
tired, I might not awaken until daylight.
I
trudge back toward the house. As I reach the top of the hill, I see her. Lily
stands on the edge of the lawn, a slender silhouette with hair gleaming in the
moonlight. She is looking at me.
“Where
have you been?” she asks.
“I
went for a swim.”
“In
the dark?”
“It’s
the best time.” Slowly I walk toward her. She stands perfectly still,
even as I move close enough to touch her. “The water’s warm. No one
can see you swimming naked.” My hand is cool from the lake, and she
shivers as I caress her cheek. Is it from fear or fascination? I don’t
know. What I do know is that she has been watching me these past weeks, just as
I’ve been watching her, and something is happening between us. They say
that Hell calls to Hell. Somewhere inside her, the darkness has heard my call
and is stirring to life.
I move
even closer. Though she’s older than I am, I’m taller, and my arm
slips easily around her waist as I lean in. As our hips meet.
Her
slap sends me reeling backward.
“Don’t
you ever touch me again,” she says. She turns and walks to the house.
My face
is still stinging. I linger in the darkness, waiting for the imprint of her
blow to fade from my cheek. She has no idea who I really am, who she has just
humiliated. No idea what the consequences will be.
I do
not sleep that night.
Instead
I lie awake, thinking of all the lessons my mother taught me about patience and
about biding one’s time. “The most satisfying prize,” she
said, “is the one you’re forced to wait for.” When the sun
rises the next morning, I am still in bed, thinking about my mother’s
words. I am thinking, too, about that humiliating slap. About all the ways that
Lily and her friends have shown me disrespect.
Downstairs,
Aunt Amy is in the kitchen cooking breakfast. I smell coffee brewing and bacon
crisping in a frying pan. And I hear her call out, “Peter? Have you seen
my boning knife?”
As usual on a
hot summer’s day, the Piazza di Spagna was a sea of sweating tourists. They milled elbow to
elbow, expensive cameras dangling from their necks, flushed faces shaded from
the sun beneath floppy hats and baseball caps. From her perch above, on the
Spanish Steps, Lily surveyed the crowd’s movements, noting the eddies
that swirled around the vendors’ carts, the crosscurrents of competing
tour groups. Wary of pickpockets, she started down the steps, waving away the
inevitable trinket hawkers who hovered like flies. She noticed several men
glance her way, but their interest was merely momentary. A look, a flicker of a
lascivious thought, and then their eyes were on to the next passing female.
Lily scarcely gave them a thought as she descended toward the piazza, threading
past a couple embracing on the steps, past a studious young man hunched over a
book. She waded into the throng. In crowds she felt safe, anonymous, and
insulated. It was merely an illusion, of course; there was no truly safe place.
As she crossed the piazza, tacking past camera-snapping tourists and children
slurping at gelato, she knew that she was all too easy to spot. Crowds provided
cover for both prey and predator.
She reached the
far end of the piazza and walked past a shop selling designer shoes and purses
that she would never, in this lifetime, be able to afford. Beyond it was a bank
with an ATM and three people waiting to use it. She joined the line. By the
time it was her turn, she’d already taken a good look at everyone
standing nearby and spotted no thieves ready to swoop in. Now was the time to
make a large withdrawal. She’d been in
She inserted
her bankcard, requested three hundred Euros, and waited for the cash to appear.
Her card slid back out, along with a printed receipt. But no cash. She stared
down at the receipt, her stomach suddenly dropping. She needed no translation
to understand what was printed there.
Insufficient
funds.
Okay, she thought, maybe
I just asked for too much at once. Calm down. She inserted her card again,
punched in the code, requested two hundred Euros.
Insufficient
funds.
By now, the
woman standing behind her in line was making hurry up already! sighs.
For the third time, Lily slid in her card. Requested one hundred Euros.
Insufficient
funds.
“Hey, are
you going to be finished sometime soon? Like, maybe, today?” the
woman behind her asked.
Lily turned to
face her. Just that one look, molten with rage, made the woman step back in
alarm. Lily shoved past her and headed back to the piazza, moving blindly, for
once not caring who was watching her, tracking her. By the time she reached the
Spanish Steps, all the strength had gone out of her legs. She sank onto the
stairs and dropped her head in her hands.
Her money was
gone. She’d known her account was getting low, that eventually it would
run out, but she’d thought there was enough to last at least another
month. She had enough cash for maybe two more meals, and that was it. No hotel tonight,
no bed. But hey, these stairs were comfortable enough, and she couldn’t
beat the view. When she got hungry, she could always go diving in the trash can
for some tourist’s leftover sandwich.
Who am I
kidding? I’ve got to get some money.
She lifted her
head, looked around the piazza, and saw plenty of single men. Hello, guys,
anyone willing to pay for an afternoon with a hot and desperate chick? Then
she spotted three policemen strolling the periphery and decided that this was
not a good place to troll for prospects. Getting arrested would be
inconvenient; it might also prove fatal.
She unzipped
her backpack and feverishly dug around inside. Maybe there was a wad of cash
she’d forgotten about, or a few loose coins rattling around on the
bottom. Fat chance. As if she didn’t keep track of every single penny.
She found a roll of mints, a ballpoint pen. No money.
But she did
find a business card, printed with the name FILIPPO CAVALLI. At once his face
came back to her. The truck driver with the leering eyes. “If you have no
place to stay,” he’d said, “I have an apartment in the
city.”
Well, guess
what? I have no place to stay.
She sat on the
steps, mindlessly rubbing the card between her fingers, until it was pinched
and bent. Thinking about Filippo Cavalli
and his mean eyes, his unshaven face. How awful could it be? She’d done
worse things in her life. Far worse.
And I’m
still paying for it.
She zipped up
the backpack and looked around for a telephone. Mean eyes or not, she thought,
a girl’s gotta eat.
She stood in
the hallway outside
The door swung
open. “Come in!” Filippo said.
At her first
glimpse of him, she wanted to turn and run. He was exactly as she’d
remembered, his chin prickly with stubble, his hungry gaze already devouring
her face. He had not even bothered to dress in nice clothes for her visit, but
was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and baggy trousers. Why should he bother to
clean up? Surely he knew what had brought her here, and it wasn’t his
sculpted body or his scintillating wit.
She stepped
into the apartment, where the smells of garlic and cigarette smoke battled for
dominance. Aside from that, it was not too horrible a place. She saw a couch
and chairs, a neat pile of newspapers, a coffee table. The balcony window faced
another apartment building. Through the walls, she could hear a
neighbor’s TV blaring.
“Some
wine, Carol?” he asked.
Carol.
She’d almost forgotten which name she’d given him. “Yes,
please,” she answered. “And… would you happen to have
something to eat?”
“Food? Of
course.” He smiled, but his eyes never stopped leering. He knew these
were just the pleasantries before the transaction. He brought out bread and
cheese and a little dish of marinated mushrooms. Hardly a feast; more like a
snack. So this was what she was worth. The wine was cheap, sharp, and
astringent, but she drank two glasses anyway as she ate. Better to be drunk
than sober for what came next. He sat across the kitchen table watching her as
he sipped his own glass of wine. How many other women had come to this
apartment, had sat at this kitchen table, steeling themselves for the bedroom?
Surely none of them came willingly. Like Lily, they probably needed a drink or
two or three before getting down to business.
He reached
across the table. She went stock-still as he opened the top two buttons of her
blouse. Then he sat back, grinning at the view of her cleavage.
She tried to
ignore him and reached for another chunk of bread, then drained her glass of
wine and poured herself another.
He stood up and
came around behind her. He finished unbuttoning her blouse and slipped it off
her shoulders, then unfastened her bra.
She stuffed a
piece of cheese into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Almost coughed it up
again as his hands closed over her breasts. She sat rigid, fists clenched,
suppressing the instinct to twist around and slug him. Instead she let him
reach around in front of her and unzip her jeans. Then he gave her a tug, and
obediently she rose to her feet, so he could peel off the rest of her clothes.
When she finally stood naked in his kitchen, he stepped back to enjoy the view,
his arousal obvious. He did not even bother to remove his own clothes, but just
backed her up against the kitchen counter, opened his trousers, and took her
standing up. Took her so vigorously that the cabinets rattled and silverware
clattered in the drawers.
Hurry. Finish,
goddamn it.
But he was just
getting started. He twisted her around, pushed her to her knees, and took her
on the tiled floor. Then it was into the living room, in full view of the
balcony window, as though he wanted the world to see that he, Filippo, could fuck a woman in every position, in every
room. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sounds from the TV next door.
Thumping game show music, an excitable Italian host. She focused on the TV
because she did not want to listen to Filippo’s
panting and grunting as he pounded against her. As he climaxed.
He collapsed on
top of her, a flabby dead weight that threatened to suffocate her. She squeezed
out from beneath him and lay on her back, her body slick with their mingled
sweat.
A moment later,
he was snoring.
She left him
there, on the living room floor, and went into his bathroom to take a shower.
Spent a good twenty minutes under the water, washing away every trace of him.
Hair dripping, she returned to the living room to make sure he was still
asleep. He was. Quietly, she slipped into his bedroom and went through his
dresser drawers. Beneath a mound of socks, she found a bundle of cash—at
least six hundred Euros. He won’t miss a hundred, she thought,
counting out the bills. Anyway, she’d earned it.
She got dressed
and was just picking up her backpack when she heard his footsteps behind her.
“You are
leaving so soon?” he asked. “How can you be satisfied with just
once?”
Slowly she
turned to look at him and forced a smile. “Just once with you, Filippo, is like ten times with any other man.”
He grinned. “That’s
what women tell me.”
Then
they’re all lying.
“Stay.
I’ll cook you dinner.” He came toward her and played with a strand
of her hair. “Stay, and maybe—”
She gave it
about two seconds’ thought. While this would be a place to spend the
night, it required too high a price. “I have to go,” she said,
turning away.
“Please
stay.” He paused, then added, with a note of desperation,
“I’ll pay you.”
She stopped and
looked back at him.
“That’s
it, isn’t it?” he said softly. His smile faded, his face slowly
drooping into a weary mask. Not the strutting lover anymore, but a sad,
middle-aged man with a big gut and no woman in his life. Once, she had thought
his eyes looked mean; now those eyes looked merely tired, defeated. “I
know it’s true.” He sighed. “You did not come because of me.
It’s money you want.”
For the first
time, it did not disgust her to look at him. Also for the first time, she
decided to be honest with him.
“Yes,”
she admitted. “I need money. I’m broke, and I can’t find a
job in
“But
you’re American. You can just go home.”
“I
can’t go home.”
“Why
not?”
She looked
away. “I just can’t. There’s nothing there for me
anyway.”
He considered
her words for a moment and came to a reasonable conclusion. “The police
are looking for you?”
“No. Not
the police—”
“Then who
are you running from?”
I’m
running from the Devil himself was what she thought. But she could not say that,
or he’d think her crazy. She answered, simply, “A man. Someone who
scares me.”
An abusive
boyfriend was probably what he thought. He gave a nod of sympathy. “So you
need money. Come, then. I can give you some.” He turned and started
toward his bedroom.
“Wait. Filippo.” Feeling guilty now, she reached into her
pocket and took out the hundred Euros she’d taken from his sock drawer.
How could she steal from a man who was so desperately hungry for companionship?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is yours. I really needed
it, but I shouldn’t have taken it.” She reached for his hand and
pressed the cash into his palm, barely able to look him in the eye.
“I’ll manage on my own.” She turned to leave.
“Carol.
Is that your real name?”
She paused, her
hand on the knob. “It’s as good a name as any.”
“You say
you need a job. What can you do?”
She looked at
him. “I’ll do anything. I can clean homes, wait on tables. But I
have to be paid in cash.”
“Your
Italian is very good.” He looked her over, thinking. “I have a
cousin, here in the city,” he finally said. “She organizes
tours.”
“What
kind of tours?”
“To the
Forum, the basilica.” He shrugged. “You know, all the usual places
tourists go in
“I do! I
have a college degree in classical studies.” Fresh hope made her heart
suddenly thud faster. “I know a great deal about history, actually. About
the ancient world.”
“But do
you know about
Lily gave a
sudden laugh and set down her backpack. “As a matter of fact,” she
said, “I do.”
Maura stood on
the ice-glazed sidewalk, gazing up at the
“I
wasn’t sure you’d actually come,” he said as she stepped
inside.
“Neither
was I,” she admitted.
“The
others will be arriving later. I thought it’d be nice for the two of us
to talk first, alone.” He helped her off with her coat and pushed open
the secret panel to reveal the closet. In this man’s house, the walls
themselves hid surprises. “So why did you decide to come after
all?”
“You said
we had common interests. I want to know what you mean by that.”
He hung up her
coat and turned, a looming figure dressed in black, his face burnished in gold
from the firelight. “Evil,” he said. “That’s what we
have in common. We’ve both seen it up close. We’ve looked into its
face, smelled its breath. And felt it staring back at us.”
“A lot of
people have seen it.”
“But
you’ve known it on a deeply personal level.”
“You’re
talking about my mother again.”
“Joyce
tells me that no one’s yet been able to tally all of Amalthea’s
victims.”
“I
haven’t followed that investigation. I’ve stayed out of it. The
last time I saw Amalthea was in July, and I have no
plans to ever visit her again.”
“Ignoring
evil doesn’t make it go away. It’s still there, still part of your
life—”
“Not part
of mine.”
“—right
down to your DNA.”
“An
accident of birth. We’re not our parents.”
“But on
some level, Maura, your mother’s crimes must weigh down on you. They must
make you wonder.”
“Whether
I’m a monster, too?”
“Do
you wonder that?”
She paused,
acutely aware of how intently he was watching her. “I’m nothing like
my mother. If anything, I’m her polar opposite. Look at the career
I’ve chosen, the work I do.”
“A form
of atonement?”
“I have
nothing to atone for.”
“Yet
you’ve chosen to work on behalf of victims. And justice. Not everyone
makes that choice, or does it as well and as fiercely as you do. That’s
why I invited you tonight.” He opened the door to the next room.
“That’s why I want to show you something.”
She followed
him into a wood-paneled dining room, where the massive table was already set
for dinner. Five place settings, she noted, surveying the crystal stemware and
gleaming china edged in cobalt and gold. Here was another fireplace, with
flames dancing in the hearth, but the cavernous room with its twelve-foot
ceiling was on the chilly side, and she was glad she’d kept on her
cashmere sweater.
“First, a
glass of wine?” he asked, holding up a bottle of Cabernet.
“Yes.
Thank you.”
He poured and
handed her the glass, but she scarcely glanced at it; she was focused instead
on the portraits hanging on the walls. A gallery of faces, both men and women,
gazed through the patina of centuries.
“These
are only a few,” he said. “The portraits my family managed to
procure over the years. Some are modern copies, some are mere representations
of what we think they looked like. But a few of these portraits are original.
As these people must have appeared in life.” He crossed the room to stand
before one portrait in particular. It was of a young woman with luminous dark
eyes, her black hair gently gathered at the nape of her neck. Her face was a
pale oval, and in that dim and firelit room, her skin
seemed translucent and so alive that Maura could almost imagine the throb of a
pulse in that white neck. The young woman was partly turned toward the artist,
her burgundy gown glinting with gold threads, her gaze direct and unafraid.
“Her name
was Isabella,” said Sansone. “This was
painted a month before her marriage. The portrait required quite a bit of
restoration. There were scorch marks on the canvas. It was lucky to survive the
fire that destroyed her home.”
“She’s
beautiful.”
“Yes, she
was. To her great misfortune.”
Maura frowned
at him. “Why?”
“She was
married to Nicolo Contini,
a Venetian nobleman. By all accounts it was a very happy marriage, until”
—he paused— “until Antonino Sansone destroyed their lives.”
She looked at
him in surprise. “That’s the man in the portrait? In the other
room?”
He nodded.
“My distinguished ancestor. Oh, he was able to justify all his actions in
the name of rooting out the Devil. The church sanctioned it all—the
torture, the bloodletting, the burnings at the stake. The Venetians in
particular were quite expert at torture and creative at devising ever more
brutal instruments to extract confessions. No matter how outlandish the
accusations, a few hours in the dungeon with Monsignore
Sansone would make almost anyone plead guilty to his
charges. Whether the accusation was practicing witchcraft, or casting spells
against your neighbors, or consorting with the Devil, confessing to any and all
of it was the only way to make the pain stop, to be granted the mercy of death.
Which, in itself, was not so merciful, since most of them were burned
alive.” He gazed around the room, at the portraits. The faces of the
dead. “All these people you see here suffered at his hand. Men, women,
children— he made no distinction. It’s said he awakened each day,
eager for the task, that he cheerfully fortified himself with a hearty morning
meal of bread and meat. Then he’d don his blood-splattered robes and go
to work, rooting out heretics. On the street outside, even through thick stone
walls, passersby could hear the screams.”
Maura’s
gaze circled the room, taking in the faces of the doomed, and she imagined
these same faces bruised and contorted in pain. How long had they resisted? How
long had they clung to the hope of escape, a chance to live?
“Antonino defeated them all,” he said. “Except
for one.” His gaze was back on the woman with the luminous eyes.
“Isabella
survived?”
“Oh, no.
No one survived his attentions. Like all the others, she died. But she was
never conquered.”
“She
refused to confess?”
“Or
submit. She had only to implicate her husband. Renounce him, accuse him of
sorcery, and she might have lived. Because what Antonino
really wanted wasn’t her confession. He wanted Isabella herself.”
Her beauty was
her misfortune. That’s what he’d meant.
“A year
and a month,” he said. “That’s how long she survived in a
cell without heat, without light. Every day, another session with her
torturer.” He looked at Maura. “I’ve seen the instruments
from those times. I can’t imagine any version of Hell that could be
worse.”
“And he
never defeated her?”
“She
resisted until the end. Even when they took away her newborn baby. Even when
they crushed her hands, scourged the skin from her back, wrenched apart her
joints. Every brutality was meticulously recorded in Antonino’s
personal journals.”
“You’ve
actually seen those journals?”
“Yes.
They’ve been passed down through our family. They’re stored in a vault
now, with other unpleasant heirlooms from that era.”
“What a
horrible legacy.”
“That’s
what I meant when I told you we had common interests, common concerns. We both
inherited poisoned blood.”
Her gaze was
back on Isabella’s face, and suddenly she registered something that he
had said only moments ago. They took away her newborn baby.
She looked at
him. “You said she had a baby in prison.”
“Yes. A
son.”
“What
happened to him?”
“He was
placed in the care of a local convent, where he was raised.”
“But he
was the son of a heretic. Why was he allowed to live?”
“Because
of who his father was.”
She looked at
him with stunned comprehension. “Antonino Sansone?”
He nodded.
“The boy was born eleven months into his mother’s
imprisonment.”
A child of
rape, she thought. So this is the Sansone
bloodline. It goes back to the child of a doomed woman.
And a monster.
She gazed
around the room at the other portraits. “I don’t think I’d
want these portraits hanging in my home.”
“You
think it’s morbid.”
“Every
day, I’d be reminded. I’d be haunted by how they died.”
“So
you’d hide them in a closet? Avoid even looking at them, the way you
avoid thinking about your mother?”
She stiffened.
“I have no reason to think about her. She has no part in my life.”
“But she
does. And you do think about her, don’t you? You can’t avoid
it.”
“I sure
as hell don’t hang her portrait in my living room.” She set down
her wineglass on the table. “This is a bizarre form of ancestor worship
you’re practicing. Displaying the family torturer in the front parlor,
like some kind of icon, someone you’re proud of. And here in the dining
room, you keep a gallery of his victims. All these faces staring at you, like a
trophy collection. It’s the kind of thing a—”
A hunter would
display.
She paused,
staring down at her empty glass, aware of the silence in the house. Five place
settings were on the table, yet she was the only guest who’d arrived,
perhaps the only guest who’d actually been invited.
She flinched as
he brushed her arm and reached for her empty glass. He turned to refill it, and
she stared at his back, at the outline of muscles beneath the black turtleneck
shirt. Then he turned to face her, wineglass held out. She took it, but did not
sip, though her throat had suddenly gone dry.
“Do you
know why these portraits are here?” he asked quietly.
“I just
find it…strange.”
“I grew
up with them. They hung in my father’s house, and in his
father’s house. So did the portrait of Antonino,
but always in a separate room. Always in a place of prominence.”
“Like an altar.”
“In a
way.”
“You
honor that man? The torturer?”
“We keep
his memory alive. We never allow ourselves to forget who —and what—
he was.”
“Why?”
“Because
this is our responsibility. A sacred duty the Sansones
accepted generations ago, starting with Isabella’s son.”
“The
child born in prison.”
He nodded.
“By the time Vittorio reached adulthood, Monsignore Sansone was dead. But
his reputation as a monster had spread, and the Sansone
name was no longer an advantage, but rather a curse. Vittorio
could have fled from his own name, denied his own bloodline. Instead he did
quite the opposite. He embraced the Sansone name, as
well as the burden.”
“You
talked about a sacred duty. What sort of duty?”
“Vittorio took a vow to atone for what his father did. If
you look at our family crest, you’ll see the words: Sed
libera nos a malo.”
Latin. She
frowned at him. “Deliver us from evil.”
“That’s
right.”
“And
what, exactly, are Sansones expected to do?”
“Hunt the
Devil, Dr. Isles. That’s what we do.”
For a moment
she didn’t respond. He can’t possibly be serious, she
thought, but his gaze was absolutely steady.
“You mean
figuratively, of course,” she finally said.
“I know
you don’t believe he actually exists.”
“Satan?”
She couldn’t help but laugh.
“People
have no trouble believing that God exists,” he said.
“That’s
why it’s called faith. It requires no proof, because there is
none.”
“If one
believes in the light, one has to believe in the darkness as well.”
“But
you’re talking about a supernatural being.”
“I’m
talking about evil, distilled to its purest form. Manifested in the shape of
real flesh-and-blood creatures, walking among us. This isn’t about the
impulsive kill, the jealous husband who’s gone over the edge, or the
scared soldier who mows down an unarmed enemy. I’m talking about
something entirely different. People who look human, but are the
farthest thing from it.”
“Demons?”
“If you
want to call them that.”
“And you
really believe they exist, these monsters or demons or whatever you call
them?”
“I know
they do,” he said quietly.
The ringing of
the doorbell startled her. She glanced toward the front parlor, but Sansone made no move to answer the bell. She heard
footsteps, and then the butler’s voice speaking in the foyer.
“Good evening,
Mrs. Felway. May I take your coat?”
“I’m
a little bit late, Jeremy. Sorry.”
“Mr.
Stark and Dr. O’Donnell haven’t arrived yet, either.”
“Not yet?
Well, I feel better then.”
“Mr. Sansone and Dr. Isles are in the dining room, if
you’d like to join them.”
“God, I
could really use a drink.”
The woman who
swept into the room was as tall as a man and looked just as formidable, her
square shoulders emphasized by a tweed blazer with leather epaulets. Although
her hair was streaked with silver, she moved with the vigor of youth and the
assurance of authority. She didn’t hesitate, but crossed straight to
Maura.
“You must
be Dr. Isles,” she said, and gave Maura a matter-of-fact handshake.
“Edwina Felway.”
Sansone handed the woman a glass of wine.
“How’re the roads out there, Winnie?”
“Treacherous.”
She took a sip. “I’m surprised Ollie isn’t here
already.”
“It’s
just eight o’clock now. He’s coming with Joyce.”
Edwina’s
gaze was on Maura. Her eyes were direct, even intrusive. “Has there been
any progress on the case?”
“We
haven’t talked about that,” said Sansone.
“Really?
But it’s the one thing on all our minds.”
“I
can’t discuss it,” said Maura. “I’m sure you understand
why.”
Edwina looked
at Sansone. “You mean she hasn’t agreed
yet?”
“Agreed
to what?” asked Maura.
“To join
our group, Dr. Isles.”
“Winnie,
you’re a bit premature. I haven’t fully explained—”
“The Mephisto Foundation?” said Maura. “Is that what
you’re talking about?”
There was a
silence. In the other room, a phone began to ring.
Edwina suddenly
laughed. “She’s one step ahead of you, Anthony.”
“How did
you know about the foundation?” he asked, looking at Maura. Then he gave
a knowing sigh. “Detective Rizzoli, of course. I hear she’s been
asking questions.”
“She’s
paid to ask questions,” said Maura.
“Is she
finally satisfied that we’re not suspects?”
“It’s
just that she doesn’t like mysteries. And your group is very
mysterious.”
“And
that’s why you accepted my invitation tonight. To find out who we
are.”
“I think
I have found out,” said Maura. “And I think I’ve heard enough
to make a decision.” She set down her glass. “Metaphysics
doesn’t interest me. I know there’s evil in the world, and there
always has been. But you don’t need to believe in Satan or demons to
explain it. Human beings are perfectly capable of evil all by
themselves.”
“You
aren’t in the least bit interested in joining the foundation?”
asked Edwina.
“I
wouldn’t belong here. And I think I should leave now.” She turned
to find Jeremy standing in the doorway.
“Mr. Sansone?” The manservant was holding a portable
phone. “Mr. Stark just called. He’s quite concerned.”
“About
what?”
“Dr.
O’Donnell was supposed to pick him up, but she hasn’t appeared
yet.”
“When was
she supposed to be at his house?”
“Forty-five
minutes ago. He’s been calling, but she doesn’t answer either her
home phone or her cell.”
“Let me
try her number.” Sansone took the phone and
dialed, drumming the table as he waited. He disconnected, dialed again, his
fingers tapping faster. No one in the room spoke; they were all watching him,
listening to the accelerating rhythm of his fingers. The night Eve Kassovitz died, these people had sat in this very room, not
realizing that Death was right outside. That it had found its way into their
garden, and had left its strange symbols on their door. This house had been
marked.
Perhaps the
people inside it were marked as well.
Sansone hung up.
“Shouldn’t
you call the police?” asked Maura.
“Oh,
Joyce may simply have forgotten,” said Edwina. “It seems a little
premature to ask the police to rush in.”
Jeremy said,
“Would you like me to drive over and check Dr. O’Donnell’s
house?”
Sansone stared for a moment at the phone. “No,”
he finally said. “I’ll go. I’d rather you stayed here, just
in case Joyce calls.”
Maura followed
him into the parlor, where he grabbed his overcoat from the closet. She, too,
pulled on her coat.
“Please
stay and have dinner,” he said, reaching for his car keys.
“There’s no need for you to rush home.”
“I’m
not going home,” she said. “I’m coming with you.”
Joyce O’Donnell’s porch light was on, but no one answered the
door.
Sansone
tried the knob. “It’s locked,” he said, and took out his cell
phone. “Let me try calling her one more time.”
As he dialed, Maura backed away from the porch and stood on the walkway, gazing
up at O’Donnell’s house, at a second-floor window that cast its
cheery glow into the night. Faintly, she heard a phone ringing inside. Then,
once again, silence.
Sansone
disconnected. “Her answering machine picked up.”
“I think it’s time to call Rizzoli.”
“Not yet.” He produced a flashlight and headed along the
shoveled walkway toward the side of the house.
“Where are you going?”
He continued toward the driveway, black coat melting into the shadows.
The beam of his light skimmed across flagstones and disappeared around the
corner.
She stood alone in the front yard, listening to the rattle of dead leaves
in the branches above her. “Sansone?” she
called out. He didn’t answer. She heard only the pounding of her own
heart. She followed him around the corner of the house. There she halted in the
deserted driveway, the shadow of the garage looming before her. She started to
call his name again, but something silenced her: the creeping awareness of
another presence watching her, tracking her. She turned and quickly scanned the
street. She saw a scrap of windblown paper tumble down the road like a
fluttering wraith.
A hand closed around her arm.
Gasping, she stumbled away. She found herself staring at Sansone, who had silently materialized right behind her.
“Her car’s still in the garage,” he said.
“Then where is she?”
“I’m going around to the back.”
This time she did not let him leave her sight, but followed right at his
heels as he moved through the side yard, tramping through deep and unbroken
snow alongside the garage. By the time they emerged in the backyard, her
trousers were soaked, and melted snow had seeped into her shoes, chilling her
feet. His flashlight beam skittered across shrubs and deck chairs, all covered
in a velvety blanket of white. No footprints, no disturbed snow. A vine-covered
wall enclosed the yard, a private space completely hidden from the neighbors.
And she was here alone, with a man she scarcely knew.
But he was not focused on her. His attention was on the kitchen door,
which he could not get open. For a moment he stared at it, debating his next
move. Then he looked at Maura.
“You know Detective Rizzoli’s number?” he asked.
“Call her.”
She pulled out her cell phone and moved toward the kitchen window for
more light. She was about to dial when her gaze suddenly focused on the kitchen
sink, just inside the window.
“Sansone,” she whispered.
“What?”
“There’s blood— near the drain.”
He took one glance, and his next move shocked her. He grabbed one of the
deck chairs and hurled it against the window. Glass shattered, shards exploding
into the kitchen. He scrambled inside, and seconds later the door swung open.
“There’s blood down here on the floor, too,” he said.
She looked down at smears of red on the cream tiles. He ran out of the
kitchen, his black coat flapping behind him like a cape, moving so fast that
when she reached the foot of the stairs, he was already on the second-floor
landing. She stared down at more blood, swipes of it on the oak steps, along
the baseboard, as though a battered limb had scraped against the wall as the
body was dragged upstairs.
“Maura!” yelled Sansone.
She sprinted up the stairs, reached the second-floor landing, and saw
more blood, like glistening ski marks down the hallway. And she heard the
sound, like water gurgling in a snorkel. Even before she stepped into the
bedroom, she knew what she was about to confront: not a dead victim, but one
desperately fighting to live.
Joyce O’Donnell lay on her back on the floor, eyes wide open in
mortal panic, a gout of red spurting from her neck. She wheezed in air, blood
rattling in her lungs, and coughed. Bright red spray exploded from her throat,
spattering Sansone’s face as he crouched over
her.
“I’ll take over! Call nine-one-one!” Maura ordered as
she dropped to her knees and pressed bare fingers to the slash wound. She was
used to the touch of dead flesh, not living, and the blood that dribbled onto
her hands was shockingly warm. ABC, she thought. Those were the first
rules of life support: airway, breathing, circulation. But with one brutal
slash across the throat, the attacker had compromised all three. I’m a
doctor, but there’s so little I can do to save her.
Sansone
finished his call. “The ambulance is on its way. What can I do?”
“Get me some towels. I need to stop the bleeding!”
O’Donnell’s hand suddenly closed around Maura’s wrist,
clenching it with the force of panic. The skin was so slick, Maura’s
fingers slipped off the wound, releasing a fresh spurt. Another wheeze, another
cough, sent spray from the incised trachea. O’Donnell was drowning. With
every breath, she inhaled her own blood. It gurgled in her airway, frothed in
her alveoli. Maura had examined the incised lungs of other victims whose
throats had been cut; she knew the mechanism of death.
Now I am watching it happen, and I can’t do a
thing to stop it.
Sansone
dashed back into the bedroom carrying towels, and Maura pressed a wadded
washcloth to the neck. The white terry cloth magically turned red.
O’Donnell’s hand gripped her wrist even tighter. Her lips moved,
but she could produce no words, only the rattle of air bubbling through blood.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” said Maura. “The
ambulance is almost here.”
O’Donnell began to tremble, limbs quaking as though in seizures. But
her eyes were aware and fixed on Maura. Does she see it in my eyes? That I
know she’s dying?
Maura glanced up at the distant wail of a siren.
“There it is,” said Sansone.
“The front door’s locked!”
“I’ll go down and meet them.” He scrambled to his feet
and she heard him pounding down the stairs to the first floor.
O’Donnell’s eyes were still awake, staring. Her lips moved
faster now, and her fingers tightened to a claw. Outside, the siren’s
wail drew closer, but in this room, the only sounds were the gurgling breaths
of the dying woman.
“Stay with me, Joyce!” urged Maura. “I know you can
hold on!”
O’Donnell tugged at Maura’s wrist, panicked jerks that
threatened to wrench Maura’s hand from the wound. With each gasp, bright
droplets sprayed from her throat in explosive bursts. Her eyes widened, as
though glimpsing the darkness yawning before her. No, she mouthed. No.
At that instant, Maura realized the woman was no longer looking at her,
but at something behind her. Only then did she hear the creak of the floorboard.
Her attacker never left the house. He’s still
here. In this room.
She turned just as the blow rushed toward her. She saw darkness swoop at
her like bat’s wings, and then she went sprawling. Her face slammed to
the floor and she lay stunned, her vision black. But she could feel,
transmitted through the boards, the thud of escaping footsteps, like the
heartbeat of the house itself, pulsing against her cheek. Pain throbbed its way
into her head and grew to a steady hammering that seemed to pound nails into
her skull.
She did not hear Joyce O’Donnell take her last breath.
A hand grasped her shoulder. In sudden panic she flailed, fighting for
her life, swinging blindly at her attacker.
“Maura, stop. Maura!”
Her hands now trapped in his, she managed only a few weak struggles. Then
her vision cleared and she saw Sansone staring at
her. She heard other voices and glimpsed the metallic sheen of a stretcher.
Turning, she focused on two paramedics who were crouched over Joyce
O’Donnell’s body.
“I’m not getting a pulse. No respirations.”
“This IV’s wide open.”
“Jesus, look at all the blood.”
“How’s the other lady doing?” The paramedic looked at
Maura.
Sansone
said, “She seems okay. I think she just fainted.”
“No,” whispered Maura. She grabbed his arm. “He was here.”
“What?”
“He was still here. In the room!”
Suddenly he realized what she was saying, and he reared back with a look
of shock and scrambled to his feet.
“No— wait for the police!”
But Sansone was already out the door.
She struggled to sit up and swayed, her vision watery and threatening to
go gray. When at last the room brightened, she saw two paramedics kneeling in
Joyce O’Donnell’s blood, their equipment and discarded packaging
splayed out around them. An EKG traced across the oscilloscope.
It was a flat line.
Jane slid into the backseat of the cruiser beside Maura and pulled the
door shut. That one brief whoosh of cold air swept all the heat from the
vehicle and Maura began to shake again.
“You sure you’re feeling okay?” said Jane. “Maybe
we should take you to the ER.”
“I want to go home,” said Maura. “Can’t I go home
now?”
“Is there anything else you remember? Any other details that are
coming back to you?”
“I told you, I didn’t see a face.”
“Just his black clothes.”
“Black something.”
“Something? Are we talking man or beast here?”
“It all happened so fast.”
“Anthony Sansone’s wearing
black.”
“It wasn’t him. He left the room. He went down to meet the
ambulance.”
“Yeah, that’s what he says, too.”
Jane’s face was silhouetted against the lights of the cruisers
parked across the street. The usual convoy of official vehicles had arrived,
and crime-scene tape now fluttered between stakes planted in the front yard.
Maura had sat in this vehicle for so long, the blood on her coat had dried,
turning the fabric stiff as parchment. She would have to throw out this coat;
she never wanted to wear it again.
She looked at the house, where all the lights were now blazing.
“The doors were locked when we got here. How did he get in?”
“There’s no sign of forced entry. Just that broken kitchen
window.”
“We had to break it. We saw blood in the sink.”
“And Sansone was with you the whole
time?”
“We were together all evening, Jane.”
“Except when he gave chase. He claims he didn’t see anyone
outside. And he churned up the snow pretty good when he went searching around
outside the house. Screwed up any shoe prints we might have been able to
use.”
“He’s not a suspect in this.”
“I’m not saying he is.”
Maura paused, suddenly thinking of something Jane had just told her. No
sign of forced entry. “Joyce O’Donnell let him in.” She
looked at Jane. “She let the killer into her own house.”
“Or she forgot to lock the door.”
“Of course she’d lock her door. She wasn’t
stupid.”
“She didn’t exactly play it safe, either. When you work with
monsters, you never know which one will follow you home. These killings have
always been about her, Doc. With the very first kill, he draws her attention by
calling her. The second kill is right outside the home where she’s having
dinner. It was all leading up to this. To the main event.”
“Why would she let him into her home?”
“Maybe because she thought she could control him. Think about how
many prisons she’s walked into, how many people like Warren Hoyt and Amalthea Lank she’s interviewed. She gets up close
and personal with them all.”
At the mention of her mother, Maura flinched but said nothing.
“She’s like one of those circus lion tamers. You work with
the animals every day, and you start to think you’re the one in control.
You expect that every time you crack the whip, they’ll jump like good
little kitties. Maybe you even think they love you. Then one day you turn your
back, and they’re sinking their teeth in your neck.”
“I know you never liked her,” said Maura. “But if
you’d been there —if you’d watched her die”— she
looked at Jane— “she was terrified.”
“Just because she’s dead, I’m not going to start liking
her. She’s a victim now, so I owe her my best effort. But I can’t
help feeling that she brought this on herself.”
There was a rap on the glass and Jane rolled down the window. A cop
peered in at them and said, “Mr. Sansone wants
to know if you’re done questioning him.”
“No, we’re not. Tell him to wait.”
“And the ME’s packing up. You got any last questions?”
“I’ll call him if I do.”
Through the window, Maura saw her colleague, Dr. Abe Bristol, emerge from
the house. Abe would be doing O’Donnell’s autopsy. If what
he’d just seen inside had upset him, he did not show it. He paused on the
porch, calmly buttoning his coat and pulling on warm gloves as he chatted with
a cop. Abe didn’t have to watch her die, thought Maura. He
isn’t wearing her blood on his coat.
Jane pushed open the car door, and a fresh blast of cold air whooshed in.
“C’mon, Doc,” she said, climbing out. “We’ll get
you home.”
“My car’s still parked on
“You can worry about your car later. I’ve got you a
ride.” Jane turned and called out, “Father Brophy,
She’s ready to leave.”
Only then did Maura notice him, standing in the shadows across the
street. He walked toward them, a tall silhouette whose face took on flickering
features only as he moved into the cruisers’ dancing lights. “Are
you sure you’re feeling well enough?” he asked as he helped her out
of the car. “You don’t want to go to the hospital?”
“Please, just drive me home.”
Although he offered his arm for support, she didn’t take it, but
kept her hands in her pockets as they walked to his car. She could feel the
gazes of police officers watching them. There go Dr. Isles and that priest,
together again. Was there anyone who hadn’t noticed, hadn’t
wondered about them?
There’s not a damn thing worth wondering
about.
She slid into his front seat and stared straight ahead as he started the
engine. “Thank you,” she said.
“You know I’d do this for you in a heartbeat.”
“Did Jane call you?”
“I’m glad she did. You need a friend to drive you home
tonight. Not some cop you hardly know.” He pulled away from the curb and
the garish lights of emergency vehicles faded behind them. “You came too
close tonight,” he said softly.
“Believe me, I wasn’t trying to.”
“You shouldn’t have gone into that house. You should have
called the police.”
“Can we not talk about it?”
“Is there anything we can still talk about, Maura? Or is
this how it’s going to be from now on? You won’t visit me, you
won’t answer my calls?”
She finally looked at him. “I’m not getting younger, Daniel.
I’m forty-one, my only marriage was a spectacular disaster, and I have a
knack for getting into hopeless affairs. I want to be married. I want
to be happy. I can’t afford to waste time on relationships that go
nowhere.”
“Even if the friendship, the feelings, are real?”
“Friendships are broken all the time. So are hearts.”
“Yes,” he said, and sighed. “That’s true.”
They drove for a moment in silence. Then he said, “I never meant to break
your heart.”
“You haven’t.”
“But I have hurt you. I know that.”
“We’ve hurt each other. We had to.” She paused, and
said bitterly, “It’s what your almighty God demands, isn’t
it?” Her words were meant to wound, and by his sudden silence she knew
they had found their mark. He said nothing as they approached her neighborhood,
as he pulled into her driveway and shut off the engine. He sat for a moment,
then turned to her.
“You’re right,” he said. “My God demands too damn
much.” And he pulled her toward him.
She should have resisted; she should have pushed him away and stepped out
of his car. But she didn’t, because for too long she had wanted this embrace,
this kiss. And more, much more. This was crazy; this could never turn out
right. But neither common sense, nor his God, stood between them now.
Lead us not into temptation. They kissed their way from the car to her front door. Deliver us from
evil. Futile words, a mere sand castle standing against the relentless
tide. They stepped into the house. She did not turn on the light, and as they
stood in the shadowy foyer, the darkness seemed to magnify the harsh sound of
their breathing, the rustle of wool. She shed the bloodstained coat and it fell
to the floor in a puddle of black. Only the faint glow from the windows lit the
hallway. There were no lights to illuminate their sin, no other eyes to witness
their fall from grace.
She led the way to the bedroom. To her bed.
For a year they had been circling in this dance, every step inching them
to this moment. She knew this man’s heart, and he knew hers, but his
flesh was a stranger’s never before touched, never tasted. Her fingers
brushed across warm skin and traced down the curve of his spine, all of it new
territory that she was hungry to explore.
The last of their clothes slithered off; the last chance to turn back
slipped away. “Maura,” he whispered as he pressed kisses to her
neck, her breasts. “My Maura.” His words were soft as a prayer, not
to his Lord, but to her. She felt no guilt at all as she welcomed him into her
arms. It was not her vow that was broken, not her conscience that would suffer.
Tonight, God, for this moment, he’s mine, she thought, reveling in
her victory as Daniel groaned against her, as she wrapped her legs around him,
tormented him, urged him on. I have what you, God, can never give him. I
take him from you. I claim him. Go ahead and call in all your demons; I
don’t give a damn.
Tonight, neither did Daniel.
When at last their bodies found release, he collapsed into her arms. For
a long time they lay silent. By the light through her windows she could see the
faint gleam of his eyes, staring at the darkness. Not asleep, but thinking.
Perhaps regretting. As the moments passed, she could stand the silence no
longer.
“Are you sorry?” she finally asked.
“No,” he whispered. His fingers slid along her arm.
“Why am I not convinced?”
“Do you need to be?”
“I want you to be glad. What we did is natural. It’s human.”
She paused and said with a sigh, “But maybe that’s just a poor
excuse for sin.”
“That’s not what I’m thinking about at all.”
“What are you thinking?”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his breath warming her hair.
“I’m thinking about what happens next.”
“What do you want to happen?”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“You don’t have to. It’s your choice.”
“My choice,” he said softly. “It’s like having to
choose between breathing in and breathing out.” He rolled onto his back. For
a moment, he was silent. “I think I told you, once,” he said,
“how I came to take my vows.”
“You said your sister was dying. Leukemia.”
“And I made a bargain. A deal with God. He delivered, and
Sophie’s alive now. I kept my side of the bargain as well.”
“You were only fourteen. That’s too young to promise away the
rest of your life.”
“But I did make that promise. And I can do so much good in His
name, Maura. I’ve been happy, keeping that promise.”
“And then you met me.”
He sighed. “And then I met you.”
“You do have to choose, Daniel.”
“Or you’ll walk out of my life. I know.”
“I don’t want to.”
He looked at her. “Then don’t, Maura! Please. These past few
months without you, I’ve been lost in the wilderness. I felt so guilty,
wanting you. But you were all I thought about.”
“So where does this leave me, if I stay in your life? You get to
keep your church, but what do I get to have?” She stared up at the
darkness. “Nothing has really changed, has it?”
“Everything has changed.” He reached for her hand. “I
love you.”
But not enough. Not as much as you love your God.
Yet she let him pull her into his arms again. She met his kisses with her
own. This time their lovemaking was not a tender joining; this coupling was
fierce, bodies colliding. Not love, but punishment. Tonight they’d use
each other. If she couldn’t have love, then lust it would be. Give him
something to remember that would haunt him on those nights when God was not
enough. This is what you’ll give up when you leave me. This is the
Heaven you’ll walk away from.
Before dawn, he did walk away. She felt him stir awake beside her, then
slowly sit up on the side of the bed and begin to dress. But of course; it was
Sunday morning, and the flock must be tended to.
He bent to kiss her hair. “I have to leave,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“I love you, Maura. I never thought I’d say that to a woman.
But I’m saying it now.” He stroked her face and she turned away, so
he wouldn’t see the tears welling in her eyes.
“Let me make you coffee,” she said, starting to sit up.
“No, you stay warm in bed. I’ll find my own way out.”
Another kiss, and he rose to his feet. She heard him walk down the hall, and
the front door closed.
So it had finally happened. She’d become just another
cliché. Eve with her apple. The temptress luring a holy man to sin. This
time, the snake that seduced them was not Satan, but their own lonely hearts. You
want to find the Devil, Mr. Sansone. Just take a look
at me.
Take a look at any one of us.
Outside the sky slowly lightened to a cold, bright dawn. She pushed aside
sheets, and the scent of their lovemaking rose from the warm linen: the heady
scent of sin. She did not shower it off, but simply pulled on a robe, stepped
into slippers, and went into the kitchen to make coffee. Standing at the sink,
filling the carafe, she gazed out at clematis vines crystallized in ice, at
rhododendrons huddling with leaves crumpled, and did not need to look at a
thermometer to know that today the cold would be brutal. She imagined
Daniel’s parishioners hugging their coats as they stepped from their cars
and walked toward the
She started the coffeemaker and went to the front door for her newspaper.
Stepping outside, she was stunned by the cold. It burned her throat, stung her
nostrils. She wasted no time retrieving the newspaper, which had landed on the
front walkway, then turned and scurried back up the porch steps. She was just
reaching for the doorknob when she suddenly froze, her gaze fixed on the door.
On the words, the symbols, scrawled there.
She spun around, frantically scanning the street. She saw sunshine
glinting off icy pavement, heard only the silence of a Sunday morning.
She scrambled into the house, slammed the door shut, and rammed the dead
bolt home. Then she ran for the phone and called Jane Rizzoli.
“Are you sure you
didn’t hear anything last night? No footsteps on the porch, nothing out
of the ordinary?” asked Jane.
Maura sat on
the couch, shivering despite her sweater and wool slacks. She had not eaten
breakfast, had not even poured herself a cup of coffee, but she felt not the
faintest stirring of hunger. During the half hour before Jane and Frost had
arrived, Maura had remained at her living room window, watching the street,
attuned to every noise, tracking every car that passed. The killer knows
where I live. He knows what happened last night, in my bedroom.
“Doc?”
Maura looked
up. “I didn’t hear anything. The writing was just there, on my
door, when I woke up. When I went outside to get my…” She flinched,
her heart suddenly thudding.
Her phone was
ringing.
Frost picked up
the receiver. “Isles residence. This is Detective Frost. I’m sorry,
Mr. Sansone, but we’re dealing with a situation
here right now, and this isn’t a convenient time for you to talk to her.
I’ll let her know you called.”
Jane’s
gaze returned to Maura. “Are you sure that writing wasn’t already
on your door when you got home last night?”
“I
didn’t see it then.”
“You used
the front door to enter the house?”
“Yes.
Normally, I’d come in the garage. But my car’s still on
“Did
Father Brophy walk you to the door?”
“It was
dark, Jane. We wouldn’t have seen the writing.” We were only
focused on each other. All we had on our minds was getting to my bedroom.
Frost said,
“I think I’ll check around outside. See if there are any
footprints.” He went out the front door. Though he was now tramping right
outside the house, the sound of his footsteps did not penetrate the double-pane
windows. Last night a trespasser could have walked right past her bedroom, and
she wouldn’t have heard a thing.
“Do you
think he followed you home last night?” Jane asked. “From
O’Donnell’s house?”
“I
don’t know. He could have. But I’ve been present at all three death
scenes. Lori-Ann Tucker’s. Eve Kassovitz’s.
On any one of those nights, he might have seen me.”
“And
followed you home.”
She hugged
herself, trying to suppress her shaking. “I never noticed. I never
realized I was being watched.”
“You have
an alarm system. Did you use it last night?”
“No.”
“Why
not?”
“I—
I simply forgot to arm it.” I had other things on my mind.
Jane sat down
in the chair across from her. “Why would he draw those symbols on your
door? What do you think they mean?”
“How
would I know?”
“And the
message he left— it’s the same one that he left in Lori-Ann
Tucker’s bedroom. Only this time, he didn’t bother to write it in
Latin. This time he made sure we’d understand exactly what he meant. I
have sinned.” Jane paused. “Why direct those particular words
at you?”
Maura said
nothing.
“Do you
think they were meant for you?” Jane’s gaze was suddenly alert, probing.
She knows me
too well, thought Maura. She can see I’m not telling her the whole story.
Or maybe she’s caught the whiff of lust on my skin. I should have
showered before they got here; I should have washed away Daniel’s scent.
Abruptly, Maura
stood up. “I can’t concentrate,” she said. “I need a
cup of coffee.” She turned and headed toward the kitchen. There she
busied herself, pouring coffee into mugs, reaching into the refrigerator for
cream. Jane had followed her into the kitchen, but Maura avoided looking at
her. She slid a steaming mug in front of Jane and then turned to the window as
she sipped, delaying, as long as she could, the revelation of her shame.
“Is there
something you want to tell me?” said Jane.
“I’ve
told you everything. I woke up this morning and found that writing on my door.
I don’t know what else to say.”
“After
you left O’Donnell’s house, did Father Brophy
drive you straight home?”
“Yes.”
“And you
didn’t see any cars tailing you?”
“No.”
“Well,
maybe Father Brophy noticed something. I’ll see
what he remembers.”
Maura cut in.
“You don’t need to talk to him. I mean, if he’d noticed
anything last night, he would have told me.”
“I still
have to ask him.”
Maura turned to
face Jane. “It’s Sunday, you know.”
“I know
what day it is.”
“He has
services.”
Jane’s
gaze had narrowed, and Maura felt her cheeks flame with heat.
“What
happened last night?” Jane asked.
“I told
you. I came straight home from O’Donnell’s house.”
“And you
stayed inside for the rest of the night?”
“I
didn’t leave the house.”
“Did
Father Brophy?”
The question,
asked so matter-of-factly, startled Maura into silence. After a moment, she
sank into a chair at the kitchen table but said nothing, just stared down at
her coffee.
“How long
did he stay?” asked Jane. Still no emotion in her voice, still the cop,
although Maura knew there was disapproval behind that question, and guilt
tightened its fist around her throat.
“He
stayed most of the night.”
“Till
what time?”
“I
don’t know. It was still dark when he left.”
“And what
did you two do while he was here?”
“This
isn’t relevant.”
“You know
it is. We’re talking about what the killer might have seen through your
windows. What might have inspired him to write those words on your door. Were
your living room lights on the whole night? Were you and Brophy
sitting there, talking?”
Maura heaved
out a breath. “No. The lights… they were off.”
“The
house was dark.”
“Yes.”
“And
someone standing outside, watching your windows, would have to
assume—”
“You know
what the hell they’d assume.”
“Would
they be right?”
Maura met her
gaze. “I was freaked out last night, Jane! Daniel was there for me.
He’s always been there for me. We didn’t plan for this to happen.
It’s the only time— the one time—” Her voice faded.
“I didn’t want to be alone.”
Jane sat down
at the kitchen table as well. “You know, those words take on new meaning.
I have sinned.”
“We’ve
all sinned,” shot back Maura. “Each and every damn one of
us.”
“I’m
not criticizing you, okay?”
“Yes you
are. You think I can’t hear it in your voice?”
“If
you’re feeling guilty, Doc, it’s not because of anything I
said.”
Maura stared
back at Jane’s unrelenting gaze and thought, She’s right, of
course. My guilt is all my own.
“We will
have to talk to Father Brophy about this, you know.
About what happened last night.”
Maura gave a
resigned sigh. “Please, when you do talk to him, just keep it
discreet.”
“I’m
not exactly bringing in the TV cameras, okay?”
“Detective
Frost doesn’t have to know about this.”
“Of
course he has to know. He’s my partner.”
Maura dropped
her head in her hands. “Oh, God.”
“This is
relevant to the case, and you know it. If I didn’t tell Frost, he’d
have every right to cry foul.”
So I
won’t be able to look at Frost again without seeing a reflection of my own
guilt, thought Maura, cringing at the thought of Frost’s reaction.
One’s reputation was such a fragile thing; one tiny crack and it
disintegrates. For two years, they had regarded her as the queen of the dead,
the unflappable medical examiner who could gaze without flinching at sights
that turned the stomachs of even the most seasoned investigators. Now
they’d look at her and see the weaknesses, the flaws of a lonely woman.
Footsteps
thumped on the front porch. It was Frost, coming back into the house. She did
not want to be present when he learned the tawdry truth. Uptight, upright Barry
Frost would be shocked to hear who’d been sleeping in her bed.
But he was not
the only person who’d just stepped into the house. Maura heard voices
talking, and she looked up in sudden recognition as Anthony Sansone
swept into the kitchen, followed by Frost.
“Are you
all right?” Sansone asked her.
Jane said,
“This really isn’t a good time for a visit, Mr. Sansone.
Would you mind stepping outside?”
He ignored
Jane; his gaze stayed on Maura. He was not dressed in black today, but in
shades of gray. A tweed jacket, an ash-colored shirt. So different from Daniel,
she thought; this man I cannot read, and he makes me uncomfortable.
“I just
saw the markings on your door,” he said. “When did that
happen?”
“I
don’t know,” she said. “Sometime last night.”
“I should
have driven you home myself.”
Jane cut in.
“I really think you should leave now.”
“Wait,”
said Frost. “You need to hear what he says, about what’s on the
door. What it might mean.”
“I
have sinned? I think the meaning is pretty obvious.”
“Not the
words,” said Sansone. “The symbols
beneath them.”
“We’ve
already heard about the all-seeing eye. Your friend Oliver Stark explained
it.”
“He may
have been mistaken.”
“You
don’t agree that it’s the eye of Horus?”
“I think
it may represent something else entirely.” He looked at Maura.
“Come outside and I’ll explain it to you.”
Maura had no
wish to once again confront those accusing words on her door, but his sense of
urgency forced her to follow him. Stepping outside onto the porch, she paused,
blinking against the sun’s glare. It was such a beautiful Sunday morning,
a morning to linger over coffee and the newspaper. Instead she was afraid to
sit in her own house, afraid to look at her own front door.
She took a
breath and turned to confront what had been drawn in ocher that was the color
of dried blood. The words I have sinned screamed at her, an accusation
that made her want to shrink, to hide her guilty face.
But it was not
the words that Sansone focused on. He pointed to the
two symbols drawn below them. The larger one they had seen before, on his
garden door.
“That
looks exactly like the all-seeing eye to me,” said Jane.
“But look
at this other symbol,” said Sansone, pointing
to a figure near the bottom of the door. It was so small, it almost seemed like
an afterthought. “Drawn in ocher, as at the other crime scenes.”
Jane said,
“How did you know about the ocher?”
“My
colleagues need to see this. To confirm what I think it represents.” He
took out his cell phone.
“Wait,”
said Jane. “This isn’t some public showing.”
“Do you
know how to interpret this, Detective? Do you have any idea where to start? If
you want to find this killer, you’d better understand his thinking. His
symbols.” He began to dial. Jane did not stop him.
Maura dropped
to a crouch so that she could study the bottom sketch. She stared at arching
horns, a triangular head, and slitted eyes. “It
looks like a goat,” she said. “But what does it mean?” She
gazed up at Sansone. Backlit by the morning glare, he
was a towering figure, black and faceless.
“It
represents Azazel,” he said. “It’s
a symbol of the Watchers.”
“Azazel was the chief of the Se’irim,”
said Oliver Stark. “They were goat demons who haunted the ancient deserts
before Moses, before the pharaohs. All the way back in the age of
Lilith.”
“Who’s
Lilith?” asked Frost.
Edwina Felway looked at Frost in surprise. “You don’t
know about her?”
Frost gave an
embarrassed shrug. “I have to admit, I’m not all that well-versed
in the Bible.”
“Oh, you
won’t find Lilith in the Bible,” said Edwina. “She’s
long been banished from accepted Christian doctrine, although she does have a
place in Hebrew legend. She was Adam’s first wife.”
“Adam had
another wife?”
“Yes,
before Eve.” Edwina smiled at his startled face. “What, you think
the Bible tells the whole story?”
They were
sitting in Maura’s living room, gathered around the coffee table, where
Oliver’s sketchpad lay among the empty cups and saucers. Within half an
hour of Sansone’s call, both Edwina and Oliver
had arrived to examine the symbols on the door. They’d conferred on the
porch for only a few minutes before the cold drove them all into the house for
hot coffee and theories. Theories that now struck Maura as cold-bloodedly intellectual.
Her home had been marked by a killer, and these people calmly sat in her living
room, discussing their bizarre theology. She glanced at Jane, who wore an
undisguised expression of these people are kooks. But Frost was clearly
fascinated.
“I never
heard that Adam had a first wife,” he said.
“There’s
a whole history that never appears in the Bible, Detective,” said Edwina,
“a secret history you can only find in Canaanite or Hebrew legends. They
talk about the marriage between Adam and a free-spirited woman, a cunning
temptress who refused to obey her husband, or to lie beneath him as a docile
wife should. Instead she demanded wild sex in every position and taunted him
when he couldn’t satisfy her. She was the world’s first truly liberated
female, and she wasn’t afraid to seek the pleasures of the flesh.”
“She
sounds like a lot more fun than Eve,” said Frost.
“But in
the eyes of the church, Lilith was an abomination, a woman who was beyond the
control of men, a creature so sexually insatiable that she finally abandoned
her boring old husband, Adam, and ran off to have orgies with demons.”
Edwina paused. “And as a result, she gave birth to the most powerful
demon of all, the one who’s plagued mankind ever since.”
“You
don’t mean the Devil?”
Sansone said, “It’s a belief that was commonly
held in the Middle Ages: Lilith was the mother of Lucifer.”
Edwina gave a
snort. “So you see how history treats an assertive woman? If you refuse
to be subservient, if you enjoy sex a little too much, then the church turns
you into a monster. You’re known as the Devil’s mother.”
“Or you
disappear from history entirely,” said Frost. “Because this is the
first I’ve ever heard of Lilith. Or that goat person.”
“Azazel,” said Oliver. He tore off his latest sketch
and placed it on the coffee table so that everyone could see it. It was a more
detailed version of the face that had been drawn on Maura’s door: a
horned goat with slitted eyes and a single flame
burning atop its head. “The goat demons are mentioned in Leviticus and Isaiah.
They were hairy creatures who cavorted with wild beings like Lilith. The name Azazel goes back to the Canaanites, probably a derivation
of one of their ancient gods’ names.”
“And
that’s who the symbol on the door refers to?” asked Frost.
“That
would be my guess.”
Jane laughed,
unable to contain her skepticism. “A guess? Oh, we’re really
nailing down the facts here, aren’t we?”
Edwina said,
“You think this discussion is a waste of time?”
“I think
a symbol is whatever you want to make of it. You people think it’s a goat
demon. But to the weirdo who drew it, it may mean something entirely different.
Remember all that stuff you and Oliver spouted about the eye of Horus? The
fractions, the quarter moon? So all of that is suddenly a bunch of hooey?”
“I did explain
to you that the eye can represent a number of different things,” said
Oliver. “The Egyptian god. The all-seeing eye of Lucifer. Or the Masonic
symbol for illumination, for wisdom.”
“Those
are pretty opposite meanings,” said Frost. “The Devil versus
wisdom?”
“They’re
not opposite at all. You have to remember what the word Lucifer means.
Translated, the name is ‘Bringer of Light.’”
“That
doesn’t sound so evil.”
“Some
would claim that Lucifer isn’t evil,” said Edwina,
“that he represents the questioning mind, the independent thinker, the
very things that once threatened the church.”
Jane snorted.
“So now Lucifer isn’t such a bad guy? He just asked too many
questions?”
“Who you
call the Devil depends on your perspective,” said Edwina. “My late
husband was an anthropologist. I’ve lived all over the world, collected
images of demons that look like jackals or cats or snakes. Or beautiful women.
Every culture has its own idea of what the Devil looks like. There’s only
one thing that almost all cultures, dating back to the most primitive tribes,
agree on: the Devil actually exists.”
Maura thought
of that faceless swirl of black that she had glimpsed in
O’Donnell’s bedroom last night, and a chill prickled the back of
her neck. She didn’t believe in Satan. But she did believe in evil. And
last night, I was surely in its presence. Her gaze fell on Oliver’s
sketch of the horned goat. “This thing —this Azazel—
is he also a symbol of the Devil?”
“No,”
said Oliver. “Azazel is often used as a symbol
for the Watchers.”
“Who are
these watchers you keep talking about?” asked Frost.
Edwina looked
at Maura. “Do you have a Bible, Dr. Isles?”
Maura frowned
at her. “Yes.”
“Could
you get it for us?”
Maura crossed
to the bookcase and scanned the top shelf for the familiar worn cover. It had
been her father’s Bible, and Maura had not opened it in years. She took
it down and handed it to Edwina, who riffled through the pages, setting off a
puff of dust.
“Here it
is. Genesis, chapter six. Verses one and two: ‘And it came to pass, when
men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto
them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and
they took them wives of all which they chose.’”
“The sons
of God?” asked Frost.
“That
passage almost certainly refers to angels,” explained Edwina. “It
says that angels lusted after earthly women, so they married them. A marriage
between the divine and the mortal.” She looked down at the Bible again.
“And here’s verse four: ‘There were giants on the earth in
these days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the
daughters of men, and they bore children to them, the same became mighty men
which were of old, men of renown.’” Edwina closed the book.
“What
does all that mean?” asked Frost.
“It says
that they had children,” said Edwina. “That’s the one place
in the Bible where these children are mentioned. These offspring resulted from matings between humans and angels. They were a mixed race
of demons called the Nephilim.”
“Also
known as the Watchers,” said Sansone.
“You’ll
find references to them in other sources that predate the Bible. In the Book of
Enoch. In the Book of Jubilees. They’re described as monsters, spawned by
fallen angels who had intercourse with human women. The result was a secret
race of hybrids that supposedly still walks among us. These creatures are said
to have unusual charm and talent, unusual beauty. Often very tall, very
charismatic. But they’re demons nonetheless, and they serve the
darkness.”
“You
people actually believe this?” asked Jane.
“I’m
just telling you what’s in holy writings, Detective. The ancients
believed mankind was not alone on this earth, that others came before us and
that some people today still carry the bloodline of those monsters.”
“But you
called them the children of angels.”
“Fallen
angels. Flawed and evil.”
“So these
things, these Watchers, are like mutants,” said Frost,
“hybrids.”
Edwina looked
at him. “A subspecies. Violent and predatory. The rest of us are merely
prey.”
“It’s
written that when Armageddon arrives,” said Oliver, “when the world
as we know it ends, the Antichrist himself will be one of the Nephilim. A Watcher.”
And their mark
is on my door. Maura stared at the sketch of the goat’s head. Was that symbol
intended as a warning?
Or an invitation?
“Well,”
said Jane, and she looked pointedly at her watch. “This has been a really
valuable use of our time.”
“You
still don’t see the significance, do you?” said Sansone.
“It makes
for a great story around the campfire, but it doesn’t get me any closer
to our killer.”
“It gets
you into his head. It tells us what he believes.”
“Angels
and goat demons. Right. Or maybe our perp just likes
to play head games with cops. So he makes us waste our time chasing after ocher
and seashells.” Jane rose to her feet. “The crime scene unit should
be here any minute. Maybe you people could all go home now, so we can do our
jobs.”
“Wait,”
Sansone cut in. “What was that you just said
about seashells?”
Jane ignored
him and looked at Frost. “Can you call CSU and find out what’s
taking them so long?”
“Detective
Rizzoli,” said Sansone, “tell us about
the seashells.”
“You seem
to have your own sources. Why don’t you ask them?”
“This
could be very important. Why don’t you just save us the effort and tell
us?”
“First,
you tell me. What’s the significance of a seashell?”
“What
kind of shell? A bivalve, a cone?”
“Does it
make a difference?”
“Yes.”
Jane paused.
“It’s sort of a spiral. A cone, I guess.”
“It was
left at a death scene?”
“You
might say that.”
“Describe
the shell.”
“Look,
there’s nothing special about it. The guy I spoke to says it’s a
common species found all over the
“Well,”
Edwina said softly, “I’d say this just about clinches it.”
“Clinches
what?” said Frost.
“The
seashell,” said Oliver, “is on Anthony’s family crest.”
Sansone rose from his chair and crossed to the window.
There he stood gazing out at the street, his broad back framed in black by the
window. “The symbols were drawn in red ocher, mined from
“We have
no idea,” Frost admitted.
“This
killer isn’t playing games with the police. He’s playing games with
me. With the Mephisto Foundation.” He
turned to face them, but the morning glare made his expression impossible to
read. “On Christmas Eve, he kills a woman and leaves satanic symbols at
the scene—the candles, the ocher circle. But the single most significant
thing he does that night is place a phone call to Joyce O’Donnell, a
member of our foundation. That was the tug on our sleeve. It was meant to get
our attention.”
“Your attention?
It seems to me this has always been about O’Donnell.”
“Then Eve
Kassovitz was killed in my garden. On a night we were
meeting.”
“It’s
also the night O’Donnell was your dinner guest. She was the one he
stalked, the one he had his eye on.”
“I would
have agreed with you last night. All the signs, up till then, pointed to Joyce
as the target. But these symbols on Maura’s door tell us the killer
hasn’t completed his work. He’s still hunting.”
“He knows
about us, Anthony,” said Edwina. “He’s cutting down our
circle. Joyce was the first. The question is, who’s next?”
Sansone looked at Maura. “I’m afraid he thinks
you’re one of us.”
“But
I’m not,” she said. “I don’t want anything to do with
your group delusion.”
“Doc?”
said Jane. Maura had not heard her come back into the room. Jane was standing
in the doorway, holding her cell phone. “Can you come into the kitchen?
We need to talk in private.”
Maura rose and
followed her up the hallway. “What is it?” she asked as they
stepped into the kitchen.
“Could
you arrange to take the day off tomorrow? Because you and I need to go out of
town tonight. I’m going home to pack an overnight bag. I’ll be back
to pick you up around noon.”
“Are you
telling me I should run and hide? Just because someone’s written on my
door?”
“This has
nothing to do with your door. I just got a call from a cop out in upstate
“Why
should a murder in
“She’s
missing her left hand.”
August 8. Phase of the
moon: Last Quarter.
Every day, Teddy
goes down to the lake.
In the morning,
I hear the squeal and slap of the screen door, and then I hear his shoes thump
down the porch steps. From my window, I watch him walk from the house and head
down toward the water, fishing pole propped on his thin shoulder, tackle box in
hand. It is a strange ritual, and useless, I think, because he never brings
back any fruits of his labor. Every afternoon, he returns empty-handed but
cheerful.
Today, I follow
him.
He does not see
me as he rambles through the woods toward the water. I stay far enough behind
him so that he can’t hear my footsteps. He is singing anyway, in his high
and childish voice, an off-key version of the “Kookaburra” song,
and is oblivious to the fact he is being watched. He reaches the water’s
edge, baits his hook, and throws in his line. As the minutes pass, he settles
onto the grassy bank and gazes across water so calm that not even a whisper of
wind ruffles the mirrored surface.
The fishing pole
gives a twitch.
I move closer
as Teddy reels in his catch. It is a brownish fish and it writhes on the line,
every muscle twitching in mortal terror. I wait for the fatal blow, for that sacred
instant in time when the divine spark flickers out. But to my surprise, Teddy
grasps his catch, pulls the hook from its mouth, and gently lowers the fish
back into the water. He crouches close, murmuring to it, as though in apology
for having inconvenienced its morning.
“Why
didn’t you keep it?” I ask.
Teddy jerks
straight, startled by my voice. “Oh,” he says. “It’s
you.”
“You let
it go.”
“I
don’t like to kill them. It’s only a bass, anyway.”
“So you
throw them all back?”
“Uh-huh.”
Teddy baits his hook again and casts it into the water.
“What’s
the point of catching them, then?”
“It’s
fun. It’s like a game between us. Me and the fish.”
I sit down
beside him on the bank. Gnats buzz around our heads and Teddy waves them away.
He has just turned eleven years old, but he still has a child’s perfectly
smooth skin, and the golden baby fuzz on his face catches the sun’s
glint. I am close enough to hear his breathing, to see the pulse throb in his
slender neck. He does not seem bothered by my presence; in fact, he gives me a
shy smile, as though this is a special treat, sharing the lazy morning with his
older cousin.
“You want
to try?” he says, offering me the pole.
I take it. But
my attention remains on Teddy, on the fine sheen of perspiration on his
forehead, on the shadows cast by his eyelashes.
The pole gives
a tug.
“You’ve
got one!”
I begin to reel
it in, and the fish’s struggles make my hands sweat in anticipation. I
can feel its thrashings, its desperation to live, transmitted through the pole.
At last it breaks the water, its tail flapping as I swing it over the bank. I
grab hold of slimy scales.
“Now take
out the hook,” says Teddy. “But be careful not to hurt him.”
I look into the
open tackle box and see a knife.
“He
can’t breathe out of water. Hurry.” Teddy urges me.
I think about
reaching for the knife, about holding the wriggling fish down against the grass
and piercing it behind the gills. About slitting it open, all the way down the
belly. I want to feel the fish give a last twitch, want to feel its life force
leap directly into me in a bracing jolt— the same jolt I felt when I was
ten years old and took the oath of Herem. When my
mother at last brought me into the circle and handed me the knife. “You
have reached the age,” she said. “It’s time to be one of
us.” I think of the sacrificial goat’s final shudder, and I
remember the pride in my mother’s eyes and the murmurs of approval from
the circle of robed men. I want to feel that thrill again.
A fish will not
do.
I remove the
hook and drop the wriggling bass back into the lake. It gives a splash of its
tail and darts away. The whisper of a breeze ruffles the water and dragonflies
tremble on the reeds. I turn to Teddy.
And he says,
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Forty-two Euros
in tips— not a bad haul for a chilly Sunday in December. As Lily waved
good-bye to the tour group whom she’d just shepherded through the Roman
Forum, she felt an icy raindrop fleck her face. She looked up at dark clouds
hanging ominously low and she shivered. Tomorrow she’d certainly need a
raincoat.
With that fresh
roll of cash in her pocket, she headed for the favorite shopping venue of every
penny-pinching student in
She wandered
down the narrow passage between stalls, pausing to pick through buckets of
costume jewelry and fake Roman coins, and continued toward Piazza Ippolito Nievo and the antiques
stalls. Every Sunday, it seemed, she always ended up in this section of the
market, because it was the old things, the ancient things, that truly
interested her. A scrap of medieval tapestry or a mere chip of bronze could
make her heart pound faster. By the time she reached the antiques area, most of
the dealers were already carting away their merchandise, and she saw only a few
stands still open, their wares exposed to the drizzle. She wandered past the
meager offerings, past weary, glum-faced sellers, and was about to leave the
piazza when her gaze fell on a small wooden box. She halted, staring.
Three reverse
crosses were carved into the top.
Her
mist-dampened face suddenly felt encased in ice. Then she noticed that the
hinge was facing toward her, and with a sheepish laugh, she rotated the box to
its proper orientation. The crosses turned right-side up. When you looked too
hard for evil, you saw it everywhere. Even when it’s not there.
“You are
looking for religious items?” the dealer asked in Italian.
She glanced up
to see the man’s wrinkled face, his eyes almost lost in folds of skin.
“I’m just browsing, thank you.”
“Here.
There’s more.” He slid a box in front of her, and she saw tangled
rosary beads and a wooden carving of the Madonna and old books, their pages
curling in the dampness. “Look, look! Take your time.”
At first
glance, she saw nothing in that box that interested her. Then she focused on
the spine of one of the books. The title was stamped on the leather in gold: The
Book of Enoch.
She picked it
up and opened it to the copyright page. It was the English translation by R. H.
Charles, a 1912 edition printed by Oxford University Press. Two years ago, in a
“It is
very old,” said the dealer.
“Yes,”
she murmured, “it is.”
“It says
1912.”
And these words
are even older, she thought, as she ran her fingers across the
yellowed pages. This text predated the birth of Christ by two hundred years.
These were stories from an era before Noah and his ark, before Methusaleh. She flipped through the pages and paused at one
passage that had been underlined in ink.
Evil spirits
have proceeded from their bodies, because they are born from men, and from the
holy Watchers is their beginning and primal origin; they shall be evil spirits
on earth, and evil spirits shall they be called.
“I have
many more of his things,” said the dealer.
She looked up.
“Whose?”
“The man
who owned that book. This is all his.” He waved at the boxes. “He
died last month, and now everything must be sold. If you are interested in such
items, I have another one just like it.” He bent down to dig through
another box and came up with a slim leather-bound book, its cover battered and
stained. “The same author,” he said. “R. H. Charles.”
Not the same
author, she thought, but the same translator. It was a 1913 edition of The
Book of Jubilees, yet another holy text that predated the Christian era.
Although she was familiar with the title Jubilees, she had never read
this particular book. She lifted the cover, and the pages fell open to chapter
ten, verse five, a passage that was also underlined in ink:
And thou knowest how thy Watchers, the fathers of these spirits,
acted in my day: and as for these spirits which are living, imprison them and
hold them fast in the place of condemnation, and let them not bring destruction
on the sons of thy servant, my God; for these are malignant, and created in
order to destroy.
In the margin,
scrawled in the same ink, were the words: The sons of Seth. The daughters of
Cain.
Lily closed the
book and suddenly noticed the brown stains on the leather cover. Blood?
“Would
you like to buy it?”
She looked up.
“What happened to this man? The one who owned these books?”
“I told
you. He died.”
“How?”
A shrug.
“He lived alone. He was very old, very strange. They found him locked
inside his apartment, with all these books piled up against the door. So he
couldn’t even get out. Crazy, eh?”
Or terrified, she thought, of
what might get in.
“I’ll
give you a good price. Do you want it?”
She stared at the
second book, thinking of its owner, lying dead and barricaded in his cluttered
apartment, and she could almost smell the scent of decaying flesh wafting up
from the pages. Repulsed though she was by the stains on the leather, she
wanted this book. She wanted to know why the owner had scrawled those words in
the margins and whether he had written anything else.
“Five
Euros,” the dealer said.
For once, she
did not dicker, but simply paid the asking price and walked away with the book.
It was raining
hard by the time she climbed the dank stairwell to her flat. All afternoon it
rained as she sat reading by the gray and watery light through her window. She
read about Seth. The third son of Adam, Seth begat Enos,
who begat Kenan. It was the same lofty bloodline from
which later sprang the patriarchs Jared and Enoch, Methuselah and Noah. But
from this very bloodline also sprang corrupted sons, wicked sons, who mated
with the daughters of a murderous ancestor.
The daughters
of Cain.
Lily stopped at
another underlined passage, the words long ago marked by the man whose ghostly
presence now seemed to hover at her shoulder, anxious to share his secrets, to
whisper his warnings.
And lawlessness
increased on the earth and all flesh corrupted its way, alike men and cattle
and beasts and birds and everything that walks on the earth, all of them
corrupted their ways and their orders, and they began to devour each other, and
lawlessness increased on the earth and every imagination of the thoughts of all
men was thus evil continually.
Daylight was
fading. She had been sitting for so long, she’d lost all feeling in her
limbs. Outside, rain continued to tap at the window, and on the streets of
She looked
down, once again, at The Book of Jubilees, at the ominous words of Noah,
spoken to his sons:
For I see, and
behold the demons have begun their seductions against you and against your
children and now I fear on your behalf, that after my death ye will shed the
blood of men upon the earth and that ye, too, will be destroyed from the face
of the earth.
The demons are
still among us, she thought. And the bloodshed has already begun.
Jane and Maura drove west on the Massachusetts Turnpike, Jane at the wheel
as they hurtled through a stark landscape of snow and bare trees. Even on this
Sunday afternoon, they shared the highway with a convoy of monster trucks that
dwarfed Jane’s Subaru as she sped around them like a daredevil gnat. It
was better not to watch. Maura focused instead on Jane’s notes. The handwriting
was a hurried scrawl, but it was no less legible than the scrawls of
physicians, which Maura had long ago learned to decipher.
Sarah Parmley, 28 years
old. Last seen 12/23 checking out of the Oakmont Motel.
“She vanished two weeks ago,” said Maura. “And they
only just discovered her body?”
“She was found in a vacant house. Apparently, it’s somewhat
isolated. The caretaker noticed her car parked outside. He also found that the
house’s front door was unlocked, so he went in to investigate. He’s
the one who discovered the body.”
“What was the victim doing in a vacant house?”
“No one knows. Sarah arrived in town on December twentieth to
attend her aunt’s funeral. Everyone assumed that she’d returned
home to
“Look at the map, Jane. From upstate
“It is her hand. I know it is. I tell you, the x-rays are
going to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Check out the name of the town where Sarah’s body was
found.”
“Purity,
“Sarah Parmley grew up in Purity. She
graduated from high school there.”
“So?”
“So guess where Lori-Ann Tucker went to high school?”
Maura looked at her in surprise. “She’s from the same
town?”
“You got it. And Lori-Ann Tucker was twenty-eight years old, too.
Eleven years ago, they would have graduated from the same high school
class.”
“Two victims who grew up in the same town, went to the same high
school. They would have known each other.”
“And maybe that’s where this perp
met them. This is how he chose them. Maybe he was obsessed with them since high
school. Maybe they snubbed him, and he’s spent the last eleven years thinking
about ways to get back at them. Then suddenly, Sarah shows up in Purity for her
aunt’s funeral, and he sees her. Gets all pissed off again. Kills her and
cuts off her hand as a souvenir. Has so much fun doing it that he decides to do
it again.”
“So he drives all the way to
“But not for good old-fashioned revenge.”
Maura stared at the road, thinking. “If it was all about revenge,
why did he call Joyce O’Donnell that night? Why did he turn his rage on
her?”
“Only she knew the answer to that. And she refused to share the
secret with us.”
“And why write on my door? What’s the message there?”
“You mean, I have sinned?”
Maura flushed. Closing the folder, she sat with clenched hands pressing
against the file. So it was back to that again. The one subject she had no wish
to talk about.
“I told Frost about it,” said Jane.
Maura said nothing, just kept her gaze focused straight ahead.
“He needed to know. He’s already spoken to Father Brophy.”
“You should have let me talk to Daniel first.”
“Why?”
“So he wouldn’t be completely taken by surprise.”
“That we know about you two?”
“Don’t sound so damn judgmental.”
“I wasn’t aware that I did.”
“I can hear it in your voice. I don’t need this.”
“Then it’s a good thing you didn’t hear what Frost had
to say about it.”
“You think this doesn’t happen all the time? People fall in
love, Jane. They make mistakes.”
“But not you!” Jane sounded almost angry, betrayed.
“I always thought you were smarter than this.”
“No one’s that smart.”
“This can’t go anywhere and you know it. If you ever expect
him to marry you—”
“I’ve already tried marriage, remember? That was a rousing
success.”
“And what do you think you’re going to get out of
this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do. First there’ll be all the whispers. Your
neighbors wondering why that priest’s car is always parked outside your
house. Then you’ll have to sneak out of town just to spend time with each
other. But eventually, someone’s going to see you two together. And then
the gossip starts. It’ll just get more and more awkward. Embarrassing.
How long are you going to be able to keep that up? How long before he’s
forced to make a choice?”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“You think he’ll choose you?”
“Cut it out, Jane.”
“Well, do you?” The question was unnecessarily brutal, and
for a moment Maura considered getting out at the next town, calling for a
rental car, and driving home by herself.
“I’m old enough to make my own choices,” she said.
“But what’s his choice going to be?”
Maura turned her head to stare out the window at snowy fields, at
toppling fence posts half-buried in drifts. If he doesn’t choose me,
will I really be all that surprised? He can tell me again and again how much he
loves me. But will he ever leave his church for me?
Jane sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s my life, not yours.”
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s your life.” Jane shook
her head and laughed. “Man, the whole world’s gone totally bonkers.
I can’t count on anything anymore. Not a single goddamn thing.” She
drove for a moment in silence, squinting at the setting sun. “I
didn’t tell you about my own wonderful news.”
“What news?”
“My parents have split up.”
At last Maura looked at her. “When did this happen?”
“Right after Christmas. Thirty-seven years of marriage, and my dad
suddenly goes sniffing after some blondie from
work.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Then this thing with you and Brophy—
it’s like everyone’s gone sex crazy. You. My idiot dad. Even my
mom.” She paused. “Vince Korsak asked her
out on a date. That’s how weird everything’s gotten.”
Suddenly Jane gave a groan. “Oh, Christ. I just thought about it. Do you
realize that he could end up being my stepdad?”
“The world hasn’t gone that crazy.”
“It could happen.” Jane shuddered. “It gives me the creeps
just thinking about the two of them.”
“Then don’t think about it.”
Jane gritted her teeth. “I’m trying not to.”
And I’ll try not to think of Daniel.
But as they continued driving west toward the setting sun, through the
city of
By the time they crossed the state line into
“Maura, it’s me.”
At the sound of Daniel’s voice, she felt her cheeks flame and was
glad that darkness masked her face from Jane’s gaze.
“Detective Frost came to see me,” he said.
“I had to tell them.”
“Of course you had to. But I wish you’d called me about it.
You should have told me.”
“I’m sorry. It must have been so embarrassing, to hear it
from him first.”
“No, I mean about the writing on your door. I had no idea. I would
have been there for you in an instant. You shouldn’t have had to face
that alone.”
She paused, acutely aware that Jane was listening to every word. And
would no doubt express her disapproval the instant the call ended.
“I went by your house a little while ago,” he said. “I
was hoping to find you at home.”
“I’m going to be away tonight.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the car with Jane. We just passed through
“You’re in
“They’ve found another victim. We think…”
Jane’s hand suddenly closed around Maura’s arm, an unmistakable
warning that the less revealed, the better. Jane didn’t trust him
anymore, now that he’d proven himself to be all too human. “I
can’t talk about it,” she said.
There was a silence on the line. Then, a quiet “I
understand.”
“There are details we have to keep confidential.”
“You don’t need to explain. I know how it works.”
“Can I call you back later?” When there isn’t
another pair of ears listening.
“You don’t have to, Maura.”
“I want to.” I need to.
She hung up and stared at a night pierced only by the beams of their
headlights. They had left the turnpike behind them, and their route now took
them southwest, on a road that cut through snow-covered fields. Here, the only
lights they saw came from the occasional passing car or the glow of a distant
farmhouse.
“You’re not going to talk to him about the case, are
you?” asked Jane.
“Even if I did, he’s perfectly discreet. I’ve always
trusted him.”
“Well, so did I.”
“Meaning you don’t anymore?”
“You’re in lust, Doc. That’s not the best time to trust
your judgment.”
“We both know this man.”
“And I never thought—”
“What, that he’d sleep with me?”
“I’m just saying, you may think you know someone. And then
they surprise you. They do something you never expected, and you realize
you’re in the dark about everyone. Everyone. If you told me a few
months ago that my dad would leave my mom for some bimbo, I’d have said
you were nuts. I’m telling you, people are a goddamn mystery. Even the
people we love.”
“And now you don’t trust Daniel.”
“Not when it comes to that vow of chastity.”
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about this
investigation. About telling him details that concern both of us.”
“He’s not a cop. He doesn’t have to hear a
thing.”
“He was with me last night. The writing on my door was directed at
him, too.”
“You mean, I have sinned?”
Heat flooded Maura’s face. “Yes,” she said.
For a moment they drove without speaking. The only sounds were the tires
on the road, the hiss of the car heater.
“I respected Brophy, okay?” said
Jane. “He’s been good to Boston PD. When we need a priest on the
scene, he comes right over, any time of night. I liked him.”
“Then why have you turned against him?”
Jane looked at her. “Because I happen to like you, too.”
“You certainly don’t give me that impression.”
“Yeah? Well, when you do something unexpected like this, something
so self-destructive, it makes me wonder.”
“What?”
“If I really know you, either.”
It was after eight when they finally pulled into the parking lot of
They walked in through the ER entrance, cold wind sweeping in with them as
the automatic doors slid shut. Jane crossed straight to the triage window and
called out, “Hello? Can I get some information out here?”
“Are you Detective Rizzoli?” said a voice behind them.
They had not seen him sitting alone in the patient waiting area. Now he
rose to his feet, a wan-faced man wearing a tweed jacket over a hunter-green
sweater. Not a cop, guessed Maura, noting his shaggy head of hair, and he
quickly confirmed her impression.
“I’m Dr. Kibbie,” he said.
“Thought I’d wait for you out here, so you wouldn’t have to
find your own way down to the morgue.”
“Thanks for meeting us tonight,” said Jane. “This is
Dr. Isles, from our ME’s office.”
Maura shook his hand. “You’ve already done the
autopsy?”
“Oh, no. I’m not a pathologist, just a humble internist.
There are four of us who rotate as
“You must have your own pathologist in this county.”
“Yes, but in this particular case…” Kibbie
shook his head. “Unfortunately, we know this murder’s going to
generate publicity. A lot of interest. Plus, it could end up in a splashy
criminal trial someday, and our pathologist wanted to bring in another ME on
the case as well. Just so there’ll be no question about their
conclusions. Safety in numbers, you know.” He picked up his overcoat from
the chair. “The elevator’s that way.”
“Where’s Detective Jurevich?”
asked Jane. “I thought he was going to meet us here.”
“Unfortunately, Joe got called away just a while ago, so he
won’t be seeing you tonight. He said he’d meet you in the morning,
over at the house. Just give him a call tomorrow.” Kibbie
took a breath. “So, are you ready for this?”
“That bad, huh?”
“Let’s put it this way: I hope I never see anything like this
again.”
They started up the hall to the elevator, and he pressed the Down button.
“After two weeks, I guess she’s in pretty bad shape,”
said Jane.
“Actually, there’s been minimal decomposition. The house was
vacant. No heat, no power. It’s probably about thirty degrees inside.
Like storing meat in a freezer.”
“How did she end up there?”
“We have no idea. There were no signs of forced entry, so she must
have had a key. Or the killer did.”
The elevator door opened and they stepped in, Kibbie
flanked by the two women. A buffer between Maura and Jane, who still had not
said a word to each other since they’d left the car.
“Who owns that vacant house?” asked Jane.
“A woman who lives out of state now. She inherited it from her
parents, and she’s been trying to sell it for years. We haven’t
been able to contact her. Even the realtor doesn’t know where she
is.” They stepped out of the elevator on the basement level. Kibbie led the way down the hall and pushed through a door,
into the morgue anteroom.
“There you are, Dr. Kibbie.” A
young blond woman in hospital scrubs set down the paperback romance she’d
been reading and stood to greet them. “I was wondering if you were still
coming down.”
“Thanks for waiting, Lindsey. These are the two ladies I told you
about, from
“You drove all that way to see our gal, huh? Well, let me roll her
out for you.” She stepped through double doors into the autopsy lab and
flipped the wall switch. Fluorescent lights glared down on the empty table.
“Dr. Kibbie, I’ve really got to leave
soon. Could you roll her back into the cooler and lock up for me when
you’re done? Just pull the hallway door shut when you go.”
“You going to try and catch the rest of the game?” asked Kibbie.
“If I don’t show up, Ian’s never going to talk to me
again.”
“Does Ian actually talk?”
Lindsey rolled her eyes. “Dr. Kibbie. Please.”
“I keep telling you, you should give my nephew a call. He’s
premed at Cornell. Some other girl’s going to snap him right up if you
aren’t quick.”
She laughed as she pulled open the refrigerator door. “Yeah, like
I’d ever want to marry a doctor.”
“I’m truly hurt by that.”
“I mean, I want a guy who’ll be home for dinner.” She
tugged on a gurney, wheeling it out of the refrigerator. “You want her on
the table?”
“The gurney’s fine. We’re not going to cut.”
“Let me just double-check that I’ve pulled the right one.”
She glanced at the attached tag, then reached for the zipper. She betrayed no
hesitation, no squeamishness, as she unzipped the bag to expose the
corpse’s face. “Yep, this is it,” she said, and straightened,
flipping back her blond hair, her face pink with the bloom of youth. A
startling contrast to the lifeless face and desiccated eyes that stared up from
the opening in the shroud.
“We can take it from here, Lindsey,” said Dr. Kibbie.
The girl gave a wave. “Remember to pull the door shut all the
way,” she said cheerfully and walked out, leaving behind an incongruous
trace of perfume.
Maura pulled latex gloves from a box on the countertop. Then she crossed
to the gurney and unzipped the bag all the way open. As the plastic parted, no
one said a word. What lay on that gurney silenced them all.
At four degrees Centigrade, bacterial growth is arrested, decay halted.
Despite the passage of at least two weeks, the freezing temperatures of the
vacant house had preserved the corpse’s soft tissues, and there was no
need for menthol ointment to mask any overwhelming odors. The harsh lights
revealed far worse horrors than mere putrefaction. The throat lay open and
exposed by a single deep slash that had transected the trachea, slicing all the
way to the cervical spine. But that fatal stroke of the blade was not what
captured Maura’s gaze; she stared, instead, at the naked torso. At the
multitude of crosses that had been carved on the breasts, on the abdomen. Holy
symbols cut into the parchment of human skin. Blood encrusted the carvings, and
countless rivulets had seeped from shallow incisions and dried in brick-red
lines running down the sides of the torso.
Her gaze moved to the right arm, lying at the corpse’s side. She
saw the ring of bruises, like a cruel bracelet marking the wrist. She looked up
and met Jane’s gaze. For that one moment, all anger between the two women
was forgotten, swept aside by the vision of Sarah Parmley’s
final moments.
“This was done while she was still alive,” said Maura.
“All these cuts.” Jane swallowed. “It could have taken
hours.”
Kibbie
said, “When we found her, there was nylon cord around the remaining wrist
and both ankles. The knots were nailed to the floor, so she couldn’t
move.”
“He didn’t do this to Lori-Ann Tucker,” Maura said.
“That’s the victim in
“She was dismembered. But she wasn’t tortured.” Maura
circled to the corpse’s left side and stared down at the wrist stump. The
incised flesh had dried to a leathery brown, and the soft tissues had
contracted to expose the surface of cut bone.
“Maybe he wanted something from this woman,” said Jane.
“Maybe there was a reason to torture her.”
“An interrogation?” said Kibbie.
“Or punishment,” said Maura, focusing on the victim’s
face. She thought of the words that had been scratched on her own door. On
Lori-Ann’s bedroom wall. I have sinned.
Is this the reward?
“These aren’t just random cuts,” said Jane.
“These are crosses. Religious symbols.”
“He drew them on the walls, too,” said Kibbie.
Maura looked up at him. “Was there anything else on the walls?
Other symbols?”
“Yeah. Lots of weird stuff. I tell you, it gave me the willies just
to step in that front door. Joe Jurevich will show
you when you go to the house.” He gazed at the body. “This is all
there is to see here, really. Enough to tell you we’re dealing with a
very sick puppy.”
Maura closed the body bag, zipping the plastic over sunken eyes, over
corneas clouded by death. She would not be performing this autopsy, but she did
not need a scalpel and probe to tell her how this victim had died; she had seen
the answer engraved on the woman’s flesh.
They wheeled the gurney back into the refrigerator and stripped off their
gloves. Standing at the sink, washing his hands, Kibbie
said, “Ten years ago, when I moved to
“How far is it?”
“Another hour and a half, maybe two hours. Depending on whether you
want to risk your lives speeding on back roads.”
“Then we’d better get going,” said Jane, “if we
want to find a motel there.”
“A motel?” Kibbie laughed.
“If I were you, I’d stop in the town of
“It’s that small?”
He tossed the paper towel into the trash can. “It’s that
small.”
The motel walls
were paper-thin. Lying in bed, Maura could hear Jane talking on the phone in
the next room. How nice it must be, she thought, to call your husband
and laugh out loud together. To share a public kiss, a hug, without first
having to glance around, looking for anyone who might know you, and disapprove.
Her own call to Daniel had been brief and furtive. There’d been other
people talking in the background, others in the room listening to him, which
was why he’d sounded so reserved. Was this how it would always be? Their
private lives cut off from their public lives, and never an intersection
between them? Here were the real wages of sin. Not hellfire and damnation, but
heartbreak.
In the next
room, Jane ended her call. A moment later, the TV came on, and then Maura heard
the sound of running water in the shower. Only a wall separated them, but the
barrier between them was far more formidable than wood and plaster.
They’d said hardly a word since
It was not yet
seven the next morning when she finally climbed out of bed, exhausted from her
restless night, and looked out the window. The sky was a claustrophobic gray.
Snow had fallen overnight, and the cars in the parking lot were blanketed in
white. She wanted to go home. To hell with the bastard who wrote on her door.
She wanted the comfort of her own bed, her own kitchen. But a long day still
stretched ahead of her, another day of resentful silences and disapproving
jibes from Jane. Just grit your teeth and get through it.
It took two
cups of coffee before she felt ready to face the day. Fueled by a stale cheese
Danish, compliments of the motel’s continental breakfast, she carried her
overnight bag to the parking lot, where Jane already had the engine running.
“Jurevich will meet us at the house,” said Jane.
“You know
how to find it?”
“He gave
me directions.” Jane frowned at Maura. “Man, you look wiped
out.”
“I
didn’t sleep well.”
“Mattress
was pretty bad, huh?”
“Among
other things.” Maura tossed her bag onto the backseat and pulled her door
shut. They sat without speaking for a moment, the heater blowing at their knees.
“You’re
still pissed at me,” said Jane.
“I’m
not feeling really chatty right now.”
“I’m
just trying to be a friend, okay? If I see a friend’s life going off the
rails, I think it’s my duty to say something about it.”
“And I
heard you.” Maura snapped on her seat belt. “Can we get going
now?”
They left the
town of
She startled
awake what seemed like only moments later, to find that they were now
struggling along an unplowed road, Jane’s tires churning through snow.
Dense woods pressed in on both sides, and the clouds had darkened since Maura
had fallen asleep.
“How much
farther to Purity?” she asked.
“We
already passed through the village. You didn’t miss anything.”
“You sure
this is the right road?”
“These
were his directions.”
“Jane,
we’re going to get stuck.”
“I’ve
got all-wheel drive, okay? And we can always call a tow truck.”
Maura took out
her cell phone. “No signal. Good luck.”
“Here.
This has got to be the turnoff,” said Jane, pointing to a realty sign
that was half-buried in snow. “The house is for sale, remember?”
She gunned the engine and the Subaru fishtailed, then the tires found purchase
and they surged up the road, which now began to climb. The trees parted, giving
way to a view of the house that stood on the knoll.
Jane pulled
into the driveway and gazed up at a three-story Victorian towering above them.
“Wow,” she murmured. “This is a pretty big place.”
Crime-scene
tape fluttered on the railings of a broad covered porch. Although the
clapboards were badly in need of paint, the signs of neglect could not disguise
the fact that this was once a handsome home, with a view to match. They climbed
out of the car and flying snow stung their faces as they mounted the steps to
the porch. Peering through a window, Maura could see ghostly shapes of
sheet-covered furniture but little else in the shadowy interior.
“Door’s
locked,” said Jane.
“What
time’s he supposed to meet us?”
“Fifteen
minutes ago.”
Maura huffed
out a cloudy breath. “This wind is freezing. How long are we supposed to
wait?”
“Let me
see if I can get a signal.” Jane frowned at her cell phone. “One
bar. That might do it.”
“I’m
going to sit in the car.” Maura went down the steps and was just about to
open the door when she heard Jane say, “There he is now.”
Turning, Maura
saw a red Jeep Cherokee driving up the road. Following right behind it was a
black Mercedes. The Cherokee parked next to Jane’s Subaru and a man with
crew-cut hair stepped out, dressed for the weather in a voluminous down jacket
and heavy boots. He held out a gloved hand to Maura, and she saw a humorless
face, chilly gray eyes.
“Detective
Rizzoli?” he asked.
“No,
I’m Dr. Isles. You must be Detective Jurevich.”
He nodded as
they shook hands. “I’m with the Chenango County Sheriff’s
Office.” He glanced at Jane, who was coming down the porch steps to meet
him. “You’re Rizzoli?”
“Yeah. We
just got here a few minutes…” Jane stopped, her gaze suddenly
freezing on the black Mercedes, on the man who had just stepped out of it.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
“He
predicted you’d react that way,” said Jurevich.
Anthony Sansone strode toward them, black coat flapping in the
wind. He nodded to Jane, a curt greeting that acknowledged the obvious: that
she did not welcome him. Then his gaze fixed on Maura. “You’ve
already seen the body?”
She nodded.
“Last night.”
“Do you
think we’re dealing with the same killer?”
“What’s
with this word we?” Jane cut in. “I wasn’t aware you
worked in law enforcement, Mr. Sansone.”
Unruffled, he
turned to face her. “I won’t get in your way.”
“This is
a crime scene. You shouldn’t even be here.”
“I
don’t believe
Jane looked at Jurevich. “You’re giving him access?”
Jurevich gave a shrug. “Our crime scene unit’s
already processed this house. There’s no reason he can’t walk
through it with us.”
“So now
it’s a public tour.”
“This has
been cleared through the sheriff’s office, by special request.”
“Whose
request?”
Jurevich glanced at Sansone, whose
face revealed nothing.
“We’re
wasting time out here,” said Sansone.
“I’m sure we’d all like to get out of this wind.”
“Detective?”
pressed Jane.
“If you
have any objections,” said Jurevich, clearly
unhappy at being caught in the middle, “you can take it up with the
Department of Justice. Now, why don’t we get inside before we all
freeze?” He climbed the steps to the porch, with Sansone
right behind him.
Jane stared
after them and said softly, “What’s his pull, anyway?”
“Maybe
you should just ask him,” said Maura, and she started up the steps. Jurevich had already unlocked the front door, and she
followed the men into the house. Inside, she found it scarcely warmer, but at
least they were now sheltered from the wind. Jane came in behind her and closed
the door. After the glare of the snow, it took a moment for Maura’s eyes
to adjust to the interior gloom. Looking through a doorway into the front
parlor, she saw sheet-draped furniture and the dull gleam of wood floors. Pale
winter light shone in through the windows, casting the room in shades of gray.
Jurevich pointed to the bottom of the stairs. “You
can’t see them, but Luminol turned up lots of
bloody smears on these steps and in this foyer. Looks like he wiped up after
himself as he left the house, so any footwear evidence is pretty
indistinct.”
“You went
over the whole house with Luminol?” asked Jane.
“Luminol, UV, alternate light source. We checked every room.
There’s a kitchen and dining room through that doorway. And a study
beyond the parlor. Except for the shoe prints here in the foyer, nothing very
interesting turned up on the first floor.” He faced the stairway.
“All the action took place upstairs.”
“You said
this house was vacant,” said Sansone.
“How did the killer get in? Was there any sign of forced entry?”
“No, sir.
Windows were shut tight. And the realtor swears she always locks the front door
when she leaves.”
“Who has
a key?”
“Well,
she does. And she says it never leaves her office.”
“How old
is the lock?”
“Ah, geez, I don’t know. It’s probably twenty years
old.”
“I assume
the owner has a key, too.”
“She
hasn’t been back to Purity in years. I hear she’s living somewhere
in
“Have you
checked out the caretaker?” asked Jane.
“He’s
not a suspect.”
“Why
not?”
“Well, to
start off with, he’s seventy-one years old. And he just got out of the
hospital three weeks ago. Prostate surgery.” Jurevich
looked at Sansone. “See what men have to look
forward to?”
“So
we’ve got a number of unanswered questions,” said Sansone. “Who unlocked the front door? Why did the
victim drive up here in the first place?”
“The
house is for sale,” said Maura. “Maybe she saw the realty sign.
Maybe she drove up out of curiosity.”
“Look,
it’s all speculation,” said Jurevich.
“We’ve talked and talked about this, and we just don’t know
why she came up here.”
“Tell us
more about Sarah Parmley,” said Sansone.
“She grew
up in Purity. Graduated from the local high school. But like too many other
kids, she couldn’t find anything to keep her here, so she moved out to
“From
what?” asked Sansone.
“Oh, it
was an accident. Took a tumble down the stairs and broke her neck. So Sarah
flew back for the memorial service. She stayed at a motel near town and checked
out the day after the funeral. And that’s the last time anyone saw her.
Until Saturday, when the caretaker found her car here.” He looked up at
the stairs. “I’ll show you the room.”
Jurevich led the way. Halfway up the stairs, he halted and
pointed to the wall. “This is the first one we noticed,” he said.
“This cross, here. It’s the same symbol he cut all over her body.
Looks like it’s drawn in some kind of red chalk.”
Maura stared at
the symbol and her fingers went numb inside her gloves. “This cross is
upside down.”
“There
are more of them upstairs,” said Jurevich.
“A lot more.” As they continued toward the second-floor landing,
other crosses appeared on the wall. At first it was just a sparse scattering of
them. Then, in the gloomy upstairs hallway, the crosses multiplied like an
angry infestation massing along the corridor, swarming toward a doorway.
“In here,
it gets bad,” said Jurevich.
His warning
made Maura hesitate outside the room. Even after the others had walked through,
she paused on the threshold, bracing herself for whatever awaited her on the
other side of the doorway.
She stepped
through, into a chamber of horrors.
It was not the
dried lake of blood on the floor that captured her gaze; it was the handprints
covering every wall, as though a multitude of lost souls had left their bloody
testament as they’d passed through this room.
“These
prints were all made with the same hand,” said Jurevich.
“Identical palm prints and ridge lines. I don’t think our killer
was stupid enough to leave his own.” He looked at Jane. “I’m
willing to bet these were all made with Sarah Parmley’s
severed hand. The one that turned up at your crime scene.”
“Jesus,”
murmured Jane. “He used her hand like some kind of rubber stamp.”
With blood as
his ink, thought Maura, her gaze traveling the walls. How many hours did he spend
in this room, dipping the hand in that pool of blood, pressing it to the wall
like a child with a stamp kit? Then her gaze focused on the nearest wall, on
writing that had been obscured by the overlying handprints. She moved closer,
staring at the words that tracked across the wall. It was Latin, and the same
three words were repeated again and again. She followed the text as it circled
the room in an unbroken line, continuing through corners, like a serpent
coiling ever more tightly around them.
Abyssus abyssum invocat abyssus abyssum invocat abyssus abyssum invocat…
Their meaning
suddenly dawned on her and she took a step back, chilled to the marrow.
“Hell
calls to Hell,” Sansone murmured. She had
not noticed that he’d moved right beside her.
“Is that
what it means?” asked Jane.
“That’s
the literal meaning. It also has another.”
“Hell
calls to Hell sounds ominous enough.”
“Abyssus abyssum invocat is a saying that dates back at least a thousand
years. It means, ‘One evil deed leads to another.’”
Maura stared at
the words. “He’s telling us this is only the beginning. He’s
just getting started.”
“And
these crosses” —Sansone pointed to a
hornet’s nest of them, clustered on one wall, as though massing for
attack— “they’re all upside down. It’s a mockery of
Christianity, a rejection of the church.”
“Yeah.
We’ve been told it’s a satanic symbol,” said Jurevich.
“These
words and crosses were written here first,” said Maura, her gaze on the
rivulets of blood that had trickled down the wall, partly obscuring the stream
of Latin. She read the splatters, saw the arcing droplets left by arterial
spray. “Before he killed her, before he slashed her neck, he took the time
to decorate these walls.”
“The
question is,” said Jurevich, “did he
write these words while she was lying here, waiting to die? Or was the room
already prepared as a killing place before the victim even arrived?”
“And then
he lured her here?”
“There’s
clearly evidence of preparation.” Jurevich
pointed to the wooden floor, where blood had dried in a frozen pool. “You
see the nails there? He came equipped with a hammer and nylon cord.
That’s how he immobilized her. He tied the cord around her wrists and
ankles. Nailed the knots to the floor. Once she was restrained, he could have
taken his time.”
Maura thought
of what had been carved into Sarah Parmley’s
flesh. Then she looked up at the same symbols drawn on the walls in red ocher.
A crucifix, turned upside down. Lucifer’s cross.
Sansone said, “But how would he lure her up here?
What could possibly have drawn her to this house?”
“We know
that a call came in, to her motel room,” said Jurevich.
“It was the day she checked out. The motel desk clerk transferred it to her
room.”
“You
didn’t mention that,” said Jane.
“Because
we’re not sure it’s significant. I mean, Sarah Parmley
grew up in this town. She probably knew a lot of people here, people
who’d call her after her aunt’s funeral.”
“Was it a
local call?”
“Gas station
pay phone, in
“That’s
a few hours away.”
“Right.
Which is one reason we discount it as coming from the killer.”
“Is there
another reason?”
“Yes. The
caller was a woman.”
“The
motel clerk’s sure about that? It was two weeks ago.”
“She
doesn’t budge. We’ve asked her several times.”
Sansone said, “Evil has no gender.”
“And what
are the chances that a woman did this?” said Jane, pointing to the wall,
to the bloody handprints.
“I
wouldn’t automatically reject the possibility it’s a woman,”
said Sansone. “We have no usable footprints
here.”
“I
don’t reject anything. I’m just going with the odds.”
“That’s
all they are. Odds.”
“How many
killers have you tracked down?” shot back Jane.
He regarded her
with an unflinching stare. “I think the answer would surprise you,
Detective.”
Maura turned to
Jurevich. “The killer must have spent hours
here, in this house. He must have left hair, fibers.”
“Our
crime-scene unit went over all these rooms with ALS.”
“They
couldn’t have come up empty.”
“Oh, they
came up with plenty. This is an old house, and it’s been occupied on and
off for the last seventy years. We turned up hairs and fibers all over these
rooms. Found something that surprised us. Let me show you the rest of the
house.”
They went back
into the hallway, and Jurevich pointed through a
doorway. “Another bedroom in there.
Maura heard the
ominous note in his voice, but when she stepped into the bedroom, she saw
nothing at all alarming, just a space devoid of all furniture, with blank
walls. The wood floor here was in far better shape than in the rest of the
house, its boards recently refinished. Two bare windows looked out over the
knoll’s wooded slope, which swept down to the frozen lake below.
“So what
makes this room interesting?” asked Jane.
“It’s
what we found on the floor.”
“I
don’t see anything.”
“It
showed up when we sprayed it with Luminol. The
crime-scene unit surveyed the whole house, to see where our killer might have
tracked blood. Whether he left traces that we couldn’t see in other
rooms. We found his footprints in the hallway, on the stairs, and in the foyer,
all of them invisible to the naked eye. So we know he did try to clean up as he
exited the house. But you can’t really hide blood. Spray it with Luminol, and it’ll light right up.” Jurevich looked down at the floor. “It sure as hell
lit up in here.”
“More
shoe prints?” asked Jane.
“Not just
shoe prints. It was like a wave of blood had washed through this room, splashed
on the wall. You could see it in the cracks between the floorboards, where it
seeped into the molding. That wall there, there were big swipes of it, where
someone tried to wash it away. But they couldn’t erase it. Even though
you can’t see it now, it was all over the place. We stood here, looking
at this whole damn room glowing, and it freaked the hell out of us, I can tell
you. Because when we turned on our lights, it looked just the way it does now.
Nothing. Not a trace of blood visible to the naked eye.”
Sansone stared at the walls, as though trying to see those
shocking echoes of death. He looked down at the floor, its boards sanded
smooth. “This can’t be fresh blood,” he murmured.
“Something else happened in this house.”
Maura
remembered the FOR SALE sign, half-buried in snow, posted at the bottom of the
knoll. She thought of the weathered clapboards, the peeling paint. Why was such
a handsome home abandoned to years of neglect? “That’s why no one
will buy it,” she said.
Jurevich nodded. “It happened about twelve years ago,
just before I moved to this area. I only found out about it when the realtor
told me. It’s not something she likes to advertise, since the house is on
the market, but it’s a matter of disclosure. A little detail that every
potential buyer would want to know. And it pretty much sends them running in
the other direction.”
Maura looked
down at the floor, at seams and cracks harboring blood that she could not see.
“Who died in here?”
“In this
room, it was a suicide. But when you think about everything else that happened
in this house, it’s like the whole damn building is bad luck.”
“There
were other deaths?”
Jurevich nodded. “There was a family living here at
the time. A doctor and his wife, a son and daughter. Plus a nephew staying with
them for the summer. From what everyone says, the Sauls
were good people. Close family, lots of friends.”
Nothing is
exactly what it seems, thought Maura. Nothing ever is.
“Their
eleven-year-old son died first. It was a heartbreaking accident. Kid headed
down to the lake to go fishing, and he didn’t come home. They figure he
must have fallen into the water and panicked. They found his body the next day.
From there, it just got worse for the family. A week later, the mother takes a
tumble down the stairs and snaps her neck. She’d been taking some
sedatives, and they figure she just lost her balance.”
“That’s
an interesting coincidence,” said Sansone.
“What?”
“Isn’t
that how Sarah Parmley’s aunt died? A fall down
the stairs? A broken neck?”
Jurevich paused. “Yeah. I hadn’t thought about
it. That is a coincidence, isn’t it?”
Jane said,
“You haven’t told us about the suicide.”
Jurevich nodded. “It was the husband. Think about
it— what he’d just suffered through. First his son drowns. Then his
wife falls down the stairs. So two days later, he takes out his gun, sits here
in his bedroom, and blows off his own head.” Jurevich
looked at the floor. “It’s his blood on the floor. Think about it.
A whole family, practically wiped out within a few weeks.”
“What
happened to the daughter?” asked Jane.
“She
moved in with friends. Graduated from high school a year later, and left
town.”
“She’s
the one who owns this house?”
“Yeah.
It’s still in her name. She’s been trying to unload it all these
years. Realtor says there’ve been a few lookers, but then they hear what
happened, and they walk away. Would you live in this house? You couldn’t
pay me enough. It’s a bad-luck place. You can almost feel it when you
walk in that front door.”
Maura looked
around at the walls and gave a shudder. “If there’s such a thing as
a haunted house, this would be it.”
“Abyssus abyssum invocat,” said Sansone
quietly. “It takes on a different meaning, now.”
They all looked
at him. “What?” said Jurevich.
“That’s
why he chose this for his killing place. He knew the history of this house. He
knew what happened here, and he was attracted to it. You can call it a doorway
to another dimension. Or a vortex. But there are dark places in this world,
foul places that can only be called cursed.”
Jane gave an
uneasy laugh. “You really believe that?”
“What I
believe doesn’t matter. But if our killer believes it, then he chose this
house because it called to him. Hell calls to Hell.”
“Oh
man,” said Jurevich, “you’re giving
me goose bumps.” He looked around at the blank walls and shuddered, as
though feeling a chill wind. “You know what I think? They should just
burn this place. Burn it right down to the ground. No one in his right mind
will ever buy it.”
“You said
it was a doctor’s family living here,” said Jane.
“That’s
right. The Sauls.”
“And they
had a nephew staying with them that summer.”
Jurevich nodded. “Fifteen-year-old kid.”
“What
happened to that boy? After the tragedies?”
“The
realtor says the kid left Purity a short time later. His mother came and got him.”
“Do you
know anything else about him?”
“Remember,
it was twelve years ago. No one knew him very well. And he was only here for
that summer.” Jurevich paused. “I know
what you’re thinking. The kid would be twenty-seven right now. And
he’d know all about what happened here.”
“He might
also have a key to the front door,” said Jane. “How can we find out
more about him?”
“His
cousin, I assume. The woman who owns this house, Lily Saul.”
“But you
don’t know how to find her, either.”
“The
realtor’s been trying.”
Jane said,
“I’d like to see the police reports on the Saul family. I assume
the deaths were all investigated.”
“I’ll
call my office, have the files copied for you. You can pick them up on your way
out of town. Are you driving back to
“We
planned to, right after lunch.”
“Then
I’ll try to have them ready by then. You might want to head over to
Roxanne’s Café. Great turkey club sandwiches. And it’s right
across the street from our office.”
“Will
that give you enough time to copy everything?”
“There’s
not much to the files beyond the autopsies and sheriff’s reports. In all
three cases, the manner and cause of death were pretty apparent.”
Sansone had been standing at the window, gazing outside.
Now he turned to Jurevich. “What’s the
name of your local newspaper here?”
“All of
Back outside,
they stood in the biting wind as Jurevich locked the
front door and gave it a hard rattle to make sure it was secure. “If we
make any headway on our end,” he said to Jane, “I’ll give you
a call. But I think this killer’s going to be your catch.” He
zipped up his jacket and pulled on his gloves. “He’s playing in
your neighborhood, now.”
“He shows up in
his fancy car and gets invited right into the crime scene,” said Jane,
shaking a French fry at Maura. “What’s that all about? Who does Sansone know in Justice? Even Gabriel couldn’t find
out.”
“They
must have a reason to trust him.”
“Oh,
yeah.” Jane popped the French fry into her mouth and snatched up another,
agitation fueling her appetite. In a matter of minutes, she’d reduced an
enormous club sandwich to a few crumbs of toast and bacon, and now she was
dragging the last of her fries through a pool of ketchup. “Trust some
millionaire with a crime-fighting hobby?”
“Multimillionaire.”
“Who does
he think he is, Bruce Wayne? Or the guy on that old TV show. The rich man
who’s a cop. My mom used to watch it.”
“I think
you’re talking about Burke’s Law.”
“Yeah.
How many rich cops do you know?”
Maura sighed
and picked up her teacup. “Not a one.”
“Exactly.
It’s a fantasy. Some bored guy with money thinks it’d be a kick to play
Dirty Harry, except he doesn’t want to actually get down and dirty. He
doesn’t want to walk a beat or write up incident reports. He just wants
to drive up in his Mercedes and tell us idiots how it should be done. You think
I haven’t dealt with people like him before? Everyone thinks
they’re smarter than the police.”
“I
don’t think he’s merely an amateur, Jane. I think he’s worth
listening to.”
“Right. A
former history professor.” Jane drained her coffee cup and craned her
neck around the booth, scanning the busy café for the waitress.
“Hey, miss? Could I have a refill over…” She paused. She said
to Maura, “Look who just walked in.”
“Who?”
“Your
friend and mine.”
Maura turned
toward the door, gazing past the dining counter where men in billed caps sat huddled
over their coffee and burgers. She spotted Sansone at
the same instant he saw her. As he crossed the room, a dozen heads swiveled,
gazes fixed on the striking figure with silver hair as he strode past tables
and headed toward Maura’s booth.
“I’m
glad you’re still in town,” he said. “May I join you?”
“We’re
about to leave,” said Jane, reaching pointedly for her wallet, the coffee
refill conveniently forgotten.
“This
will only take a minute. Or would you rather I mail this to you,
Detective?”
Maura looked at
the sheaf of papers he was carrying. “What’s all that?”
“From the
Evening Sun archives.” He placed the papers on the table in front
of her.
She slid
sideways across the bench, making room for him in the tight booth as he sat down
beside her. She felt trapped in the corner by this man, whose mere presence
seemed to dominate and overwhelm the small space.
“Their
digital archives go back only five years,” he said. “These are
photocopies from the bound archives, so the reproduction isn’t as good as
I’d like. But it tells the story.”
Maura looked
down at the first page. It was from the front page of the Evening Sun,
dated August 11, twelve years earlier. Her gaze at once fixed on the article
near the top.
BOY’S
BODY RECOVERED FROM PAYSON POND
The
accompanying photo showed a grinning imp of a boy, cradling a tiger-striped cat
in his arms. The caption read: Teddy Saul had just turned eleven.
“His
sister Lily was the last known person who saw him alive,” said Sansone. “She was also the one who spotted him
floating in the pond a day later. What surprised everyone, according to the
article, was the fact the boy was a very good swimmer. And there was one other
interesting detail.”
Maura looked
up. “What?”
“He
supposedly went down to the lake to fish. But his tackle box and pole were
found a good twenty yards from the water’s edge.”
Maura handed
the photocopy to Jane and looked at the next article, printed August 18. A week
after little Teddy’s body was found, tragedy again struck the Saul family.
GRIEVING MOTHER’S DEATH MOST LIKELY
ACCIDENTAL
Accompanying
the article was another photo, another heartbreaking caption. Amy Saul was
pictured in happier times, beaming at the camera as she held a baby in her lap.
The same child, Teddy, whom she’d lose eleven years later to the waters
of Payson Pond.
“She was
found at the bottom of the stairs,” said Maura. She looked up at Jane.
“By her daughter, Lily.”
“Again?
The daughter found both of them?” Jane reached for the photocopied
article. “This is starting to sound like too much bad luck.”
“And
remember that call made to Sarah Parmley’s
motel room two weeks ago. It was a woman’s voice.”
“Before
you go jumping to conclusions,” said Sansone,
“it wasn’t Lily Saul who found her father’s body. Her cousin
did. It’s the first and only time Dominic Saul’s name appears in
any of these articles.”
Maura turned to
the third photocopy and stared at a photo of a smiling Dr. Peter Saul. Beneath
it was the caption: Despondent over death of wife and son. She looked
up. “Is there any photo of Dominic?”
“No. But
he’s mentioned in that article as the one who found his uncle’s
body. He’s also the one who called the police.”
“And the
girl?” asked Jane. “Where was Lily when this happened?”
“It
doesn’t say.”
“I assume
the police checked her alibi.”
“You
would assume so.”
“I
wouldn’t assume anything.”
“Let’s
hope that information’s in the police files,” said Sansone, “because you’re not going to get it
from the investigator himself.”
“Why
not?”
“He died
last year of a heart attack. I found his obituary in the newspaper archives. So
all we have to go on is what’s in the files. But think about the
situation. You’re a local cop, dealing with a sixteen-year-old girl
who’s just lost her brother, her mother, and now her father. She’s
probably in shock. Maybe she’s hysterical. Are you going to harass her
with questions about where she was when her father died when it clearly looked
like a suicide?”
“It’s
my job to ask,” said Jane. “I would have.”
Yes, she would
have, thought Maura, looking at Jane’s unyielding expression and
remembering the relentless questions that had been asked of her yesterday
morning. No mercy, no holding back. God help you if Jane Rizzoli decides
you’re guilty of something. Maura looked down at the photo of Peter Saul.
“There’s no picture of Lily. We don’t know what she looks
like, either.”
“Actually,
there is a photo,” said Sansone. “And
you’ll find it very interesting.” He flipped to the next
photocopied page and pointed to the article.
DOCTOR’S
FUNERAL DRAWS MOURNERS FROM ACROSS
COUNTY
Friends,
co-workers, even strangers gathered at
“There
she is,” said Sansone, pointing to the
accompanying photo. “That’s Lily Saul.”
It was an
indistinct image, the girl’s face partly obscured by two other mourners
flanking her. All Maura could see was the profile of her bowed head, veiled by
long dark hair.
“That
doesn’t show us much,” said Jane.
“It’s
not the photo I wanted you to see,” said Sansone.
“It’s the caption. Look at the names of the girls standing beside
Lily.”
Only then did
Maura understand why Sansone had been so insistent on
sharing these pages. The caption beneath the photo of a grief-stricken Lily
Saul included two startlingly familiar names.
Lily Saul is
comforted by friends Lori-Ann Tucker and Sarah Parmley.
“There’s
the link that wraps it all up,” said Sansone.
“Three friends. Two of them are now dead. Only Lily Saul is still
alive.” He paused. “And we can’t even be sure of her
status.”
Jane plucked up
the page and stared at it. “Maybe because she doesn’t want us to
know.”
“She’s
the one we have to find,” said Sansone.
“She’ll know the answers.”
“Or she
could be the answer. We know next to nothing about this girl Lily.
Whether she got along with her family. Whether she walked away with a nice
inheritance.”
“You
can’t be serious,” said Maura.
“I have
to admit, Mr. Sansone here said it earlier. Evil has
no gender.”
“But to
kill her own family, Jane.”
“We kill
the ones we love. You know that.” Jane regarded the photo of the three
girls. “And maybe these girls knew it, too. Twelve years is a long time
to keep a secret.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to ask around
town, see what else I can learn about Lily. Someone must know how to find
her.”
“While
you’re asking questions,” said Sansone,
“you might want to ask about this, too.” He slid yet another
photocopy to Jane. The headline read:
“Uh…
I’m supposed to ask about prizewinning bulls?” asked Jane.
“No,
it’s the item under the Police Beat,” said Sansone. “I almost missed it myself. In fact, I
wouldn’t have seen it at all, except for the fact it was on the same
page, below the story about Teddy Saul’s drowning.”
“You mean
this one? Barn Vandalized, Goat Missing?”
“Look at
the story.”
Jane read the
article aloud. “‘Police received a complaint from Eben Bongers of Purity that
vandals broke into his barn last Saturday night. Four goats escaped and three
were recaptured, but one remains missing. The barn was also defaced with
carvings of’” —Jane paused and looked up at Maura—
“‘crosses.’”
“Keep
reading,” said Sansone.
Jane swallowed
and looked back down at the article. “‘Similar carvings have been
found on other buildings in the area. Anyone with information is asked to
contact the Chenango County Sheriff’s Office.’”
“The
killer was here,” said Sansone. “Twelve
years ago, he was living right in this county. And no one realized what was
walking among them. No one knew what was living in their midst.”
He talks as
though this killer isn’t human, thought Maura. He doesn’t say who, but
what. Not a someone, but a something.
“Then two
weeks ago,” said Sansone, “this killer
returns to the house where the Sauls once lived.
Draws the same symbols on the walls, pounds nails in the floor. All in
preparation for his victim. For what he’s going to do to Sarah Parmley.” Sansone leaned
forward, his gaze focused on Jane. “I don’t think Sarah Parmley was his first kill. There were others before her.
You saw how elaborate Sarah’s death scene was, how much planning, how
much ceremony was involved. This was a mature crime, by someone who’s had
months, even years, to refine his rituals.”
“We
requested a VICAP search. We looked for earlier kills.”
“Your
search parameters?”
“Dismemberment.
Satanic symbols. Yes, a few cases showed up from other states, but nothing that
matched to our satisfaction.”
“Then
widen the search.”
“Any
wider, and it becomes useless. It’s too general, too big a net.”
“I’m
talking internationally.”
“That’s
a pretty big net.”
“There’s
no net too big for this killer. Look at all the clues he’s left. Latin
inscriptions. Drawings made with red ocher from
“How can
you be so…” Jane paused, and her gaze suddenly narrowed. “You
already know. You’ve checked.”
“I took
the liberty. This killer has left distinctive tracks everywhere. He’s not
afraid of the police. He’s utterly confident in his own ability to stay
invisible.” He pointed to the photocopies. “Twelve years ago, the
killer was living here. Already having his fantasies, already drawing those
crosses.”
Jane looked at
Maura. “I’m going to stay here at least another night. There are
other people I need to talk to.”
“But I
need to get home,” said Maura. “I can’t stay away that
long.”
“Dr.
Bristol can cover for you, can’t he?”
“I have
other things I need to attend to.” Maura did not like the look Jane
suddenly shot her. Other things being Daniel Brophy?
“I’m
driving back to
“Detective Rizzoli didn’t look too happy when you took me up on my
offer,” Sansone said.
“She’s unhappy about a lot of things these days,” said Maura,
staring out at fields covered in a snowy white skin. Although the last light of
day had faded, the moon was rising, and its reflection was bright as a lantern
on the snow. “Me included.”
“I noticed the tension between you two.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“She doesn’t try to hide much, does she?” He shot her a
glance in the dark car. “You two couldn’t be more different.”
“I’m finding that out more and more.”
“You’ve known each other long?”
“About two years. Since I took the job in
“Has it always been this edgy between you?”
“No. It’s only because…” She fell silent. Because
she disapproves of me. Because she’s on her moral high horse, and
I’m not allowed to be human. I’m not allowed to fall in love.
“This has been a stressful few weeks” was how she finished the
sentence.
“I’m glad we have this chance to talk in private,” he
said. “Because what I’m about to tell you is going to sound absurd.
And she’d dismiss it without a second thought.” Again he glanced at
her. “I’m hoping you’ll be more willing to listen.”
“Because you think I’m less of a skeptic than she is?
Don’t bet on it.”
“What did you think about the death scene today? What did it tell
you about the killer?”
“I saw evidence of a severely disturbed mind.”
“That’s one possibility.”
“What’s your interpretation?”
“That there’s real intelligence behind this. Not just some
nutcase getting his jollies by torturing women. This is someone with a focused
and logical motive.”
“Your mythical demons, again.”
“I know you don’t accept their existence. But you saw that
news article, about the barn that was defaced twelve years ago. Did anything
else in that report stand out for you?”
“You mean, aside from the crosses carved in the barn?”
“The missing goat. There were four goats released from the barn,
and the farmer recovered only three of them. What happened to the
fourth?”
“Maybe it escaped. Maybe it got lost in the woods.”
“In Leviticus, chapter sixteen, another name for Azazel is ‘the scapegoat.’ He who assumes all
the sins, all the evils, of mankind. By tradition, the chosen animal is led
into the wilderness, taking humanity’s sins with it. And there it’s
released.”
“We’re back to your symbol of Azazel
again.”
“A drawing of his head appeared on your door. You can’t have
forgotten that.”
No, I haven’t. How could I forget that my door
bears the mark of a killer?
“I know you’re skeptical,” he said. “I know you
think this will turn out to be like so many other investigations. That it will
lead to some rather ordinary, even pitiful character who lives quietly alone.
Another Jeffrey Dahmer, or another Son of Sam. Maybe
this killer hears voices. Maybe he’s read Anton LaVey’s
Satanic Bible a few too many times and taken it to heart. But consider
another possibility, something far more frightening.” He looked at her.
“That Nephilim —the Watchers—
really exist. That they’ve always existed, and they still live among
us.”
“The children of fallen angels?”
“That’s merely the biblical interpretation.”
“This is all biblical. And you know I don’t believe.”
“The Old Testament is not the only place where these creatures are
mentioned. They appear in the myths of earlier cultures.”
“Every civilization has its mythical evil spirits.”
“I’m not talking about spirits, but flesh and blood, with
human faces. A parallel species of predators who’ve evolved right
alongside us. Interbred with us.”
“Wouldn’t we know of their existence by now?”
“We know them by the evil they commit. But we don’t recognize
them for what they really are. We call them sociopaths or tyrants. Or Vlad the Impaler. They charm and
seduce their way into positions of power and authority. They thrive on war, on
revolution, on disorder. And we never realize they’re different from the
rest of us. Different in a fundamental way that goes right to our genetic
codes. They’re born predators, and the whole world is their hunting
ground.”
“Is this what the Mephisto Foundation is
all about? A search for these mythical creatures?” She laughed.
“You might as well hunt for unicorns.”
“There are many of us who believe.”
“And what will you do when you actually find one? Shoot him and
mount his head as a trophy?”
“We’re purely a research group. Our role is to identify and
study. And advise.”
“Advise whom?”
“Law enforcement. We provide them with information and analysis.
And they use what we give them.”
“Law enforcement agencies actually care what you have to
say?” she asked, with an unmistakable note of disbelief.
“Yes. We are listened to” was all he said. The calm statement
of a man so sure of his claims, he saw no need to defend them.
She considered how easily he had accessed confidential details of the
investigation. Thought of how Jane’s inquiries about Sansone
had met with silence from the FBI and Interpol and the Department of Justice. They
are all protecting him.
“Our work has not gone unnoticed,” he said, and added softly,
“unfortunately.”
“I thought that was the point. To have your work noticed.”
“Not by the wrong people. Somehow, they’ve discovered us.
They know who we are, and what we do.” He paused. “And they think
you’re one of us.”
“I don’t even believe they exist.”
“They’ve marked your door. They’ve identified
you.”
She gazed out at moonlit snow, its whiteness startling in the night. It
was almost as bright as day. No cover, no darkness. A prey’s every movement
would be seen in that merciless landscape. “I’m not a member of
your club,” she said.
“You might as well be. You’ve been seen at my home.
You’ve been seen with me.”
“I’ve also visited all three crime scenes. I’ve only
been doing my job. The killer could have spotted me on any one of those
nights.”
“That’s what I thought at first. That you just happened to
cross his line of vision, as incidental prey. It’s what I thought about
Eve Kassovitz as well— that maybe he spotted
her at the first crime scene on Christmas Eve, and she attracted his
interest.”
“You no longer think that’s what happened?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“The seashell. If I’d known about it earlier, we all would
have taken precautions. And Joyce might still be alive.”
“You think that seashell was a message meant for you?”
“For centuries, Sansone men have marched
into battle under the banner of the seashell. This was a taunt, a challenge
aimed at the foundation. A warning of what’s to come.”
“What would that be?”
“Our extermination.” He said it quietly, as though just
speaking those two words aloud would bring the sword down on his neck. But she
heard no fear in his voice, only resignation that this was the fate he’d
been dealt. She could think of nothing to say in response. This conversation
had strayed into alien territory, and she could not find her bearings. His
universe was such a bleak landscape of nightmares that just sitting with him,
in his car, altered her view of the world. Changed it to an unfamiliar country
where monsters walked. Daniel, she thought, I need you now. I need
your touch and your hope and your faith in the world. This man is all darkness,
and you are the light.
“Do you know how my father died?” he asked.
She frowned at him, startled by the question. “I’m
sorry?”
“Believe me, it’s relevant. My whole family history is
relevant. I tried to walk away from it. I spent thirteen years teaching at
He sounds so rational. Yet he isn’t. He
can’t be.
“I taught history, so I’m familiar with the ancient
myths,” he said. “But you’ll never convince me that there
were once satyrs or mermaids or flying horses. Why should I believe my
father’s stories about Nephilim?”
“What changed your mind?”
“Oh, I knew some of what he told me was true. The death of
Isabella, for instance. In
“And the part about your ancestors being demon hunters?”
“My father believed it.”
“Do you?”
“I believe there are hostile forces who would bring down the Mephisto Foundation. And now they’ve found us. The
way they found my father.”
She stared at him, waiting for him to explain.
“Eight years ago,” said Sansone,
“he flew out to
“He actually thought the phone was tapped?”
“You see? You have the same reaction I did. That it was just dear
eccentric old Dad imagining his goblins again. The last thing he said to me
was, ‘They’ve found me, Anthony. They know who I am.’”
“They?”
“I knew exactly what he was talking about. It was the same nonsense
I’d been hearing since I was a kid. Sinister forces in government. A
worldwide conspiracy of Nephilim, helping one another
into positions of power. And once they assume political control, they’re
able to hunt to their hearts’ content, without any fear of punishment.
The way they hunted in Kosovo. And
“That sounds like the ultimate paranoid delusion.”
“It’s also a way to explain the unexplainable: how people can
do such terrible things to one another.”
“Your father believed all that?”
“He wanted me to believe it. But it took his death to
convince me.”
“What happened to your father?”
“It could easily have been taken for a simple robbery gone wrong.
“The way Eve Kassovitz died,” she
said softly. A brutally efficient killing.
“The worst part for me,” he said, “is that he died
thinking I’d never believe him. After our last phone call, I hung up and
said to one of my colleagues, ‘The old man’s finally ready for Thorazine.’”
“But you believe him now.”
“Even after I got to
“Why do I know that name?”
“He was one of my dinner guests the night that Eve Kassovitz was killed.”
“The man who left for the airport?”
“He had a flight to catch that night. To
“He’s a member of Mephisto?”
Sansone
nodded. “He’s the one who made me listen, made me believe. All the
stories my father told me, all his crazy theories about the Nephilim—
Baum repeated every one.”
“Folie à deux,” said Maura. “A shared
delusion.”
“I wish it was a delusion. I wish I could shrug it off the way you
do. But you haven’t seen and heard the things I have, what Gottfried and
others have. Mephisto is fighting for its life. After
four centuries, we’re the last ones.” He paused. “And
I’m the last of Isabella’s line.”
“The last demon hunter,” she said.
“I haven’t made an inch of headway with you, have I?”
“Here’s what I don’t understand. It’s not that
hard to kill someone. If you’re the target, why don’t they just
eliminate you? You’re not in hiding. All it takes is a gunshot through
your window, a bomb in your car. Why play stupid games with seashells?
What’s the point of warning you that you’re in their sights?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can see that it’s not logical.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you still think these murders revolve around Mephisto.”
He gave a sigh. “I won’t even try to convince you. I just
want you to consider the possibility that what I’ve told you is
true.”
“That there’s a worldwide brotherhood of Nephilim?
That the Mephisto Foundation, and no one else, is
even aware of this vast conspiracy?”
“Our voice is starting to be heard.”
“What are you going to do to protect yourselves? Load silver
bullets in your gun?”
“I’m going to find Lily Saul.”
She frowned at him. “The daughter?”
“Don’t you find it strange that no one knows where she is?
That no one can locate her?” He looked at Maura. “Lily knows
something.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because she doesn’t want to be found.”
“I think I should go inside with you,” he said, “just
to be sure everything’s all right.”
They were parked outside her house, and through the living room curtains
Maura could see lights shining, the lamps turned on by her automatic timer.
Before she’d left yesterday, she had scrubbed off the markings on her
door. Staring through the gloom, she wondered if there were new ones scrawled
there that she couldn’t see, new threats concealed in the shadows.
“I think I’d feel better if you came in with me, too,”
she admitted.
He reached into his glove compartment for a flashlight, and they both
stepped out of the car. Neither of them spoke; they were focused instead on
their surroundings: the dark street, the distant hiss of traffic. Sansone paused there on the sidewalk, as though trying to
catch the scent of something he could not yet see. They climbed to the porch,
and he turned on the flashlight to examine her door.
It was clean.
Inside her house, the phone was ringing. Daniel? She unlocked the
front door and stepped inside. It took her only seconds to punch her code on
the keypad and disarm the security system, but by the time she reached the
telephone, it had fallen silent. Pressing the call history button, she
recognized his cell phone number on caller ID, and she itched to pick up the
receiver and call him back. But Sansone was now
standing right beside her in the living room.
“Does everything seem all right to you?”
She gave a tight nod. “Everything’s fine.”
“Why don’t you have a look around first before I
leave?”
“Of course,” she said, and headed up the hallway. As he
followed her, she could feel his gaze on her back. Did he see it in her face?
Did he recognize the look of a lovesick woman? She went from room to room,
checking windows, rattling doors. Everything was secure. As a simple matter of
hospitality, she should have offered him a cup of coffee and invited him to
stay for a few minutes, after he’d been kind enough to drive her home.
But she was not in a hospitable mood.
To her relief, he didn’t linger, but turned to leave.
“I’ll check in with you in the morning,” he said.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You need to be careful, Maura. We all do.”
But I’m not one of you, she thought. I never wanted to be.
The doorbell rang. They looked at each other.
He said, quietly, “Why don’t you see who it is?”
She took a breath and stepped into the foyer. She took one glance through
the window and immediately opened the door. Even the blast of cold air could
not drive the flush of heat from her cheeks as Daniel stepped inside, his arms
already reaching for her. Then he saw the other man in the hallway, and he
froze in place.
Sansone
smoothly stepped into the silence. “You must be Father Brophy,” he said, extending his hand.
“I’m Anthony Sansone. I saw you at Dr.
O’Donnell’s house the other night, when you came to pick up
Maura.”
Daniel nodded. “I’ve heard about you.”
The two men shook hands, a stiff and wary greeting. Then Sansone had the good sense to make a quick exit. “Arm
your security system,” he reminded Maura.
“I will.”
Before he stepped out the front door, he shot one last speculative look
at Brophy. Sansone was
neither blind nor stupid; he could probably guess what this priest was doing in
her house. “Good night,” he said, and walked out.
She locked the door. “I missed you,” she said, and stepped
into Daniel’s arms.
“It felt like such a long day,” he murmured.
“All I could think of was coming home. Being with you.”
“That’s all I could think of, too. I’m sorry to just
show up and take you by surprise. But I had to stop by.”
“It’s the kind of surprise I like.”
“I thought you’d be home much earlier.”
“We stopped on the road, for dinner.”
“It worried me, you know. That you were driving home with
him.”
“You had absolutely nothing to worry about.” She stepped
back, smiling. “Let me take your coat.”
But he made no move to remove it. “What have you learned about him,
since you’ve spent the whole day together?”
“I think he’s just an eccentric man with a lot of money. And
a very strange hobby.”
“Seeking all things satanic? That goes a little beyond what I think
of as strange.”
“The truly strange part is that he’s managed to gather a
circle of friends who all believe the same thing.”
“Doesn’t it worry you? That he’s so completely focused
on the dark side? That he’s actually searching for the Devil? You
know the saying. ‘When you look long into the abyss…’”
“‘The abyss also looks into you.’ Yes, I know the
quote.”
“It’s worth remembering, Maura. How easily darkness can draw
us in.”
She laughed. “This sounds like something from one of your Sunday
sermons.”
“I’m serious. You don’t know enough about this
man.”
I know he worries you. I know he’s making you
jealous.
She touched his face. “Let’s stop talking about him. He
doesn’t matter. Come on, let me take your coat.”
He made no move to unbutton it. Only then did she understand.
“You’re not staying tonight,” she said.
He sighed. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Then why did you come here?”
“I told you, I was worried. I wanted to make sure he got you home
safely.”
“You can’t stay, even for a few hours?”
“I wish I could. But at the last minute, they asked me to attend a
conference in
They. She
had no claim to him. The church, of course, directed his life. They
owned him.
He wrapped his arms around her, his breath warming her hair.
“Let’s go away sometime,” he murmured. “Somewhere out
of town.”
Where no one knows us.
As he walked to his car, she stood with her door wide open, the cold
streaming around her, into the house. Even after he drove away, she remained in
the doorway, heedless of the cruel sting of the wind. It was her just
punishment for wanting him. This was what his church demanded of them. Separate
beds, separate lives. Could the Devil Himself be any crueler?
If I could sell my soul to Satan for your love, I
think I would.
Mrs. Cora Bongers leaned her considerable weight against the barn
door and it slid open with a tortured creak. From the dark interior came the
nervous bleating of goats, and Jane smelled the gamey scent of damp straw and
crowded animals.
“I’m
not sure how much you’ll be able to see right now,” said Mrs. Bongers, aiming her flashlight into the barn. “Sorry
I didn’t get your message earlier, when we would’ve had
daylight.”
Jane flicked on
her own flashlight. “This should be fine. I just want to see the marks,
if they’re still there.”
“Oh,
they’re still here. Used to irritate the heck outta
my husband every time he came in here and saw them. I kept telling him to paint
over ’em, just so he’d stop complaining
about it. He said that’d just make him madder, if he had to paint the
inside of a barn. Like he was doing up House Beautiful for the
goats.” Mrs. Bongers stepped inside, her heavy
boots tramping across the straw-covered dirt floor. Just the short walk from
the house had winded her and she paused, wheezing loudly, and aimed her
flashlight at a wooden pen, where a dozen goats massed in an uneasy huddle.
“They still miss him, you know. Oh, Eben
complained all the time about how much work it was, milking them every morning.
But he loved these girls. He’s been gone six months now, and
they’re still not used to anyone else milking them.” She unlatched
the pen and glanced at Jane, who was hanging back. “You’re not scared
of goats, are you?”
“Do we have
to go in there?”
“Aw, they
won’t hurt you. Just watch your coat. They like to nibble.”
Now you be nice
goats, thought Jane as she stepped into the pen and latched the door shut
behind her. Don’t chew the cop. She picked her way across the
straw, trying to avoid soiling her shoes. The animals watched her with cold and
soulless stares. The last time she’d been this close to a goat had been
on a second-grade school trip to a petting zoo. She had looked at the goat, the
goat had looked at her, and the next thing she knew, she was flat on her back
and her classmates were laughing. She did not trust the beasts, and clearly
they did not trust her; they kept their distance as she crossed the pen.
“Here,”
said Mrs. Bongers, her flashlight focused on the
wall. “This is some of it.”
Jane moved
closer, her gaze riveted on the symbols cut deeply into the wooden planks. The
three crosses of
“Some
more up there, too,” said Mrs. Bongers, and she
pointed the beam upward, to show more crosses, cut higher in the wall.
“He had to climb onto some straw bales to carve those. All that effort.
You’d think those darn kids would have better things to do.”
“Why do
you think it was kids who did this?”
“Who else
would it be? Summertime, and they’re all bored. Nothing better to do than
run around carving up walls. Hanging those weird charms on trees.”
Jane looked at
her. “What charms?”
“Twig
dolls and stuff. Creepy little things. The sheriff’s office just laughed
it off, but I didn’t like seeing them dangling from the branches.”
She paused at one of the symbols. “There, like that one.”
It was a stick
figure of a man, with what appeared to be a sword projecting from one hand.
Carved beneath it was: RXX–VII.
“Whatever
that means,” said Mrs. Bongers.
Jane turned to
face her. “I read in the Police Beat that one of your goats went
missing that night. Did you ever get it back?”
“We never
found her.”
“There
was no trace of her at all?”
“Well, there
are packs of wild dogs running around here, you know. They’d pretty much
clean up every scrap.”
But no dog did
this, thought Jane, her gaze back on the carvings. Her cell phone suddenly
rang, and the goats rushed to the opposite side of the pen in a panicked,
bleating scramble. “Sorry,” said Jane. She pulled the phone out of
her pocket, surprised that she’d even gotten a signal out here.
“Rizzoli.”
Frost said,
“I did my best.”
“Why does
that sound like the beginning of an excuse?”
“’Cause
I’m not having much luck finding Lily Saul. She seems to move around
quite a bit. We know she’s been in
“Eight
months as a tourist? How does she afford that?”
“She
travels on the cheap. And I do mean cheap. Fourth-class hotels all the way.
Plus, she may be working there illegally. I know she had a brief job in
“She has
the training for that?”
“She has
a college degree in classical studies. And when she was still a student, she
worked at this excavation site in
“Why the
hell can’t we find her?”
“It looks
to me like she doesn’t want to be found.”
“Okay.
What about her cousin, Dominic Saul?”
“Oh. That
one’s a real problem.”
“You’re
not going to give me any good news tonight, are you?”
“I’ve
got a copy of his academic record from the
“So he
would have been— what, fifteen, sixteen?”
“Fifteen.
He finished up that year and was expected to come back the following fall. But
he never did.”
“That’s
the summer he stayed with the Saul family. In Purity.”
“Right.
The boy’s father had just died, so Dr. Saul took him in for the summer.
When the boy didn’t return to school in September, the
“So which
school did he attend instead?”
“We
don’t know.
“What
about his mother? Where is she?”
“I have
no idea. I can’t find a damn thing about the woman. No one at the school
ever met her. All they have is a letter, signed by a Margaret Saul.”
“It’s
like all these people are ghosts. His cousin. His mother.”
“I do
have Dominic’s school photo. I don’t know if it does us much good
now, since he was only fifteen at the time.”
“What
does he look like?”
“Really
good-looking kid. Blond, blue eyes. And the school says he tested in the genius
range. Obviously he was a smart boy. But there’s a note in the file, says
the kid didn’t seem to have any friends.”
Jane watched as
Mrs. Bongers soothed the goats. She was huddled close
to them, cooing to them in the same shadowy barn where, twelve years ago,
someone had carved strange symbols on the wall, someone who could very well
have moved on to carving women.
“Okay,
here’s the interesting part,” said Frost. “I’m looking
at the boy’s school admission forms right now.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s
this section his father filled out, about any special concerns he might have.
And the dad writes that this is Dominic’s first experience at an American
school. Because he’d lived abroad most of his life.”
“Abroad?”
She felt her pulse suddenly kick into a faster tempo. “Where?”
“
Her gaze turned
back to the barn wall, to what had been carved there: RXX–VII.
“Where are you right now?” she asked.
“I’m
at home.”
“You got
a Bible there?”
“Why?”
“I want
you to look up something for me.”
“Let me
ask
“If
that’s what you’ve got. Now look at the contents. Tell me which
sections start with the letter R.”
“Old or
New Testament?”
“Both.”
Over the phone,
she heard pages flipping. “There’s the Book of Ruth. Romans. And
there’s Revelation.”
“For each
of the books, read me the passages for chapter twenty, verse seven.”
“Okay,
let’s see. Book of Ruth doesn’t have a chapter twenty. It only goes
to four.”
“Romans?”
“Romans
ends at chapter sixteen.”
“What
about Revelation?”
“Hold
on.” More pages rustling. “Here it is. Revelation, chapter twenty,
verse seven. ‘And when the thousand years are expired,
Satan’” —Frost paused. His voice softened to a hush.—
“‘Satan shall be loosed out of his prison.’”
Jane could feel
the pounding of her own heart. She stared at the barn wall, at the carving of
the stick figure wielding the sword. It’s not a sword. It’s a
scythe.
“Rizzoli?”
said Frost.
She said,
“I think we know our killer’s name.”
Beneath the
Basilica di
“There’s
a subterranean lake under this basilica,” she said. “And you can
see the underground river here, which never stops flowing. Beneath
“Can I
get a closer look at the river?” one of the women asked.
“Yes, of
course. Here, I’ll hold the light while you each get a peek through the
grate.”
One by one, the
people in her tour group took turns squeezing in beside Lily to peer into the
tunnel. There was nothing much to see, really. But when you travel all the way
to
“What were
these walls, originally?” asked the German man. Lily had pegged him as a
businessman. In his sixties, he spoke excellent English and wore an expensive
Burberry coat. But his wife, Lily suspected, was not so fluent in English, as
the woman had said scarcely a word all morning.
“These
are the foundations of homes that were here in Nero’s time,” said
Lily. “The great fire of A.D. 64 reduced this neighborhood to charred
rubble.”
“Is that
the fire when Nero fiddled while
Lily smiled,
for she’d heard that question dozens of times before and could almost
always predict who in the group would ask it. “Actually, Nero
didn’t fiddle. The violin wasn’t invented yet. While
“And then
he blamed the fire on the Christians,” the man’s wife added.
Lily shut off
the flashlight. “Come, let’s move on. There’s a lot more to
see.”
She led the way
into the shadowy labyrinth. Aboveground, traffic was roaring on busy streets,
and vendors were selling postcards and trinkets to tourists wandering the ruins
of the Coliseum. But here, beneath the basilica, there was only the sound of
the eternally rushing water and the rustle of their coats as they moved down
the gloomy tunnel.
“This
type of construction is called opus reticulatum,”
said Lily, pointing to the walls. “It’s masonry work that
alternates bricks with tufa.”
“Two-fer?” It was the American man again. The stupid
questions were always his. “Is that, like, stronger than one-fer?” Only his wife laughed, a high, annoying
whinny.
“Tufa,” said the Englishman, “is actually
compacted volcanic ash.”
“Yes,
that’s exactly what it is,” said Lily. “It was used quite
often as a building block in Roman homes.”
“How come
we never heard of this tufa stuff before?” the
American woman asked her husband, implying that, since they did not know about
it, it could not possibly exist.
Even in the
gloom, Lily could see the Englishman’s eyes roll upward. She responded
with an amused shrug.
“You’re
American, right?” the woman asked Lily. “Miss?”
Lily paused.
She did not like this personal question. “Actually,” she lied,
“I’m Canadian.”
“Did you
know what tufa was before you became a guide? Or is
that, like, just a European word?”
“Many
Americans aren’t familiar with the word,” Lily said.
“Well
okay, then. It’s just a European thing,” the woman said, satisfied.
If Americans didn’t know it, it couldn’t possibly be important.
“What
you’re seeing here,” said Lily, quickly moving on with the tour,
“is what’s left of the villa of Titus Flavius Clemens. In the first
century A.D., this was a secret meeting place for Christians, before they were
openly accepted. It was still an early cult then, just gaining popularity among
the wives of noblemen.” She turned on her flashlight again, using the
beam to direct their attention. “Now, we’re moving into the most
interesting section of these ruins. This part was uncovered only in 1870. Here
we’ll see a secret temple for pagan rituals.”
They crossed
the passageway, and Corinthian columns loomed ahead in the shadows. It was the
temple antechamber, lined with stone benches, decorated with ancient frescoes
and stucco. They wandered deeper into the sanctuary, past two shadowy niches,
the site of initiation rites. In the world above, the passing centuries had
altered streets and skylines, but in this ancient grotto, time had frozen.
Here, still, was the carving of the god Mithras slaying the bull. Here, still,
the gentle rush of water whispered from the shadows.
“When
Christ was born,” said Lily, “the cult of Mithras was already
ancient; he was worshipped for centuries by the Persians. Now, let’s
consider the life story of Mithras, what the Persians believed about him. He
was God’s messenger of truth. He was born in a cave at the winter
solstice. His mother, Anahita, was a virgin, and his
birth was attended by shepherds bearing gifts. He had twelve disciples who
accompanied him as he traveled. He was buried in a tomb, and later rose from
the dead. And every year, his rising is celebrated as a rebirth.” She
paused for dramatic effect, looking around at their faces. “Does any of
this sound familiar?”
“That’s
Christian gospel,” said the American woman.
“Yet
centuries before Christ, this was already part of Persian lore.”
“I’ve
never heard of this.” The tourist looked at her husband. “Have
you?”
“Nope.”
“Then
perhaps you should visit the temples at
The American
woman turned to him. “You don’t need to be patronizing.”
“Trust
me, madam. Nothing our delightful guide here has told us is either shocking or
untrue.”
“Now you
know as well as I do that Christ was not some Persian guy in a funny hat
who kills bulls.”
Lily said,
“I only wanted to point out the interesting parallels in the
iconography.”
“What?”
“Look,
it’s not that important, really,” said Lily, hoping, desperately,
that the woman would just let it go, realizing, too, that any hope she had of a
generous tip from the American couple had long since vanished.
“It’s just mythology.”
“The
Bible isn’t mythology.”
“I
didn’t mean it that way.”
“What
does anyone really know about the Persians, anyway? I mean, where’s their
holy book?” The other tourists said nothing, just stood around looking
uncomfortable.
Let it go.
It’s not worth an argument.
But the woman
wasn’t finished yet. Since stepping aboard the tour van that morning, she
had complained about everything to do with
“How do
we know what the Mithrans really believed?” she
asked. “Where are they now?”
“Exterminated,”
said the Englishman. “Their temples were destroyed long ago. What do you
think happened after the church claimed that Mithras was the spawn of
Satan?”
“That
sounds like rewritten history to me.”
“Who do
you suppose did all the rewriting?”
Lily cut in.
“This is where our tour ends. Thank you all very much for your attention.
Feel free to linger here if you’d like. The driver will be waiting for
you in the van when you’re ready to leave. He’ll take you all back
to your hotels. If you have any other questions, I’d be happy to answer
them.”
“I think
you should let tourists know ahead of time,” the American woman said.
“Ahead of
time?”
“This
tour was called ‘The Dawn of Christianity.’ But it’s not
history. It’s pure mythology.”
“Actually,”
sighed Lily, “it is history. But history isn’t always what
we’ve been told.”
“And
you’re an expert?”
“I have a
degree in” —Lily paused. Careful— “I’ve
studied history.”
“And
that’s it?”
“I’ve
also worked in museums around the world,” Lily answered, too annoyed now
to be cautious. “In
“And now
you’re a tour guide.”
Even in that
chilly subterranean room, Lily felt her face go hot. “Yes,” she
said, after a long silence. “I’m just a tour guide. Nothing else.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go check on our driver.” She
turned and headed back into the labyrinth of tunnels. She certainly would not
be getting any tips today, so they could damn well find their own way back
upstairs.
She climbed
from the Mithraeum, with each step moving forward in
time, ascending to the Byzantine foundations. Here, beneath the current
Basilica di San Clemente, were the abandoned hallways
of a fourth-century church that had lain hidden for eight centuries, buried
beneath the medieval church that later replaced it. She heard voices
approaching, speaking French. It was another tour group, on their descent to
the Mithraeum. They came through the narrow corridor,
and Lily moved aside to let the three tourists and their guide pass. As their
voices faded, she paused beneath crumbling frescoes, suddenly feeling guilty
that she had abandoned her own group. Why had she let the comments of one ignorant
tourist so upset her? What was she thinking?
She turned, and
froze as she confronted the silhouette of a man standing at the far end of the
corridor.
“I hope
she did not upset you too much,” he said. She recognized the voice of the
German tourist and released a breath, all her tension instantly gone.
“Oh,
it’s all right. I’ve had worse things said to me.”
“You did
not deserve it. You were only explaining the history.”
“Some
people prefer their own version of history.”
“If they
don’t like to be challenged, then they should not come to
She smiled, a
smile he probably could not see from the far end of the murky tunnel.
“Yes,
He moved toward
her, stepping slowly, as though approaching a skittish deer. “May I offer
a suggestion?”
Her heart sank.
So he had his criticisms, too. And what would his be? Couldn’t she
satisfy anyone today?
“An
idea,” he said, “for a different sort of tour, something that would
almost certainly draw a different group of visitors.”
“What
would the theme be?”
“You are
familiar with biblical history.”
“I’m
not an expert, but I have studied it.”
“Every
travel agency offers tours of the holy sites, for tourists like our American
friends, people who wish to walk in the footsteps of the saints. But some of us
aren’t interested in saints or holy sites.” He had moved close
beside her in the tunnel, so close that she could smell the scent of pipe
tobacco on his clothes. “Some of us,” he said softly, “seek
the unholy.”
She went
absolutely still.
“You have
read the Book of Revelation?”
“Yes,”
she whispered.
“You know
of the Beast.”
She swallowed. Yes.
“And who
is the Beast?” he asked.
Slowly she
backed away. “Not a he, but an it. It’s… a
representation of
“Ah. You
know the scholarly interpretation.”
“The
Beast was the
“Do you
really believe that?”
She glanced
over her shoulder, toward the exit, and saw no one barring her escape.
“Or do
you believe he’s real?” he pressed. “Flesh and blood? Some
say the Beast lies here, in this city. That he’s biding his time,
waiting. Watching.”
“That—
that’s for philosophers to decide.”
“You tell
me, Lily Saul. What do you believe?”
He knows my
name.
She spun around
to flee. But someone else had magically materialized in the tunnel behind her.
It was the nun who had admitted Lily’s group into the underground
passage. The woman stood very still, watching her. Blocking her way.
His demons have
found me.
Lily made her
choice in an instant. She lowered her head and slammed straight into the woman,
sending her sprawling backward in a swoop of black fabric. The nun’s hand
clawed at her ankle as Lily stumbled forward, kicking free.
Get to the
street!
She was at
least three decades younger than the German. Once outside, she could outrun
him. Lose him in the crowds milling near the Coliseum. She scrambled up the
steps, bursting through a door into the stunning brightness of the upper
basilica, and ran toward the nave. Toward the exit. She managed only a few
steps across the brilliant mosaic floor when, in horror, she slid to a halt.
From behind
marble columns, three men emerged. They said nothing as they closed in, drawing
the trap shut. She heard a door slam behind her and footsteps approach: the
German and the nun.
Why are there
no other tourists? No one around to hear me scream?
“Lily
Saul,” said the German.
She turned to
face him. Even as she did so, she knew the other three men were moving in even
more tightly behind her. So this is where it ends, she thought. In
this holy place, beneath the gaze of Christ on the cross. She did not ever
imagine it would happen in a church. She’d thought it would be in a dark
alley, perhaps, or in a dreary hotel room. But not here, where so many had looked
up to the light.
“We’ve
finally found you,” he said.
She
straightened, her chin lifting. If she had to face the Devil, she’d damn
well do it with her head high.
“So where
is he?” the German asked.
“Who?”
“Dominic.”
She stared at
him. This question she had not expected.
“Where is
your cousin?” he said.
She shook her
head in bewilderment. “Isn’t he the one who sent you?” she
asked. “To kill me?”
Now the German
looked startled. He gave a nod to one of the men standing behind Lily. She flinched
in surprise as her arms were yanked behind her, as handcuffs snapped shut over
her wrists.
“You will
come with us,” the German said.
“Where?”
“A safe
place.”
“You
mean… you’re not going to—”
“Kill
you? No.” He crossed toward the altar and opened a hidden panel. Beyond
was a tunnel that she had never known existed. “But someone else very
well may.”
Lily stared through the limousine’s tinted windows as the Tuscan
countryside glided past. Five months ago, she had traveled south down this very
road, but under different circumstances, in a rattling truck driven by an
unshaven man whose only goal had been to get inside her pants. That night she
had been hungry and exhausted, her feet sore from trudging half the night. Now
she was on the same road, but heading north, back toward
She turned and looked through the rear window at the Mercedes following
them. She saw the German man stare back at her through his windshield. She was
being escorted north by three men in two very expensive cars. These people had
resources, and they knew what they were doing. What chance did she have against
them?
I don’t even know who they are.
But they knew who she was. As careful as she’d been all these
months, somehow these people had managed to track her down.
The limo took a turn off the highway. So they were not going all the way
to
Maybe that was the point. Here there’d be no witnesses.
She had wanted to believe the German when he’d said he was taking
her to a safe place, had wanted it so badly that she had let herself be
temporarily lulled by a little luxury, a comfortable ride. Now, as the limo
slowed down and turned onto a private dirt road, she felt her heart battering
against her ribs, felt her hands turn so slick she had to wipe them on her
jeans. It was dark enough now. They’d take her on a short walk into the
fields and put a bullet in her brain. With three men, it would be quick work,
digging the grave, rolling in the body.
In January, the soil would be cold.
The limo climbed, winding through trees, the headlights flashing across gnarled
undergrowth. She saw the brief red reflection from a rabbit’s eyes. Then
the trees opened up, and they were stopped at an iron gate. A security camera
glowed above an intercom. The driver rolled down his window and said, in
Italian, “We have the package.”
Blinding floodlights came on, and there was a pause as the camera panned
the occupants of the car. Then the gate whined open.
They drove through, followed by the Mercedes that had tailed them all the
way from
“Ms. Saul, shall we go into the house?”
She looked up at the two men flanking him. These people were taking no
chances that she might escape. She had no choice but to go with them. She
stepped out, her legs stiff from the ride, and followed the German up stone
steps to the terrace. A cold wind swept leaves across her path, scattering them
like ashes. Even before they’d reached the entrance, the door swung open
and an elderly man stood waiting to greet them. He gave Lily only a cursory
glance, then turned his attention to the German.
“The room is ready for her,” he said in Italian-accented
English.
“I’ll be staying as well, if that’s all right.
He’ll arrive tomorrow?”
The elderly man nodded. “A night flight.”
Who was coming tomorrow? Lily wondered. They climbed a magnificent
balustrade to the second floor. As their party swept past, hanging tapestries
stirred, trembling against stone walls. She had no time to ogle the artwork.
They hurried her up a long hallway now, past portraits with eyes that watched
her every step.
The elderly man unlocked a heavy oak door and gestured for her to enter.
She stepped into a bedroom that was ponderously furnished with dark wood and
thick velvets.
“This is only for tonight,” said the German.
She turned, suddenly realizing that no one had followed her into the
room. “What happens tomorrow?” she said.
The door swung shut, and she heard the key turn, locking her in.
Why will no one answer a single damn question?
Alone now, she quickly crossed to the heavy drapes and yanked them aside,
revealing a window secured with bars. She strained to pry them apart, pulled
and pulled until her arms were exhausted, but the bars were cast iron, welded
into place, and she was nothing more than flesh and bone. In frustration, she
turned and stared at her velvet prison. She saw an enormous bed of carved oak,
covered with a wine-red canopy. Her gaze lifted to the dark wood moldings, to
carvings of cherubs and grapevines that laced across the tall ceiling. It
may be a prison, she thought, but it’s also the nicest damn
bedroom I’ll ever sleep in. A room fit for a Medici.
On an exquisitely inlaid table were a covered silver tray, a wineglass,
and a bottle of Chianti, already uncorked. She lifted the lid and saw cold
sliced meats, a salad of tomatoes and mozzarella, and unsalted Tuscan bread.
She poured a glass of wine, then paused as she brought it to her lips.
Why would they poison me when it’s just as
easy to fire a bullet into my head?
She drank the entire glass of wine and poured another. Then she sat down
at the table and attacked the tray of food, ripping apart the bread, stuffing
chunks into her mouth and washing them down with Chianti. The beef was so
tender and sliced so thin, it was like cutting into butter. She devoured every
sliver and drank almost the entire bottle of wine. By the time she rose from
the chair, she was so clumsy she could barely stumble her way to the bed. Not
poisoned, she thought. Just plain old drunk. And beyond caring what
happened tomorrow. She did not even bother to undress but collapsed, fully
clothed, onto the damask cover.
A voice awakened her, a man’s voice, deep and unfamiliar, calling
her name. She opened one aching eye and squinted at light glaring in through
the barred window. Promptly she closed her eye again. Who the hell had opened
the drapes? When had the sun come up?
“Ms. Saul, wake up.”
“Later,” she mumbled.
“I didn’t fly all night just to watch you sleep. We need to
talk.”
She groaned and turned over. “I don’t talk to men who
won’t tell me their names.”
“My name is Anthony Sansone.”
“Am I supposed to know you?”
“This is my house.”
That made her open her eyes. She blinked away sleep and turned to see a
man with silver hair gazing down at her. Even in her hungover
state, she registered the fact that this was one damn good-looking guy, despite
the obvious fatigue shadowing his eyes. He said he’d flown all night and
she didn’t doubt it, looking at his wrinkled shirt and the dark stubble
on his jaw. Sansone had not come into the room alone;
the German man was there as well, standing near the door.
She sat up in bed and clutched her throbbing temples. “You really
own this villa?”
“It’s been in my family for generations.”
“Lucky you.” She paused. “You sound like an American.”
“I am.”
“And that guy over there?” She lifted her head and squinted
at the German. “He works for you?”
“No. Mr. Baum is a friend. He works for Interpol.”
She went very still. She dropped her gaze back to the bed, so they could
not see her face.
“Ms. Saul,” he said quietly, “why do I get the feeling
you’re afraid of the police?”
“I’m not.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“And I think you’re not a very good host. Locking me up in
your house. Barging in here without knocking.”
“We did knock. You didn’t wake up.”
“If you’re going to arrest me, you want to tell me
why?” she asked. Because now she realized what this was all about.
Somehow, they’d found out what she’d done twelve years ago, and
they’d tracked her down. Of all the endings she’d imagined, this
was not one of them. A cold unmarked grave, yes— but the police? She felt
like laughing. Oh right, arrest me. I’ve faced far worse terrors than
the threat of prison.
“Is there a reason why we should arrest you?” asked Mr. Baum.
What did he expect, that she was going to blurt out a confession right
here and now? They’d have to work a little harder than that.
“Lily,” said Sansone, and he sat
down on the bed, an invasion of her personal space that instantly made her
wary. “Are you aware of what happened in
“
“Does the name Lori-Ann Tucker mean anything to you?”
Lily paused, startled by the question. Did Lori-Ann talk to the police?
Is that how they found out? You promised me, Lori-Ann. You told me
you’d keep it a secret.
“She was your friend, correct?” he asked.
“Yes,” Lily admitted.
“And Sarah Parmley? She was also a
friend?”
Suddenly she registered the fact that he’d used the word was.
Not is. Her throat went dry. This was starting to sound very bad.
“You knew both of these women?” he pressed her.
“We— we grew up together. The three of us. Why are you asking
about them?”
“Then you haven’t heard.”
“I’ve been out of touch. I haven’t talked to anyone in
the States for months.”
“And no one’s called you?”
“No.” How could they? I’ve done my damnedest to stay
out of sight.
He looked at Baum, then back at her. “I’m so sorry to have to
tell you this. But your friends —both of them— are dead.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Was it an accident? How
could both of them… ?”
“Not an accident. They were murdered.”
“Together?”
“Separately. It happened around Christmas. Lori-Ann was killed in
“Excuse me,” she whispered. “I think I’m going to
be sick.” She scrambled off the bed and bolted into the adjoining
bathroom. She slammed the door shut and dropped to her knees over the toilet
bowl. The wine she’d drunk the night before came up, scorching like acid
as it burned its way up her throat. She clung to the toilet, retching until her
stomach was empty, until she had nothing left to throw up. She flushed the
toilet and staggered to the sink, where she splashed water in her mouth, on her
face. Staring at her own dripping reflection, she scarcely recognized the woman
she saw there. How long had it been since she’d looked, really looked,
into a mirror? When had she transformed into that feral creature? The running
had taken its toll. Run too long, and eventually you’ll leave behind your
soul.
She dried her face on a thick cotton towel, used her fingers to comb back
her hair, and retied the ponytail. Mr. Good-Looking-and-Rich was waiting to
interrogate her, and she needed to stay on her toes. Tell him just enough to
keep him happy. If he doesn’t know what I did, then I sure as hell
won’t tell him.
The color was returning to her face. She lifted her chin and saw the old
warrior’s glint in her eyes. Both her friends were dead. She was the only
one left. Help me, girls. Help me survive this. She took a deep breath
and stepped out of the bathroom.
The men looked at her with expressions of concern. “I’m sorry
to have sprung that news on you so abruptly,” said Sansone.
“Tell me the details,” Lily said bluntly. “What did the
police find?”
He seemed taken aback by her coolheaded directness. “The details
aren’t pleasant.”
“I didn’t expect they would be.” She sat down on the
bed. “I just need to know,” she said softly. “I need to know
how they died.”
“First, may I ask you something?” said the German man, Mr.
Baum. He moved closer. Now both men were standing above her, watching her face.
“Do you know the significance of the reverse cross?”
For a few seconds, she stopped breathing. Then she found her voice again.
“The upside-down cross is… it’s a symbol that’s meant
to mock Christianity. Some would consider it satanic.”
She saw Baum and Sansone exchange surprised
glances.
“And what about this symbol?” Baum reached into his jacket
pocket and took out a pen and a scrap of paper. Quickly he made a sketch, which
he showed to her. “It’s sometimes called the all-seeing eye. Do you
know its significance?”
“This is Udjat,” she said,
“the eye of Lucifer.”
Again, a look passed between Baum and Sansone.
“And if I were to draw a picture of a goat’s head, with
horns?” said Baum. “Would it mean anything to you?”
She met his mild-mannered gaze. “I assume you’re referring to
the symbol for Baphomet? Or Azazel?”
“You’re familiar with all these symbols.”
“Yes.”
“Why? Are you a Satanist, Ms. Saul?”
She felt like laughing. “Hardly. I just happen to know about them.
It’s my own peculiar interest.”
“Is your cousin Dominic a Satanist?”
Lily went absolutely still, her hands flash-frozen in her lap.
“Ms. Saul?”
“You’d have to ask him,” she whispered.
“We’d like to,” said Sansone.
“Where can we find him?”
She looked down at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap. “I
don’t know.”
He sighed. “We devoted a lot of manpower to tracking your
whereabouts. It’s taken us ten days to find you.”
Only ten days? God, I’ve gotten careless.
“So if you could just tell us where Dominic is, you’d save us
a great deal of trouble.”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Why are you protecting him?” asked Sansone.
That made her chin jerk up. “Why the hell would I protect
him?”
“He’s your only living blood relative. And you don’t
know where he is?”
“I haven’t seen him in twelve years,” she shot back.
Sansone’s gaze narrowed. “You remember exactly how long it’s
been?”
She swallowed. That was a mistake. I’ve got to be more careful.
“The things that were done to Lori-Ann and Sarah— that was
Dominic’s work, Lily.”
“How do you know that?”
“Would you like to hear what he did to Sarah? How many hours she
must have screamed as he carved crosses into her skin? And guess what he drew
on the wall in Lori-Ann’s bedroom, the same room where he dismembered her
body. Upside-down crosses. The same symbol he carved on that barn when he was
fifteen years old, when he was living with you that summer, in Purity.” Sansone moved closer to her, his nearness suddenly
threatening. “Is he the one you’ve been running from? Your own
cousin, Dominic?”
She said nothing.
“You’re obviously running from something. Since you
left
She wrapped her arms around herself, coiling into a tight ball. Suddenly
she was shaking, at a moment when she needed, more than ever, to hold herself
together.
“First your brother Teddy drowns. Then your mother tumbles down the
stairs. Then your father shoots himself. All within a few weeks. That’s a
lot of tragedy for a sixteen-year-old girl.”
She hugged herself even tighter, afraid that if she didn’t, she
would shake apart, shatter to pieces.
“Was it just bad luck, Lily?”
“What else would it be?” she whispered.
“Or was something else going on that summer, something between you
and Dominic?”
Her head snapped up. “What are you implying?”
“You’re refusing to help us find him. All I can conclude is
that you’re protecting him.”
“You— you think we had a relationship?” Her
voice rose to a hysterical pitch. “You think I wanted my family to
die? My brother was only eleven years old!” She stopped, then repeated in
a whisper, “He was only eleven years old.”
“Maybe you didn’t realize how dangerous it all was,”
said Sansone. “Maybe you just joined him in a
few incantations, a few harmless rituals. A lot of kids do, you know, out of
curiosity. Maybe to show they’re different from everyone else, unique.
Maybe to shock their parents. Were your parents shocked?”
“They didn’t understand him,” she whispered.
“They didn’t realize…”
“And the other girls. Your friends Lori-Ann and Sarah. Did they
join in his rituals? When did the game get scary? When did you realize there
are powers you don’t ever want to awaken? That’s what happened,
isn’t it? Dominic lured you in.”
“No, that’s not what happened at all.”
“And then you got scared. You tried to pull away, but it was too
late, because their eyes were on you. And on your family. Once you’ve
invited the darkness into your life, it’s not so easy to get rid of it.
It burrows in, becomes part of you. Just as you become part of it.”
“I didn’t.” She looked at him. “I wanted no part
of it!”
“Then why do you continue to seek it out?”
“What do you mean?”
Sansone
glanced at Baum, who opened his briefcase and removed a sheaf of papers.
“These are reports we compiled on your whereabouts these past
years,” said Baum. “Interviews with people you’ve worked
with. Museum curators in
“I’ve taught myself,” she said.
“Why?” asked Sansone.
“I wanted to understand him.”
“Dominic?”
“Yes.”
“And do you now?”
“No. I realize I never will.” She met his gaze. “How
can we understand something that’s not even human?”
He said, quietly, “We can’t, Lily. But we can try our best to
defeat him. So help us.”
“You’re his cousin,” said Baum. “You lived with him
that summer. You may know him better than anyone else does.”
“It’s been twelve years.”
“And he hasn’t forgotten you,” said Sansone.
“That’s why your friends were killed. He was using them to find you.”
“Then he killed them for nothing,” she said. “They didn’t
know where I was. They couldn’t have revealed a thing.”
“And that may be the only reason you’re still alive,”
said Baum.
“Help us find him,” said Sansone.
“Come back to
For a long time she sat on the bed, under the gazes of the two men. I
have no choice in this. I have to play along.
She took a deep breath and looked at Sansone.
“When do we leave?”
Lily Saul looked like some young druggie who’d been plucked straight
off the street. Her eyes were bloodshot and her greasy dark hair was pulled
back in a sloppy ponytail. Her blouse had clearly been slept in, and the blue
jeans were frayed to within a few washings of disintegration. Or was that just
the style with kids these days? Then Jane remembered that this was no kid she
was looking at. Lily Saul was twenty-eight years old, certainly a woman, but at
the moment she looked far younger and more vulnerable. Sitting in Anthony Sansone’s ornate dining room, her thin frame dwarfed
by the massive chair, Lily was painfully out of place and she knew it. Her gaze
flicked nervously between Jane and Sansone, as though
trying to guess from which direction the assault would come.
Jane opened a folder and removed the enlarged print copied from the
Lily’s gaze dropped to the photo and remained there. It was, in
truth, an arresting portrait that stared back at her: a sculpted face with
golden hair and blue eyes, a Raphaelite angel.
“Yes,” said Lily. “That’s my cousin.”
“This photo is over twelve years old. We don’t have any more
recent ones. Do you know where we can find one?”
“No.”
“You sound pretty definite.”
“I’ve had no contact with Dominic. I haven’t seen him
in years.”
“And the last time was?”
“That summer. He left the week after my father’s funeral. I
was staying over at Sarah’s house, and he didn’t even bother to
come tell me good-bye. He just wrote me a note and left. Said that his mother
had come to pick him up, and they were leaving town immediately.”
“And you haven’t seen or heard from him since?”
Lily hesitated. It was just a few beats of a pause, but it made Jane lean
forward, suddenly alert. “You have, haven’t you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What does that mean?”
“Last year, when I was living in
“Who was the postcard from?”
“It had no return address, no signature. The postcard was of a
painting from the
“Was there a message?”
“No words. Just symbols. Symbols that Sarah and I recognized
because we’d seen him cut them into trees that summer.”
Jane slid a pen and notebook to Lily. “Draw them for me.”
Lily picked up the pen. She paused for a moment, as though loath to
reproduce what she had seen. At last she pressed the pen to paper. What she
drew sent a sliver of ice through Jane: three upside-down crosses, and the
notation: R17:16.
“Does that refer to a biblical quotation?” asked Jane.
“It’s from Revelation.”
Jane glanced at Sansone. “Can you look it
up?”
“I can recite the quote,” said Lily softly. “‘And
the ten horns which thou sawest upon the beast, these
shall hate the whore, and shall make her desolate and naked. And shall eat her
flesh, and burn her with fire.’”
“You know it by heart.”
“Yes.”
Jane turned to a fresh page and slid the notebook back to Lily.
“Could you write it for me?”
For a moment Lily just stared at the blank page. Then, reluctantly, she
began to write. Slowly, as though each word was painful. When at last she
handed it to Jane, it was with a relieved sigh.
Jane looked down at the words, and again felt that sliver of cold pierce
her spine.
And shall eat her flesh, and shall burn her with
fire.
“It looks to me like a warning, a threat,” said Jane.
“It is. I’m sure it was meant for me.”
“Then why did Sarah get it?”
“Because I was too hard to find. I’d moved so many times, to
so many cities.”
“So he sent it to Sarah. And she knew how to find you.” Jane
paused. “It was from him, wasn’t it?”
Lily shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Come on, Lily. Who else would it be but Dominic? That’s
almost exactly what he carved in that barn twelve years ago. Why is he
searching for you? Why’s he threatening you?”
Lily’s head drooped. She said, softly, “Because I know what
he did that summer.”
“To your family?”
Lily looked up, her eyes bright with tears. “I couldn’t prove
it. But I knew.”
“How?”
“My father never would have killed himself! He knew how much
I needed him. But no one would listen to me. No one listens to a
sixteen-year-old girl!”
“What happened to that postcard? With the symbols?”
Her chin lifted. “I burned it. And I left
“Why?”
“What would you do if you received a death threat? Sit tight and
wait?”
“You could have called the police. Why didn’t you?”
“And tell them what? That someone sent me a biblical
quotation?”
“You didn’t even think of reporting it? You knew in your heart
that your cousin was a murderer. But you never called the authorities?
That’s what I don’t get, Lily. He threatened you. He scared you
enough to make you leave
Lily dropped her gaze. A long silence passed. In another room, a clock
ticked loudly.
Jane glanced at Sansone. He appeared to be just
as baffled. She focused again on Lily, who steadfastly refused to meet her
gaze. “Okay,” said Jane, “what are you not telling us?”
Lily didn’t respond.
Jane was out of patience. “Why the hell won’t you help us
catch him?”
“You can’t catch him,” said Lily.
“Why not?”
“Because he’s not human.”
In the long silence that followed, Jane heard the chiming of the clock echo
through the rooms. That sliver of a chill that Jane had felt was suddenly an
icy blast up her spine.
Not human. And the horns, which thou sawest
upon the beast…
Sansone
leaned close and asked, softly, “Then what is he, Lily?”
The young woman gave a shudder and wrapped her arms around herself.
“I can’t outrun him. He always finds me. He’ll find me here,
too.”
“Okay,” said Jane, her nerves snapping back under control.
This interview had swerved so far off the tracks that it made her doubt
everything the woman had said earlier. Lily Saul was either lying or
delusional, and Sansone was not only lapping up every
weird detail, he was actually feeding her delusions with his own. “Enough
woo-woo,” said Jane. “I’m not looking for the Devil.
I’m looking for a man.”
“Then you’ll never catch him. And I can’t help
you.” Lily looked at Sansone. “I need to
use the restroom.”
“You can’t help us?” said Jane. “Or you
won’t?”
“Look, I’m tired,” Lily snapped. “I just got off
the plane, I’m jet-lagged, and I haven’t taken a shower in two
days. I’m not answering any more questions.” She walked out of the
room.
“She didn’t tell us a single useful thing,” said Jane.
Sansone
stared at the doorway that Lily had just walked through. “You’re
wrong,” he said. “I think she did.”
“She’s hiding something.” Jane paused. Her cell phone
was ringing. “Excuse me,” she muttered, and dug it out of her
purse.
Vince Korsak didn’t bother with a
preamble. “You gotta get over here right
now,” he snapped. Over the phone, she heard music in the background and
noisy conversation. Oh God, she thought, I forgot all about his
stupid party.
“Look, I’m really sorry,” she said. “I’m
not going to be able to make it tonight. I’m in the middle of an
interview.”
“But you’re the only one who can handle this!”
“Vince, I have to go.”
“They’re your parents. What the hell am I supposed to
do with them?”
Jane paused. “What?”
“They’re screaming at each other over here.” He paused.
“Uh-oh. They’ve just gone into the
kitchen. I gotta go hide the friggin’
knives.”
“My dad’s at your party?”
“He just showed up. I didn’t invite him! He got here right
after your mom did, and they’ve been going at it for twenty minutes now.
Are you coming? ’Cause if they don’t calm down, I’m gonna have to call nine-one-one.”
“No! Jesus, don’t do that!” My mom and dad carted
off in handcuffs? I’ll never live it down. “Okay, I’ll be
right there.” She hung up and looked at Sansone.
“I have to leave.”
He followed her into the front parlor, where she pulled on her coat.
“Will you be back tonight?”
“Right now, she’s not being too cooperative. I’ll try
again tomorrow.”
He nodded. “I’ll keep her safe till then.”
“Safe?” She gave a snort. “How about you just keep her
from running?”
Outside, the night was cold and clear. Jane crossed the street to her Subaru
and was just unlocking it when she heard a car door slam shut. She looked up
the street to see Maura walking toward her.
“What’re you doing in the neighborhood?” Jane asked.
“I heard he found Lily Saul.”
“For what it’s worth.”
“You’ve already interviewed her?”
“And she’s not giving away anything. This doesn’t bring
us one step closer.” Jane glanced down the street as Oliver Stark’s
van pulled into a parking place. “What’s going on here
tonight?”
“We’re all here to see Lily Saul.”
“We? Don’t tell me you’ve actually joined these
freaks?”
“I haven’t joined anything. But my house was marked, Jane,
and I want to know why. I want to hear what this woman has to say.” Maura
turned and headed toward Sansone’s house.
“Hey, Doc?” Jane called out.
“Yes?”
“Watch yourself around Lily Saul.”
“Why?”
“She’s either crazy, or she’s hiding something.”
Jane paused. “Or both.”
Even through Korsak’s closed apartment
door, Jane could hear the thump of disco music, like a heartbeat throbbing in
the walls. The man was fifty-five years old, he’d had a heart attack, and
“Staying Alive” was probably a good choice for his theme song. She
knocked, dreading the thought of Korsak in a leisure
suit.
He opened the door, and she stared at his shimmering silk shirt, the
armpits damp with circles of sweat. The collar was unbuttoned, the neckline
open far enough to reveal a gorilla’s thatch of chest hair. The only
thing missing was a gold chain around his fat neck.
“Thank God,” he sighed.
“Where are they?”
“Still in the kitchen.”
“And still alive, I assume.”
“They’ve been yelling loud enough. Geez,
I can’t believe the language outta your
ma’s mouth!”
Jane stepped through the doorway, into the psychedelic light show of a
spinning disco ball. In the gloom, she could see about a dozen listless partygoers
standing around nursing drinks or slouched on a sofa as they mechanically
dredged potato chips through dip. This was the first time Jane had ever been
inside Korsak’s new bachelor apartment and she
had to pause, stupefied by the spectacle. She saw a smoked-glass-and-chrome
coffee table and a white shag carpet, plus a big-screen TV and stereo speakers
so huge you could nail a roof on one of them and call it home. And she saw
black leather— lots and lots of black leather. She could almost imagine
the testosterone oozing from the walls.
Then she heard, over the bouncy beat of “Staying Alive,” two
voices yelling in the kitchen.
“You are not staying here, looking like that. What the hell?
Do you think you’re seventeen again?”
“You have no right to tell me what to do, Frank.”
Jane walked into the kitchen, but her parents didn’t even notice
her, their attention was so completely focused on each other. What did Mom
do to herself? Jane wondered, staring at Angela’s tight red dress. When
did she discover spike heels and green eye shadow?
“You’re a grandmother, for God’s sake,” said
Frank. “How can you go out wearing a getup like that? Look at you!”
“At least someone’s looking at me. You never
did.”
“Got your boobs practically hanging outta
that dress.”
“I say, if you got it, flaunt it.”
“What are you trying to prove? Are you and that Detective Korsak—”
“Vince treats me very well, thank you.”
“Mom,” said Jane. “Dad?”
“Vince? So now you call him Vince?”
“Hey,” said Jane.
Her parents looked at her.
“Oh Janie,” said Angela. “You made it after all!”
“You knew about this?” said Frank, glaring at his daughter.
“You knew your mom was running around?”
“Ha!” Angela laughed. “Look who’s talking.”
“You let your mom go out dressed like that?”
“She’s fifty-seven years old,” said Jane. “Like
I’m supposed to measure her hemline?”
“This is— this is inappropriate!”
“I’ll tell you what inappropriate is,” said Angela.
“It’s you, robbing me of my youth and beauty and tossing me
on the garbage heap. It’s you, sticking your dick in some stray
ass that just happens to wiggle by.”
Did my mom just say that?
“It’s you having the gall to tell me
what’s inappropriate! Go on, go back to her. I’m staying right
here. For the first time in my life, I’m going to enjoy myself. I’m
going to par-tee!” Angela turned and clacked on spike heels out of
the kitchen.
“Angela! You come right back here!”
“Dad.” Jane grabbed Frank’s arm.
“Don’t.”
“Someone’s gotta stop her before
she humiliates herself!”
“Humiliates you, you mean.”
Frank shook off his daughter’s hand. “She’s your
mother. You should talk some sense into her.”
“She’s at a party, so what? It’s not like she’s
committing a crime.”
“That dress is a crime. I’m glad I got here before she did
something she’d regret.”
“What are you doing here, anyway? How’d you even know
she’d be here?”
“She told me.”
“Mom did?”
“Calls to tell me she’s forgiven me. Says I should go ahead
and have my fun, ’cause she’s having fun, too. Going out to a party
tonight. Says my leaving was the best thing ever happened to her. I mean, what
the hell is going on in her head?”
What’s going on, thought Jane, is that Mom is having the ultimate revenge. She’s
showing him she doesn’t give a damn that he’s gone.
“And this Korsak guy,” said Frank,
“he’s a younger man!”
“Only by a few years.”
“You taking her side now?”
“I’m not taking any sides. I think you two need a time-out.
Stay away from each other. Just leave, okay?”
“I don’t want to leave. Not till I have this out with
her.”
“You really don’t have the right to tell her anything. You
know that.”
“She’s my wife.”
“What’s your girlfriend gonna say
about that, huh?”
“Don’t call her that.”
“What should I call her? The bimbo?”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand that Mom’s finally having some fun. She
doesn’t get enough.”
He waved in the direction of the music. “You call that just fun?
That orgy out there?”
“What do you call what you’re having?”
Frank gave a heavy sigh and sank into a kitchen chair. He dropped his
head into his hands. “What a mess. What a big, fucking mistake.”
She stared at him, more shocked by his use of the F word than by
his admission of regret.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said.
“What do you want to do, Dad?”
He raised his head and looked at her with tormented eyes. “I
can’t decide.”
“Yeah. That’s going to make Mom feel great, hearing
that.”
“I don’t know her anymore! She’s like some alien with
her boobs pushed up. All those guys are probably staring down her dress.”
Abruptly he stood. “That’s it. I’m gonna
put my foot down.”
“No, you’re not. You’re gonna
leave. Right now.”
“Not while she’s still here.”
“You’ll only make things worse.” Jane took his arm and
guided him out of the kitchen. “Just go, Dad.”
As they crossed the living room, he looked at Angela, standing with a drink
in her hand, the disco ball casting multicolored sequins of light across her
dress. “I want you home by eleven!” he yelled to his wife. Then he
walked out of the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Ha,” said Angela. “Fat chance.”
Jane sat at her kitchen table, papers spread out in front of her, her
gaze on the wall clock as the minute hand ticked past 10:45 P.M.
“You can’t just go dragging her home,” said Gabriel.
“She’s an adult. If she wants to spend the whole night there, she
has every right to.”
“Don’t. Even. Mention that possibility.” Jane
clutched her temples, trying to block out the thought of her mother sleeping
over at Korsak’s place. But Gabriel had already
thrown open the gates, and the images came stampeding in. “I should go
back there right now, before something happens. Before—”
“What? She has too good a time?”
He came around behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders,
massaging her taut muscles. “Come on, sweetheart, lighten up. What are
you going to do, give your mom a curfew?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
In the nursery,
“None of the women in my life are happy tonight.” Gabriel
sighed and walked out of the kitchen.
Jane glanced up at the clock again. Eleven P.M. Korsak
had promised to put Angela safely in a cab. Maybe he already had. Maybe I
should call and find out if she’s left yet.
Instead she forced her attention back to the papers on the table. It was
her file on the elusive Dominic Saul. Here were the few fading clues to a young
man who, twelve years ago, had simply walked into the mists and vanished. Once
again, she studied the boy’s school photo, gazing at a face that was
almost angelic in its beauty. Golden hair, intense blue eyes, an aquiline nose.
A fallen angel.
She turned to the handwritten letter from the boy’s mother,
Margaret, withdrawing her son from the
Dominic will not be returning for the fall semester.
I will be taking him back with me to
Where they had simply disappeared. Interpol had found no record of their arrival, no documentation that
Margaret or Dominic Saul had ever returned to
She rubbed her eyes, suddenly too tired to focus on the page, and began
gathering up the papers and returning them to the folder. Reaching for her
notebook, she suddenly paused, staring at the page in front of her. She saw the
quote from Revelation that Lily Saul had written:
And the ten horns which thou sawest
upon the beast, these shall hate the whore and make her desolate and naked. And
shall eat her flesh. And burn her with fire.
But it was not the words themselves that made Jane’s heart suddenly
start to pound. It was the handwriting.
She rifled through the folder and once again pulled out Margaret
Saul’s letter withdrawing her son from the
She jumped to her feet and called out. “Gabriel? I’ve got to
leave.”
He came back out of the baby’s room, holding
“This isn’t about my mom.” Jane went into the living
room. He watched, frowning, as she unlocked a drawer, took out her holster, and
buckled it on. “It’s about Lily Saul.”
“What about her?”
“She lied. She knows exactly where her cousin is hiding.”
“I’ve told
you everything I know,” said Lily.
Jane stood in Sansone’s dining room, where the dessert dishes had
not yet been cleared from the table. Jeremy quietly placed a cup of coffee in
front of Jane, but she didn’t touch it. Nor did she look at any of the
other guests seated around the table. Her gaze remained on Lily.
“Why
don’t we go into the other room, Lily, where we can talk in
private?”
“I have
nothing else to tell you.”
“I think
you have a great deal to tell me.”
Edwina Felway said, “Then ask your questions right here,
Detective. We’d all like to hear them.”
Jane looked
around the table at Sansone and his guests. The
so-called Mephisto Club. Even though Maura claimed
not to be part of it, there she was, seated in their circle. These people might
think they understood evil, but they couldn’t recognize it, even when it
was sitting right here at the same table. Jane’s gaze returned, once again,
to Lily Saul, who sat stubbornly in place, refusing to move from her chair. Okay,
thought Jane. This is the way you want to play the game? That’s how
we’ll play it, with an audience watching.
Jane opened the
file folder she’d brought into the house and slapped the page down in
front of Lily, setting off the musical clatter of wineglasses and china. Lily
looked at the handwritten letter.
“Dominic’s
mother didn’t write that,” said Jane.
“What is
it?” asked Edwina.
“It’s
a letter withdrawing fifteen-year-old Dominic from the
“Supposedly?”
“Margaret
Saul didn’t write that letter.” Jane looked at Lily. “You
did.”
Lily gave a
laugh. “Do I look old enough to be his mother?”
Jane placed the
notebook on the table now, open to the page with the quote from Revelation.
“You wrote that passage for me tonight, Lily. We know it’s your
handwriting.” She pointed back to the letter. “So is that.”
Silence.
Lily’s mouth had tightened to two thin lines.
“That
summer, when you were sixteen, your cousin Dominic wanted to vanish,”
said Jane. “After the things he did in Purity, maybe he needed to
vanish.” Her eyes narrowed on Lily. “And you helped him. You told
everyone a convenient cover story: that his mother suddenly came to town to
fetch him. That they left the country. But it was a lie, wasn’t it?
Margaret Saul never came to get her son. She never showed up at all.
Isn’t that right?”
“I
don’t need to answer you,” said Lily. “I know my rights.”
“Where is
he? Where is Dominic?”
“When you
find him, let me know.” Lily shoved back her chair and stood up.
“What
went on between you two that summer?”
“I’m
going to bed.” Lily turned and started out of the dining room.
“Did he do
all your dirty work for you? Is that why you’re protecting him?”
Lily stopped.
Slowly, she turned, and her eyes were as dangerous as radium.
“When
your parents died, you came into a nice little inheritance,” said Jane.
“I
inherited a house that no one will ever buy. And a bank account that paid for
my college education, but not much more.”
“Did you
get on with your parents, Lily? Did you have arguments?”
“If you
think I’d ever—”
“All
teenagers do. But maybe your fights went a little further. Maybe you couldn’t
wait to get out of that dead little town and get on with your life. Then your
cousin moves in for the summer and he gives you ideas, ways to make your escape
happen a little easier, a little quicker.”
“You have
no idea what happened!”
“Then
tell me. Tell me why you were the one to find Teddy’s body in the
lake, why you were the one who found your mother at the bottom of the
stairs.”
“I’d
never hurt them. If I’d known—”
“Were you
lovers? You and Dominic?”
Lily’s
face went white with rage. For one knife-edged moment, Jane thought the woman
might actually lunge at her.
A loud ringing
suddenly cut through the silence. Everyone glanced at Sansone.
“It’s
our intruder alert,” he said, and rose to his feet. He crossed to a
control panel on the wall. “There’s a breach in the garden
window.”
“Someone’s
in the house?” asked Jane.
Lily said
softly, “It’s him.”
Jeremy came
into the dining room. “I just checked, Mr. Sansone.
The window’s locked.”
“Then
maybe it’s just a malfunction.” Sansone
looked at the others. “I think it’d be best if you all stayed right
here for the moment, while I check the system.”
“No,”
said Lily, her gaze darting from doorway to doorway, as though expecting an
attacker to suddenly burst through. “I’m not staying. Not in this
house.”
“You’ll
be perfectly safe. We’ll protect you.”
“And
who’s going to protect you?” She looked around the room at
Maura, Edwina, and Oliver. “Any of you? You don’t even know what
you’re dealing with!”
“Look,
everyone just sit tight, okay?” said Jane. “I’ll go outside
and take a look around.”
Sansone said, “I’ll come with you.”
Jane paused, on
the verge of refusing his offer. Then she thought of Eve Kassovitz,
dragged bleeding across the icy walkway, her weapon still strapped to her
waist. “All right,” she said to him. “Let’s go.”
They pulled on
their coats and stepped outside. Beneath streetlamps, pools of light glistened
with ice. It was a frozen world, every surface polished and gleaming like
glass. Even if an intruder had walked this way, they’d see no footprints
tonight. Her Maglite beam skimmed across pavement
hard as diamonds. She and Sansone circled around to
the iron gate and stepped through, into the narrow side yard. This was where
the killer had brought down Eve Kassovitz. Along this
path, he’d dragged her body, the blood from her torn scalp smearing
across the granite pavers, freezing in streaks of red.
Jane’s
weapon was already out of her holster, the gun an extension of her own body,
magically materializing in her grasp. She moved toward the back garden, her
light slashing the shadows, the soles of her shoes skating on ice. Her beam
swept across winter-shriveled wisps of ivy. She knew Sansone
was right behind her, but he moved so silently she had to pause and glance over
her shoulder, just to confirm that he was really there, that he was watching
her back.
She edged
toward the corner of the building and swept her Maglite
across the enclosed garden, across the courtyard where, only a few weeks ago,
Eve had lain, her muscles stiffening, her blood freezing on the cold stones.
Jane saw no movement, no hulking shadows, no demon in a black cape.
“That’s
the window?” she asked. She aimed her beam and saw light bounce back in
the glass. “The one your system says was breached?”
“Yes.”
She crossed the
courtyard for a closer look. “No screen?”
“Jeremy
takes them down for the winter.”
“And
it’s always kept latched on the inside?”
“Always.
Security is of paramount concern to us.”
She ran the
light along the sill and spotted the telltale gouge in the wood. Fresh.
“We’ve
got a problem here,” she said softly. “Someone tried to force
this.”
He stared at
the sill. “That wouldn’t have set off the alarm. The only way to do
that is to actually open the window.”
“But your
butler says it’s locked on the inside.”
“That
means…” Sansone stopped.
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“He got
in and relatched it. He’s already inside
the house!” Sansone turned and ran back along
the side yard, moving so fast his shoes skidded across the walkway. He almost
fell but caught himself and kept running. By the time Jane came through the
front door, he was already in the dining room, urging everyone to their feet.
“Please
get your coats,” he said. “I need you all to leave the house.
Jeremy, I’ll help Oliver down the steps, if you could bring the
wheelchair.”
“What on
earth is going on?” asked Edwina.
“Just do
it, okay?” ordered Jane. “Grab your coats and go out the front
door.”
It was
Jane’s weapon that caught their attention, the fact it was out of her
holster and in her hands, a detail that screamed: This isn’t a game; this
is serious.
Lily was the
first to bolt. She darted from the room, leading the rush into the parlor, the
scramble for coats. As everyone spilled out the front door and into the cold,
Jane was right behind them, already on her phone and calling for backup. She
might be armed, but she wasn’t foolhardy; she had no intention of
searching that entire house by herself.
Moments later,
the first cruiser appeared, its lights flashing but the siren silent. It
skidded to a stop and two patrolmen stepped out.
“I need a
perimeter,” ordered Jane. “No one gets out of that building.”
“Who’s
inside?”
“We’re
about to find out.” She looked up as the headlights of a second cruiser
approached. Two more cops arrived on the scene. “You,” she said,
and pointed to one of the younger patrolmen. Tonight she wanted fast reflexes
and a sharp eye. “Come with me.”
Jane entered
the house first, the patrolman right behind her, his weapon drawn. He gave a
quick double-take as they stepped into the parlor, as he surveyed the elegant
furniture, the oil painting above the hearth. She knew exactly what he was
thinking: This is a rich man’s house.
She slid open
the hidden panel and gave the closet a quick glance just to confirm it was empty.
Then they moved on, through the dining room, through the kitchen, and into a
massive library. No time to ogle the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. They were on
a monster hunt.
They moved up
the staircase, along a curved banister. Eyes gazed down at them from oil
portraits. They passed beneath a brooding man, a doe-eyed woman, beneath two
cherub-faced girls seated at a harpsichord. At the top of the stairs, they
stared down a carpeted hall, past a series of doorways. Jane did not know the
layout of this house or what to expect. Even with the patrolman backing her up,
even with three other officers stationed right outside the house, her hands
were sweating and her heart was pounding its way into her throat. Room by room
they moved, sliding open closets, edging through doorways. Four bedrooms, three
baths.
They reached a
narrow stairway.
Jane halted,
staring up at an attic door. Oh man, she thought. I don’t want
to go up there.
She grasped the
banister and ascended the first step. She heard it creak beneath her weight and
knew that anyone upstairs would also hear it, and know she was coming. Behind
her, she could hear the patrolman’s breathing accelerate.
He feels it,
too. The malevolence.
She climbed up
the creaking steps to the door. Her hand was slick against the knob. She
glanced at her backup and saw him give a quick, tense nod.
She flung open
the door and scrambled through, her flashlight beam sweeping an arc through the
darkness, skittering across shadowy forms. She saw the gleam of reflected
brass, saw hulking shapes poised to attack.
Then, behind
her, the cop finally found the light switch and he flicked it on. Jane blinked
in the sudden glare. In an instant, crouching attackers transformed to
furniture and lamps and rolled-up carpets. Here was a treasure trove of stored
antiques. Sansone was so damn rich, even his cast-off
furniture was probably worth a fortune. She moved through the attic, her pulse
slowing, her fears melting into relief. No monsters up here.
She holstered
her gun and stood in the midst of all those treasures, feeling sheepish. The
intruder alert must have been a false alarm. Then what gouged the wood in
that windowsill?
The cop’s
radio suddenly came to life. “Graffam,
what’s your status?”
“Looks
like we’re all clear in here.”
“Rizzoli
there?”
“Yeah,
she’s right here.”
“We got a
situation down here.”
Jane shot a
questioning look at the cop.
“What’s
going on?” he said into the radio.
“Dr.
Isles wants her out here ASAP.”
“On our
way.”
Jane gave a
last glance around the attic, then headed back down the steps, back down the
hallway, past bedrooms they had already searched, past the same portraits that
had stared at them moments before. Once again her heart was drumming as she
stepped out the front door, into a night awash with flashing lights. Two more
cruisers had since arrived, and she halted, temporarily blinded by the
kaleidoscopic glare.
“Jane,
she ran.”
She focused on
Maura, who stood backlit by the cruisers’ rack lights.
“What?”
“Lily
Saul. We were standing over there, on the sidewalk. And when we turned, she was
gone.”
“Shit.”
Jane scanned the street, her gaze sweeping across the shadowy forms of cops,
across curious onlookers who’d spilled out of their houses into the cold
to watch the excitement.
“It was
only a few minutes ago,” said Maura. “She can’t have gone
far.”
Lily Saul darted down one side street, and then another, weaving ever
deeper into the maze of an unfamiliar neighborhood. She did not know
It was a sign for the subway station.
She’d just jump on a train and in minutes she could be on her way
anywhere in the city. And she’d be warm.
She clambered to her feet, her tailbone aching from the fall, her scraped
palms stinging. She limped across the street, took a few steps along the
sidewalk, and halted.
A police cruiser had just rounded the corner.
She dashed into the park and ducked behind the bushes. There she waited,
her heart banging in her throat, but the cruiser did not pass. Peering through
the branches, she saw that it was parked and idling outside the subway station.
Damn. Time to change plans.
She glanced around and spotted the glowing sign of yet another T station
on the other side of the park. She rose to her feet and started across the
common, moving beneath the shadow of trees. Ice crusted the snow, and every
footstep gave a noisy crack as her shoe broke through the glaze into deep snow
beneath. She struggled forward, almost losing a shoe, her lungs heaving now
with the effort to make headway. Then, through the roar of her own breathing, she
heard another sound behind her, a crunch, a creak. She stopped and turned, and
felt her heart freeze.
The figure stood beneath a tree— faceless, featureless, a black
form that seemed more shadow than substance. It’s him.
With a sob, Lily fled, stumbling through the snow, shoes smashing through
the icy crust. Her own breathing, the slamming of her own heart, drowned out
any sound of pursuit, but she knew he was right behind her. He’d always
been right behind her, every minute, every breath, dogging her steps,
whispering her doom. But not this close, never this close! She didn’t
look back, didn’t want to see the creature of her nightmares moving in.
She just plunged ahead, her shoe lost now, her sock soaked with frigid water.
Then, all at once, she stumbled out of a drift, onto the sidewalk. The T
entrance was straight ahead. She went flying down the steps, almost expecting
to hear the swoop of wings and feel the bite of claws in her back. Instead, she
felt the warm breath of the subway tunnel on her face and saw commuters filing
out toward the stairs.
No time to fool with money. Jump the turnstile!
She scrambled over it, and her wet sock slapped down onto the pavement.
Two steps, and she skidded to a stop.
Jane Rizzoli was standing right in front of her.
Lily spun around, back toward the turnstile she’d just jumped. A
cop stood barring her escape.
Frantically she gazed around the station, looking for the creature that
had pursued her, but she saw only startled commuters staring back at her.
A handcuff closed over her wrist.
She sat in Jane Rizzoli’s parked car, too exhausted to think of
trying to escape. The wet sock felt like a block of ice encasing her foot, and
even with the heater running, she could not get warm, could not stop shaking.
“Okay, Lily,” said Jane. “Now you’re going to
tell me the truth.”
“You won’t believe the truth.”
“Try me.”
Lily sat motionless, tangled hair spilling across her face. It
didn’t matter anymore. She was so tired of running. I give up.
“Where is Dominic?” asked Jane.
“He’s dead,” said Lily.
A moment passed as the detective processed that information, as she
reached her own conclusions. Through the closed window came the wail of a
passing fire truck, but inside this car, there was only the hiss of the heater.
Jane said, “You killed him?”
Lily swallowed. “Yes.”
“So his mother never came for him, did she? She never took him
abroad. That’s why you wrote that letter to the school.”
Lily’s head drooped lower. There was no point in denying anything.
This woman had already put it all together. “The school called. They kept
calling, wanting to know if he was coming back. I had to write the letter so
they’d stop asking me where he was.”
“How did you kill him?”
Lily took in a shuddering breath. “It was the week after my
father’s funeral. Dominic was in our garage looking at my mother’s
car. He said she wouldn’t need it anymore, so maybe he could have
it.” Lily’s voice dropped to a tight whisper. “That’s
when I told him I knew. I knew he killed them.”
“How did you know?”
“Because I found his notebook. He kept it under his
mattress.”
“What was in the notebook?”
“It was all about us. Pages and pages about the boring Saul family.
What we did every day, the things we said to each other. He had notes about
which path Teddy always took to the lake. About which pills we kept in the
bathroom cabinet. What we ate for breakfast, how we said good night.” She
paused. Swallowed. “And he knew where my father kept the key to his gun
cabinet.” She looked at Jane. “He was like a scientist, studying
us. And we were nothing but lab rats.”
“Did he actually write in his notebook that he’d killed your
family?”
She hesitated. “No. His last entry was August eighth, the day that
Teddy…” She stopped. “He knew better than to actually write
about it.”
“Where is that notebook now? Do you still have it?”
“I burned it. Along with all his other books. I couldn’t
stand the sight of them.”
Lily could read the look in Jane’s eyes. You destroyed the
evidence. Why should I believe you?
“Okay,” said Jane. “You said you found Dominic in the
garage, that you confronted him there.”
“I was so upset, I didn’t think about what would happen
next.”
“What did happen?”
“When I told him I knew what he’d done, he just stared right
back at me. No fear, no guilt. ‘You can’t prove it,’”
he said. She took a breath and slowly released it. “Even if I could have
proved it, he was only fifteen. He wouldn’t have gone to jail. In a few
years, he would have been free. But my family would still be dead.”
“Then what happened?”
“I asked him why. Why he’d do something so terrible. And you
know what he said?”
“What?”
“‘You should have been nicer to me.’ That was his
answer. That’s all he said. Then he smiled and walked out of the barn, as
if he didn’t have a care in the world.” She paused.
“That’s when I did it.”
“How?”
“I picked up a shovel. It was leaning up against the wall. I
don’t even remember reaching for it. I didn’t even feel the weight
of it. It was like— like my arms were someone else’s. He fell, but
he was still conscious, and he started to crawl away.” She released a
deep sigh and said softly, “So I hit him again.”
Outside the night had fallen quiet. The bitter weather had driven
pedestrians off the street, and only an occasional car glided past.
“And then?” asked Jane.
“All I could think of was how to get rid of the body. I got him
into my mother’s car. I thought, maybe I could make it look like an
accident. It was nighttime, so no one would see anything. I drove the car over
to this quarry a few miles out of town. I rolled it over the edge, into the water.
I assumed that someone would eventually spot it. Someone would report that a
car was down there.” Lily gave a disbelieving laugh. “But nobody
did. Can you imagine that?” She looked at Jane. “Nobody ever found
it.”
“So then you went on with your life.”
“I graduated from high school. And I left town, for good. I
didn’t want to be there if they ever found his body.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Jane said, “You realize
you’ve just confessed to murdering Dominic Saul. I’ll have to place
you under arrest.”
Lily didn’t flinch. “I’d do it again. He deserved
it.”
“Who knew about this? Who knew you killed him?”
Lily paused. Outside, a couple walked past, heads bent against the wind,
shoulders hunched inside winter coats.
“Did Sarah and Lori-Ann know?”
“They were my best friends. I had to tell them. They understood why
I did it. They swore to keep it secret.”
“And now your friends are dead.”
“Yes.” Lily shuddered and hugged herself. “It’s
my fault.”
“Who else knows?”
“I never told anyone else. I thought it was over with.” She
took a breath. “Then Sarah received that postcard.”
“With the reference to Revelation?”
“Yes.”
“Someone else must know what you did. Someone who saw you that
night, or heard about it. Someone who’s now having fun tormenting
you.”
Lily shook her head. “Only Dominic would have sent that
postcard.”
“But he’s dead. How could he?”
Lily fell silent for a moment, knowing that what she was about to say
would surely sound absurd to this coldly logical woman. “Do you believe
in an afterlife, Detective?” she asked.
As Lily could have predicted, Jane gave a snort. “I believe we get
one shot at life. So you can’t afford to screw it up.”
“The ancient Egyptians believed in an afterlife. They believed that
everyone has a Ba, which they depicted as a bird with
a human face. The Ba is your soul. After you die,
it’s released, and can fly back to the world of the living.”
“What’s this Egyptian stuff have to do with your
cousin?”
“
“Are you talking about resurrection?”
“No. Possession.”
The silence lasted for what seemed like forever.
“You mean demonic possession?” Jane finally asked.
“Yes,” said Lily softly. “The Ba
finds another home.”
“It takes over some other guy’s body? Makes him do the
killing?”
“The soul has no physical form. It needs to command real flesh and
blood. The concept of demonic possession isn’t new. The Catholic Church
has always known about it, and they have documented cases. They have rites of
exorcism.”
“You’re saying that your cousin’s Ba
has hijacked a body, and that’s how he’s managed to come after you,
how he’s managed to kill your two friends?”
Lily heard the skepticism in Jane’s voice, and she sighed.
“There’s no point in talking about this. You don’t believe
any of it.”
“Do you? I mean, really?”
“Twelve years ago, I didn’t,” said Lily softly. She
looked at Jane. “But I do now.”
Twelve years underwater, thought Jane. She stood shivering at the edge of the quarry as engines
rumbled and the cable groaned taut, tugging against the weight of the
long-submerged car. What happens to flesh that’s been steeped in water through
the algal blooms of twelve summers, through the freeze and thaw of twelve
winters? The other people standing beside her were grimly silent, no doubt
dreading, as she did, their first glimpse of Dominic Saul’s body. The
county medical examiner, Dr. Kibbie, lifted his
collar and pulled his scarf over his face, as though he wanted to disappear
into his coat, wanted to be anywhere else but here. In the trees above, a trio
of crows cawed, as though eager for a glimpse, a taste, of carrion. Let
there not be any flesh left, thought Jane. Clean bones she could deal with.
Skeletons were merely Halloween decorations, like clattering plastic. Not human
at all.
She glanced at Lily, who stood beside her. It must be even worse for
you. You knew him. You killed him. But Lily did not turn away; she remained
at Jane’s side, her gaze fixed on the quarry below.
The cable strained, lifting its burden from the black waters, where
chunks of fractured ice bobbed. Already a diver had been down to confirm the
car was there, but the water had been too murky, the swirling sediment too
thick to clearly view the interior. Now the water seemed to boil, and the
vehicle surfaced. The air in the tires had caused it to flip upside down when
it had fallen in, and the underside emerged first, water streaming off rusted
metal. Like a whale breaching, the rear bumper broke the surface, the license
plate obscured by a decade’s worth of algae and sediment. The
crane’s engine revved harder, the piercing whine of machinery drilling
straight into Jane’s skull. She felt Lily cringe against her and thought
that the young woman would now surely turn and retreat to Jane’s car. But
Lily managed to hold her ground as the crane swung its burden away from the
quarry and gently lowered it onto the snow.
A workman released the cable. Another rev of the engines, a nudge from
the crane, and the car rolled right side up. Water streamed from the vehicle,
staining the snow a dirty brown.
For a moment, no one approached it. They let it sit there, draining
water. Then Dr. Kibbie pulled on gloves and trudged
across the now-muddy snow to the driver’s door. He gave it a tug, but it
would not open. He circled to the passenger side and yanked on the handle. He
jumped back as the door swung open, releasing a sudden rush of water that
drenched his boots and trousers.
He glanced at the others, then focused again on the open door, which
continued to drip. He took a breath, steeling himself against the view, and
leaned inside the car. For a long moment he held that pose, his body bent at
the waist, his rump poking out of the vehicle. Abruptly he straightened and
turned to the others.
“There’s nothing in here,” he said.
“What?” asked Jane.
“It’s empty.”
“You don’t see any remains?”
Dr. Kibbie shook his head. “There’s
no body in this car.”
“The divers came up with nothing, Lily. No body, no skeleton. No
evidence at all that your cousin was ever in that water.”
They sat in Jane’s parked car as flakes of falling snow gently
settled on the windshield in an ever-thickening veil of lace.
“I didn’t dream it,” Lily said. “I know it
happened.” She looked at Jane with haunted eyes. “Why would I make
it up? Why would I confess to killing him if it wasn’t true?”
“We have confirmed it’s your mother’s car. The
registration hasn’t been renewed in twelve years. The keys are still in
the ignition.”
“I told you they would be. I told you exactly where you’d
find the car.”
“Yes, everything you said has checked out, except for that one
small detail. There’s no body.”
“It could have rotted away.”
“There should still be a skeleton. But there’s nothing. No
clothing, no bones.” Jane paused. “You know what that means.”
Lily swallowed and stared at the windshield, now blanketed in snow.
“He’s alive.”
“You haven’t been running from a ghost or an evil spirit.
He’s still living flesh and blood, and I’d guess he’s pretty
damn pissed at you for trying to kill him. That’s what this is all about,
Lily. Revenge. Twelve years ago, he was only a kid. But now he’s a man,
and he can finally get his payback. Last August, he lost your trail in
“The Mephisto Foundation,” Lily
murmured.
“If Mephisto’s as well regarded as Sansone claims, then its reputation has probably spread
beyond law enforcement. Clearly, Dominic’s heard about them, too. He
certainly knew how to entice them. That phone call to Joyce O’Donnell. The
Latin words, the seashell, the satanic symbols— it made Mephisto think they were finally tracking Satan. But I
think they were being played.”
“Dominic used them to find me.”
“And they did a good job, didn’t they? In just ten days, Mephisto found you.”
Lily thought about this for a moment. She said, “There’s no
body. You can’t charge me with any crime now. You can’t hold me any
longer.”
Jane stared into eyes glittering with fear and thought: She wants to
run.
“I’m free to go, right?”
“Free?” Jane laughed. “You call it freedom, to live
like a scared rabbit?”
“I’ve survived, haven’t I?”
“And when are you going to fight back? When are you going to take a
stand? This isn’t the Devil we’re talking about, this is a man. He
can be brought down.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one he’s
hunting!”
“No, but I’m hunting him, and I need your help. Work
with me, Lily. You know him better than anyone.”
“That’s why he can’t afford to let me live.”
“I promise, you’ll be safe.”
“You can’t keep that promise. You think he doesn’t
already know where I am? You don’t know how meticulous he is. He misses
no detail, no opportunity. He may be alive and breathing. But you’ll
never convince me he’s human.”
Jane’s cell phone rang, startling them both. As she answered the
call, she could feel Lily’s gaze, tense and questioning. She assumes
the worst.
It was Barry Frost on the phone. “Where are you right now?”
“We’re still in
“I think it’d be better if you don’t bring her back
here.”
“Why not?”
“Because we have a big problem. Oliver Stark is dead.”
“What?”
“Someone used Stark’s phone to call nine-one-one, then left
the receiver off the hook. That’s how we found out about it. I’m in
his house right now. Christ, it’s a bloody mess in here. He’s still
tied to his wheelchair, but you can’t even recognize him. The poor kid
never had a chance.” There was a silence as he waited for her to speak.
“Rizzoli?”
“We have to warn the others. Sansone and
Mrs. Felway.”
“I’ve already called them, and Dr. Isles as well. Mephisto also has members in
Jane thought of what Lily had just said. You’ll never convince
me he’s human. What precautions could anyone take against a killer
who seemed able to walk through walls?
She said, “He’s hunting them all down.”
“That’s what it looks like. This has grown way bigger than we
thought. It’s not just about Lily Saul. It’s about the whole
foundation.”
“Why the hell is he doing this? Why’s he going after all of
them?”
“You know what Sansone called it?”
said Frost. “An extermination. Maybe we’re wrong about Lily Saul.
Maybe she’s not the real target.”
“Either way, I can’t bring her back now.”
“Lieutenant Marquette thinks she’ll be safer outside
“Until then, what do I do with her?”
“Sansone suggested
“Whose house is it?”
“It belongs to a friend of Mrs. Felway’s.”
“And we’re going to trust Sansone’s
judgment on this?”
“
Then they know more about Sansone
than I do.
“Okay,” she said. “How do I find this house?”
“Mrs. Felway will call you with
directions.”
“What about Sansone and Maura? What are
they going to do?”
“They’re all heading to the same place. They’ll meet
you there.”
It was one in the afternoon when they crossed the
That may be exactly what she is.
“Are you going to stay with me tonight?” The question was so
soft, it was almost lost in the sweep of the wipers.
“I’m going to check out the situation,” said Jane.
“See what I think about it.”
“So you might not stay.”
“You won’t be alone up there.”
“I suppose you want to go home, don’t you?” Lily
sighed. “Do you have a husband?”
“Yeah, I’m married.”
“And kids?”
Jane hesitated. “I have a daughter.”
“You don’t want to tell me about yourself. You don’t
really trust me.”
“I don’t know you well enough.”
Lily looked out the window. “Everyone who really knew me is
dead” —she paused— “except Dominic.”
Outside, the falling snow was a thickening veil of white. They climbed
through a dense forest of pine, and for the first time Jane felt uneasy about
whether her Subaru could handle the road if this snowfall continued.
“Why should you trust me?” said Lily with a bitter laugh.
“I mean, all you know about me is that I tried to kill my cousin. And
screwed it up.”
“That message on Lori-Ann’s wall,” Jane said. “It
was meant for you, wasn’t it? I have sinned.”
“Because I have,” murmured Lily. “And I’ll never
stop paying for it.”
“And the four place settings on her dining table. That was meant to
represent the Saul family, wasn’t it? A family of four.”
Lily wiped a hand across her eyes and looked out the window. “And I’m
the last one. The fourth place setting.”
“You know what?” Jane said. “I would have killed the
son of a bitch, too.”
“You would have done a better job.”
The road grew steeper. The Subaru struggled up the mountain, tires
churning through ever-deepening fresh powder. Jane glanced at her cell phone
and saw zero bars. They had not passed a house in at least five miles. Maybe
we should turn around, she thought. I’m supposed to keep this
woman alive, not strand her in the mountains where she’ll freeze to death.
Was this the right road?
She squinted through the windshield, trying to see the top of the hill.
That’s when she spotted the lodge, perched like an eagle’s nest on
the cliff’s peak. There were no other homes nearby, and only this one
access road led up the mountain. At the top there would surely be a sweeping
view over the valley. They passed through a gate, left open to admit them.
Jane said, “This looks about as secure as you can get. Once that
gate’s locked, this place is unapproachable. Unless he has wings, he
can’t reach you up here.”
Lily stared up at the cliff. “And we can’t escape,” she
said softly.
Two vehicles were parked in front of the lodge. Jane pulled up behind Sansone’s Mercedes and they climbed out of the car.
Pausing in the driveway, Jane stared up at rough-hewn logs, at a peaked roof
soaring into the snow-swirled sky. She went around to the trunk for their bags
and had just slammed the trunk shut when she heard a growl right behind her.
The two Dobermans had emerged like black wraiths from the woods, moving
so silently that she hadn’t heard their approach. The dogs closed in with
teeth bared as both women froze in place.
“Don’t run,” Jane whispered to Lily. “Don’t
even move.” She drew her weapon.
“Balan! Bakou!
Back off!”
The dogs halted and looked at their mistress, who had just emerged from
the lodge and was standing on the porch.
“I’m so sorry if they scared you,” said Edwina Felway. “I had to let them out for a run.”
Jane did not holster her weapon. She didn’t trust these animals,
and clearly they didn’t trust her. They remained planted in front of her,
watching with eyes black as a snake’s.
“They’re very territorial, but they’re quick to figure
out who’s friend and who’s foe. You should be fine now. Just put
away the gun and walk toward me. But not too fast.”
Reluctantly, Jane holstered her weapon. She and Lily eased past the dogs
and climbed up to the porch, the Dobermans watching them every step of the way.
Edwina led them inside, into a cavernous great room that smelled of wood smoke.
Huge beams arched overhead, and on the walls of knotty pine hung the mounted
heads of moose and deer. In a stone fireplace, flames crackled at birch logs.
Maura rose from the couch to greet them.
“At last you made it,” Maura said. “With this storm
blowing in, we were beginning to worry.”
“The road coming up here was pretty bad,” said Jane.
“When did you get here?”
“We drove up last night, right after Frost called us.”
Jane crossed to a window that looked out across the valley. Through the
heavy curtain of falling snow, she caught glimpses of distant peaks.
“You’ve got plenty of food?” she asked. “Fuel?”
“There’s enough for weeks,” said Edwina. “My
friend keeps it well stocked. Right down to the wine cellar. We have plenty of
firewood. And a generator, if the power goes out.”
“And I’m armed,” said Sansone.
Jane had not heard him walk into the room. She turned and was startled to
see how grim he looked. The last twenty-four hours had transformed him. He and
his friends were now under siege, and it showed in his haggard face.
“I’m glad you’ll be staying with us,” he said.
“Actually” —Jane glanced at her watch— “I
think the situation looks pretty secure.”
“You’re not thinking of leaving tonight,” said Maura.
“I was hoping to.”
“It’ll be dark in an hour. The roads won’t be plowed
again till morning.”
Sansone
said, “You really should stay. The roads will be bad.”
Jane looked out, once again, at the falling snow. She thought about
skidding tires and lonely mountain roads. “I guess it makes sense,”
she said.
“So the gang’s all here for the night?” asked Edwina.
“Then I’ll go lock the gate.”
“We need to drink a toast,” said Edwina, “in memory of
Oliver.”
They were all sitting in the great room, gathered around the huge stone
fireplace. Sansone dropped a birch log into the
flames, and papery bark hissed and sparked. Outside, darkness had fallen. The
wind whined, windows rattled, and a sudden downdraft blew a puff of smoke from
the chimney into the room. Like Lucifer announcing his entrance, thought
Jane. The two Dobermans, who were lying beside Edwina’s chair, suddenly
lifted their heads as if scenting an intruder.
Lily rose from the couch and moved closer to the hearth. Despite the roaring
fire, the room was chilly, and she clutched a blanket around her shoulders as
she stared into the flames, their orange glow reflected in her face. They were
all trapped there, but Lily was the real prisoner. The one person around whom
the darkness swirled. All evening, Lily had said almost nothing. She had
scarcely touched her dinner, and did not reach for her glass of wine as
everyone else drank the toast.
“To Oliver,” Sansone murmured.
They raised the glasses in a sad and silent tribute. Jane took only a
sip. Craving a beer instead, she slid her glass to Maura.
Edwina said, “We need fresh blood, Anthony. I’ve been
thinking of candidates.”
“I can’t ask anyone to join us. Not now.” He looked at
Maura. “I’m just sorry you got pulled into this. You never wanted
to be part of it.”
“I know a man in
“This isn’t the time, Winnie.”
“Then when? This man worked with my husband years ago. He’s
an Egyptologist, and he can probably interpret anything that
Oliver—”
“No one can replace Oliver.”
Sansone’s curt response seemed to take Edwina aback. “Of course not,”
she finally said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“He was your student at
Sansone nodded.
“He was only sixteen, the youngest freshman on campus. I knew he was
gifted from the first day he wheeled into my class. He asked more questions
than anyone else. The fact he was a math major turned out to be one of the
reasons he was so good at what he did. He’d take a look at some obscure
ancient code and immediately see the patterns.” Sansone
set down his wineglass. “I’ve never known anyone like him. From the
moment you met him, you just knew he was brilliant.”
“Unlike the rest of us,” said Edwina with a wry laugh.
“I’m one of the unbrilliant members who
had to be recommended by someone first.” She looked at Maura. “I
guess you know that you were Joyce O’Donnell’s suggestion?”
“Maura has mixed feelings about that,” said Sansone.
“You didn’t like Joyce very much, did you?”
Maura finished off Jane’s wine. “I prefer not to speak ill of
the dead.”
“I don’t mind being up front about it,” said Jane.
“Any club that would have Joyce O’Donnell as a member isn’t
one that I’d want to join.”
“I don’t think you’d join us anyway,” said Edwina
as she opened a new bottle, “since you don’t believe.”
“In Satan?” Jane laughed. “No such guy.”
“You can say that even after all the horrors you’ve seen in
your job, Detective?” said Sansone.
“Committed by regular old human beings. And no, I don’t
believe in satanic possession, either.”
Sansone
leaned toward her, his face catching the glow of the flames. “Are you
familiar with the case of the Teacup Poisoner?”
“No.”
“He was an English boy named Graham Young. At fourteen, he began to
poison members of his own family. His mother, father, sister. He finally went
to jail for the murder of his mother. After he was released years later, he
went right back to poisoning people. When they asked him why, he said it was
all for fun. And fame. He was not a regular human being.”
“More like a sociopath,” said Jane.
“That’s a nice, comforting word to use. Just give it a
psychiatric diagnosis, and it explains the unexplainable. But there are some
acts so terrible you can’t explain them. You can’t even conceive of
them.” He paused. “Graham Young inspired another young killer. A
sixteen-year-old Japanese girl, whom I interviewed last year. She’d read
Graham Young’s published diary and was so inspired by his crimes, she decided
to emulate him. First she killed animals. Cut them up and played with their
body parts. She kept an electronic log, describing in meticulous detail what it
was like to plunge a knife into living flesh. The warmth of the blood, the
shudder of the dying creature. Then she advanced to killing humans. She
poisoned her mother with thallium and recorded in her diary every painful
symptom her mother suffered.” He leaned back, but his gaze was still on
Jane. “You’d call her merely a sociopath?”
“And you’d call her a demon?”
“There’s no other word for what she is. Or for what a man
like Dominic Saul is. We know they exist.” He turned and stared into the
fire. “The problem is,” he said quietly, “they seem to know we
exist, too.”
“Have you ever heard of The Book of Enoch, Detective?”
asked Edwina, refilling wineglasses.
“You’ve mentioned it before.”
“It was found among the Dead Sea Scrolls. It’s an ancient
text, pre-Christian. Part of the apocryphal literature. It foresees the
destruction of the world. It tells us that the earth is plagued by another race
called the Watchers, who first taught us to make swords and knives and shields.
They gave us the instruments of our own destruction. Even in ancient times,
people clearly knew about these creatures and recognized that they were different
from us.”
“The sons of Seth,” said Lily softly. “The descendants
of Adam’s third son.”
Edwina looked at her. “You know about them?”
“I know they have many names.”
“I never heard that Adam had a third son,” said Jane.
“He actually appears in Genesis, but the Bible conveniently glosses
over so many things,” said Edwina. “There’s so much history
that’s been censored and suppressed. Only now, nearly two thousand years
later, are we able to read the Gospel of Judas.”
“And these descendants of Seth— these are the
Watchers?”
“They’ve been called so many different names through the
centuries. The Elohim, the Nephilim.
In
“Where?”
“The
The flames seemed to blur before Jane’s tired eyes. And just for a
moment she imagined a sea of fire, consuming everything. So this is the
world you people inhabit, she thought. A world I don’t recognize.
She looked at Maura. “Please don’t tell me you believe this,
Doc.”
But Maura simply finished her glass of wine and stood up.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “I’m going to
bed.”
Someone was
tapping at the edge of Lily’s consciousness, asking to be admitted into
the secret landscape of her dreams. She came awake in darkness and felt a
moment’s panic when nothing seemed familiar. Then she saw the glow of
moonlight and remembered where she was. Through the window, she gazed out at
startlingly bright snow. The storm had blown past, and the moon now shone down
on a pure white world, silent and magical. For the first time in months, she
felt safe. I’m not alone anymore, she thought. I’m with
people who understand my fears, people who’ll protect me.
She heard a click-click
move past the room and fade away down the hallway. It was just one of the
Dobermans, she thought. Bakou and Balan.
What hideous names. She lay in bed, listening for the claws to tap their way
past the door again, but the dog did not return.
Good. Because
she needed to use the bathroom and didn’t want to face either one of
those animals in the hallway.
She climbed out
of bed and crossed to the door. Poking her head into the hallway, she looked
around for the dogs but saw no sign of them, heard no tapping of claws. Light
glowed faintly from the stairway, enough to help her navigate up the hall to
the bathroom. Just as she reached the threshold, her bare foot touched
something wet. She looked down, saw the faint gleam of a puddle, and pulled her
foot back in disgust. The dogs, of course. What other accidents had they left
on the floor? She didn’t want to step in anything worse.
She felt for
the wall switch, flipped it on, and scanned the floor. She saw more puddles,
but realized that these had not been left by dogs; they were melted snow, in
the form of shoe prints. Someone had been walking outside and had tracked snow
into the house. Her gaze lifted to the mirror, where she stared into her own
pinched and sleepy eyes. And she saw something else, something that lifted
every hair on the back of her neck, a reflection of what had been drawn in red
on the wall behind her.
Three
upside-down crosses.
Gasping, she stumbled
backward and fled from the bathroom. Panic sent her tearing down the hall, bare
feet skidding across the wet floor as she sprinted toward the nearest door. It
was Maura’s bedroom.
“Wake
up!” she whispered. “You have to wake up!” She shook the sleeping
woman so hard that the headboard rattled, the springs protested. Maura merely
sighed, but did not stir.
What’s
wrong with you? Why can’t I wake you?
Something
creaked in the hallway. Lily’s head snapped around toward the door. She
felt her heart thudding hard enough to crack ribs as she crossed back to the
doorway. There she stood listening, trying to hear through the banging of her
own heart.
Nothing.
She eased her
head around the doorjamb and peered into the hall. It was empty.
Wake the
others. They have to know he’s in the house!
She slipped
into the hall and scurried barefoot toward the room she thought must be
Jane’s. She reached for the knob and gave a soft sob of frustration when
she found it was locked. Should I pound on the door to wake her? Do I dare
make any noise? Then she heard the whine of a dog, the faint tapping of
claws moving across the great room downstairs. She eased toward the stairway.
Gazing over the banister, she almost laughed in relief.
Downstairs, a
fire was burning in the hearth. Seated on the couch, facing the flames, was
Edwina Felway.
As Lily
scurried down the steps, the two Dobermans glanced up, and one of them gave a
warning growl. Lily froze at the bottom of the stairs.
“There,
there, Balan,” said Edwina. “What’s
got you upset now?”
“Edwina!”
Lily whispered.
Edwina turned
to look at her. “Oh. You’re awake. I was just about to add some
more logs.”
Lily glanced at
the fire, which was already roaring, the flames leaping, consuming a
precariously tall pile of wood. “Listen to me,” whispered Lily,
moving a step forward, halting again as one of the dogs rose to its feet, fangs
bared. “He’s inside the house! We have to wake everyone!”
Edwina calmly
picked up two logs and tossed them onto the already raging fire, stoking the
inferno. “I noticed that you hardly touched your wine tonight,
Lily.”
“Dominic’s
here!”
“You
could have slept through the whole thing, along with everyone else. But this
works out so much better. Having you awake.”
“What?”
The dog gave
another growl, and Lily stared down at teeth gleaming orange in the
flame’s glow. The dogs, she thought suddenly. They hadn’t
barked, not once tonight. An intruder had slipped into the house. He’d
tracked wet shoe prints across the floor. And the dogs gave no warning.
Because they know
him.
As Edwina
turned to face her, Lily darted forward and snatched the poker from the hearth.
“You led him here,” she said as she backed away, poker brandished
in defense. “You told him.”
“Oh, I
didn’t have to. He was already here on the mountain, waiting for
us.”
“Where is
he?”
“Dominic
will come out in his own good time.”
“Goddamn
you,” Lily cried as her grip tightened around the poker. “Where
is he hiding?”
She saw the
attack too late. She heard the growl, the clatter of claws across wood, and she
glanced sideways as twin streaks of black flew at her. The impact sent her
crashing to the floor and the poker fell from her hands with a loud thud. Jaws
closed around her arm. She screamed as teeth ripped into flesh.
“Balan! Bakou! Release.”
It was not Edwina’s
voice that issued the command, but another: the voice of Lily’s
nightmares. The dogs released her and backed away, leaving her stunned and
bleeding. She tried to push herself up, but her left hand was floppy and
useless, the tendons torn by powerful jaws. With a groan, she rolled onto her
side and saw her own blood pooling on the floor. And beyond that pool of blood,
she saw the shoes of a man walking toward her. Her breathing now coming in
sobs, she pushed herself up to a sitting position. He halted by the fireplace
and stood backlit by the flames, like a dark figure emerging from the inferno.
He gazed down at her.
“Somehow,
you always manage to do it, Lily,” he said. “You’re always
the one causing me trouble.”
She scrabbled
backward in retreat, but her shoulders bumped up against a chair and she could
move no farther. Frozen in place, she stared up at Dominic, at the man he had
become. He still had the same golden hair, the same striking blue eyes. But he
had grown taller, his shoulders broader, and the once-angelic face had acquired
sharp, cruel angles.
“Twelve
years ago,” he said, “you killed me. Now I’m going to return
the favor.”
“You have
to watch her,” said Edwina. “She’s quick.”
“Didn’t
I tell you that, Mother?”
Lily’s
gaze snapped to Edwina, then back to Dominic. The same height. The same
eyes.
Dominic saw her
look of shock and said, “Who else would a fifteen-year-old boy turn to
when he’s in trouble? When he’s climbed out of a flooded car with
nothing but the clothes on his back? I had to stay dead and out of sight, or
you would have turned the police on me. You took away all my options, Lily.
Except one.”
His mother.
“It was
months before my letter reached her. Didn’t I always say she’d come
for me? And your parents never believed it.”
Edwina reached
out to caress her son’s face. “But you knew I would.
He smiled.
“You always keep your promises.”
“I kept
this one, too, didn’t I? I delivered her. You just needed to be patient
and finish your training.”
Lily stared at
Edwina. “But you’re with the Mephisto
Foundation.”
“And I
knew how to use them,” said Edwina. “I knew just how to entice them
into the game. You think this is all about you, Lily, but it’s really
about them. About the damage they’ve done to us over the years.
We’re going to bring them down.” She looked at the fire.
“We’ll need more wood. I’ll go out and get some.”
“I
don’t think it’s necessary,” said Dominic. “This
building’s as dry as a tinderbox. All it takes is a spark to set it
off.”
Lily shook her
head. “You’re killing them all…”
“That’s
always been the idea,” said Edwina. “They’ll sleep right
through it.”
“Not
nearly as much fun as killing Joyce O’Donnell,” said Dominic.
“But at least you’re awake to enjoy it, Lily.” He picked up
the poker and shoved the tip deep into the flames. “Convenient thing
about fire. How completely it consumes flesh, leaving nothing but charred bone.
No one will ever know what your death was really like, because they’ll
never see the cuts. The sear marks. They’ll think you simply perished
like the others, in your sleep. An unlucky accident, which only my mother will
manage to survive. They’ll never know that you screamed for hours before
you died.” He pulled the poker from the fire.
Lily stumbled
to her feet, blood streaming down her hand. She lunged toward the door, but
before she could reach it, the two Dobermans darted in front of her. She froze,
staring at their bared teeth.
Hands closed
around her arms as Edwina dragged Lily backward, toward the fireplace.
Shrieking, Lily whirled around and flailed out blindly. She felt the
satisfaction of her fist thudding into Edwina’s cheek.
It was the dogs
that again brought her down, both of them hurling themselves at her back,
sending her sprawling.
“Release!”
Dominic ordered.
The dogs backed
off. Edwina, clutching her bruised face, aimed a punishing kick at Lily’s
ribs, and Lily rolled away, in too much agony even to draw a breath. Through a
haze of pain, she saw Dominic’s shoes move closer. She felt Edwina grasp
her wrists and pin them against the floor. She looked up, into Dominic’s
face, into eyes that reflected the fire’s glow like burning coals.
“Welcome
to Hell,” he said. In his hand was the hot poker.
Lily twisted,
screaming, as she tried to wrench free, but Edwina’s grasp was too
powerful. As Dominic lowered the poker, she turned away, cheek pressed to the
floor, eyes closed against the pain to come.
The explosion
sprayed warmth across her face. She heard Edwina give a gasp, heard the poker
thud to the floor. And suddenly Lily’s hands were free.
She opened her
eyes to see the two Dobermans sprinting across the room toward Jane Rizzoli.
Jane raised her weapon and fired again. One of the dogs dropped, but the other
was already in the air, flying like a black rocket. Jane got off one last shot,
just as the dog slammed into her. Her gun tumbled and slid away as they both
went down, Jane grappling at the wounded Doberman.
“No,”
Edwina moaned. She was on her knees beside her fallen son, cradling his face,
stroking back his hair. “You can’t die! You’re the chosen.”
Lily struggled
to sit up, and the room tilted around her. By the glow of the ravenous flames,
she saw Edwina rise like an avenging angel to her feet. She saw the woman reach
down and pick up Jane’s fallen gun.
The room spun
even more crazily as Lily staggered to her feet. The whirl of images refused to
remain still. The flames. Edwina. The spreading pool of Dominic’s blood,
glistening in the firelight.
And the poker.
The dog gave a
last convulsive twitch and Jane shoved it aside. The carcass, tongue lolling,
flopped onto the floor. Only then did Jane focus on Edwina standing over her,
on the weapon gleaming in Edwina’s hands.
“It all
ends here. Tonight,” said Edwina. “You. And Mephisto.”
Edwina raised the gun, the muscles of her arm pulling taut as she squeezed the
grip. Her attention was fixed so completely on Jane that she did not see her
own death hurtling toward her head.
The poker
slammed into Edwina’s skull, and Lily felt the crack of crushing bone,
transmitted straight to her hand through wrought iron. Edwina dropped to the
floor without uttering a sound. Lily lost her grip, and the falling poker
clanged as it hit wood. She stared down at what she had just done. At
Edwina’s head, the skull caved in. At the blood, flowing like a black river.
And suddenly the room darkened, and her legs wobbled out from beneath her. She
slid to the floor, landing on her rump. She dropped her head in her lap and
could feel nothing: no pain, no sensation at all in her limbs. She was floating
disembodied on the edge of blackness.
“Lily.”
Jane touched her shoulder. “Lily, you’re bleeding. Let me see your
arm.”
She gasped in a
breath. The room brightened. Slowly she raised her head and focused on
Jane’s face. “I killed her,” she murmured.
“Just
don’t look at her, okay? Come on, let’s move you to the
couch.” Jane reached down to help Lily to her feet. She froze, her
fingers suddenly taut around Lily’s arm.
Lily heard the
whispers, too, and her blood turned to ice in her veins. She stared at Dominic
and saw that his eyes were open and aware. His lips moved, the words so soft
she could barely hear what he was saying.
“Not…
not…”
Jane bent over
him to listen. Lily did not dare move any closer, fearful that Dominic would
suddenly spring up at her, like a cobra. They could kill him again and again,
but he’d always come back. He’d never die.
Evil never
does.
The fire glowed
in the reflecting pool of spreading blood, as though the flames themselves were
seeping across the floor, an expanding inferno with Dominic at its source.
Again his lips
moved. “We’re not…”
“Say
it,” said Jane. “Tell me.”
“We are
not… the only… ones.”
“What?”
Jane knelt down, grabbed Dominic by the shoulders, and shook him hard.
“Who else is there?”
A last breath
rushed out of Dominic’s lungs. Slowly his jaw sagged open, and the lines
of his face smoothed like melting wax. Jane released the body and straightened.
Then she looked at Lily. “What did he mean by that?”
Lily stared at
Dominic’s unfocused eyes, at a face now slack and lifeless. “He
just told us,” she said, “that it’s not over yet.”
A snowplow
scraped its way up the mountain road, the rumble of its engine echoing up from
the valley. Standing on the lodge’s snow-covered deck, Jane looked down
over the railing to catch a view of the road below. She watched the
plow’s steady progress as it wound its way toward them, scraping a path
through fresh-fallen powder. Inhaling a breath of cold and cleansing air, she
lifted her face to the sun, trying to clear the last wisps of fog from her brain.
Once the road was clear, a whole host of official vehicles would be arriving on
the mountain: the state police, the medical examiner, the crime-scene unit. She
had to be fully alert and ready for their questions.
Even though she
didn’t have all the answers.
She stomped the
snow off her boots, slid open the glass door, and stepped back into the lodge.
The other
survivors were seated around the kitchen table. Although it was warmer in the
great room where the fire was burning, none of them wanted to move from the
kitchen. None of them wanted to be in the same room with the corpses.
Maura finished rebandaging Lily’s arm. “There’s damage
to your flexor tendons. I think you’re going to need surgery. At the very
least, antibiotics.” She looked at Jane. “When the road’s
clear, the first thing we need to do is get her to a hospital.”
“It
won’t be too much longer,” said Jane. “The plow’s
halfway up the mountain.” She sat down and looked at Lily. “You
realize the police will have questions for you. A lot of them.”
Maura said,
“It can wait until after she gets medical attention.”
“Yes, of
course. But Lily, you know you’re going to get asked about what happened
here last night.”
“Can’t
you back up everything she says?” said Maura.
“I
didn’t see it all,” said Jane. “I slept through half of
it.”
“Thank
God you didn’t finish your wine. Or we’d all be ashes today.”
“I blame
myself,” said Sansone. “I shouldn’t
have fallen asleep at all. That was my mistake, letting Edwina pour me a
glass.”
Jane frowned at
Sansone. “You were planning to stay up all
night?”
“I
thought someone should be awake. Just in case.”
“Then you
already suspected Edwina?”
“No,
I’m embarrassed to admit. You have to understand how careful we are when
we bring in a new member. They come to us only through referrals, from people
we know. And then we make inquiries, background checks. Edwina wasn’t the
one I had doubts about.” He looked at Lily. “You were the one I
didn’t trust.”
“Why
Lily?” asked Jane.
“That
night, when my garden window was forced open, you remember I told you that we
always keep it locked?”
“Yes.”
“Which
means that someone unlatched it from the inside, someone who was in my house
that night. I assumed it was Lily.”
“I still
don’t understand,” said Maura. “If you’re that careful
about who joins the foundation, how could you be so wrong about Edwina?”
“That’s
what Gottfried and I have to find out. How she infiltrated. How it was planned
and executed. She didn’t just show up one day on our doorstep; she had
assistance, from someone within Mephisto, someone who
scrubbed away anything suspicious in her background check.”
“It’s
the last thing Dominic told us,” said Lily. “We’re not the
only ones.”
“I’m
sure there are more.” Sansone looked at Jane.
“Whether you realize it or not, Detective, we’re engaged in a war.
It’s been going on for centuries, and last night was just one of the
battles. The worst is coming.”
Jane gave a
shake of the head, a tired laugh. “I see we’re talking about those
demons again.”
“I
believe in them,” Lily declared, her jaw squared in certainty. “I
know they’re real.”
They heard the
scrape of the snowplow over pavement, the approaching rumble of a truck engine.
At last the road was clear and they could leave this mountain; they could
return to their lives. Maura, back to the arms of Daniel Brophy,
who could bring her either heartbreak or hope. Jane, back to the job of
peacemaker between her battling mother and father.
And I’m
going home to Gabriel. He’s waiting for me.
Jane rose and
crossed to the window. Outside, sunshine sparkled on perfect snow. The skies
were cloudless, and by now the road home would be plowed and sanded. It was a
beautiful day to drive home. To hug her husband and kiss her baby. I
can’t wait to see you both.
“You
still don’t believe me, do you, Detective?” said Sansone. “You don’t believe there’s a war
going on.”
Jane looked up
at the sky and she smiled. “Today,” she said, “I choose not
to.”
Dark clouds hung
low, and Lily could smell the tang of impending snow in the air as she stared
up at the house where she had grown up. She did not see it as it was today, a
derelict shell, the porch sagging, the clapboards weathered to gray. No, she
saw it as it once was in summertime, with clematis flowering on the lattice and
pots of red geraniums hanging from the eaves. She saw her brother Teddy come
out of the house, heard the squeal and the slap of the screen door swinging
shut behind him as he ran grinning down the porch steps. She saw her mother in
the window, waving, as she called out, “Teddy, don’t be late for
dinner!” And she saw her father, sunburned and whistling as he carried
his hoe across the yard toward his beloved vegetable plot. She’d been
happy here once. Those were the days she wanted to remember, the days
she’d hold on to.
Everything
else, everything that has happened since, I will consign to the ashes.
“Are you
sure about this, Ms. Saul?” said the fire chief.
His crew stood
fully garbed in firefighting gear, waiting for the order. Farther down the
hill, a small crowd from town had gathered to watch. But it was Anthony Sansone and Gottfried Baum whom she focused on. She trusted
them, and now they stood with her, to witness the exorcism of her demons.
She turned back
to the house. The furniture had been removed and donated to local charities.
Except for the straw bales that the firemen had stacked inside an upstairs
bedroom, what stood there now was merely an empty husk.
“Ms.
Saul?” said the fire chief.
“Burn
it,” she said.
He gave the
signal, and his crew moved in with their hoses and their cans of kerosene mixed
with diesel fuel. Not often was a house this substantial offered up in
sacrifice for a training burn, and the men went at the task with gusto, eager
to touch off the fire. For practice, they would douse it, then reset it again
and again, until it was time to let the flames triumph.
As black smoke
spiraled into the sky, Lily backed away, to stand between the two men whom she
had come to regard as mentors, even fathers. Sansone
and Baum said nothing, but Lily heard Baum’s sharp intake of breath when
the first flames appeared in an upstairs window, and she felt Sansone place a steadying hand on her shoulder. She needed
no support; she stood with her back straight, her gaze fixed on the fire.
Inside, the flames would be consuming floorboards still stained with the blood
of Peter Saul, and licking up walls that had been defiled by unholy crosses.
Such places should not be allowed to survive. Such evil can never be cleansed;
it can only be destroyed.
Now the firemen
retreated from the house to watch the final conflagration. Flames crackled
across the roof and melting snow hissed into steam. Orange claws reached
through windows and scrabbled up tinder-dry clapboards. Heat drove the firemen
backward as the flames fed and grew, like a beast roaring its victory.
Lily gazed into
the heart of that fire, now consuming the last remnants of her childhood, and
she saw, framed in the glow, a single moment in time. A summer’s evening.
Her mother and father and Teddy standing on the porch, watching her scamper
about on the grass, waving a net. And fireflies— so many fireflies, like
a constellation of stars winking in the night. “Look, your sister’s
caught another one!” her mother says, and Teddy laughs, holding up a jar
to receive the prize. They smile at her, from across the years, from a place
that no flames could ever touch, because it was safe within her own heart.
Now the roof
collapsed, and sparks flew into the sky, and Lily heard the gasps of people
caught up in the primal thrill of a winter’s fire. As the flames slowly
died, the spectators from town began to drift down the hill, back to their
cars, the excitement of their day now over. Lily and her two friends remained,
watching as the last flames were extinguished and smoke curled from blackened
ash. After this rubble was cleared, she would plant trees here. Flowering
cherries and crab apples. But there must never be another house on this
hill.
Something cold
kissed her nose and she looked up to see fat flakes fluttering from the sky. It
was a final blessing of snow, sacred and purifying.
“Are you
ready to go, Lily?” Baum asked.
“Yes.”
She smiled. “I’m ready.” Then she turned to follow them, and
the three demon hunters walked together down the hill.
As an anthropology major at
A few years ago, while browsing a bookstore in
But it was not, in fact, lost. Hidden in various secret places, The
Book of Enoch had survived. In the 1700s, intact copies of the text,
translated from Greek, were discovered in
Within the pages of this long-lost text lies a mystery that continues to
puzzle scholars. It is the story of The Watchers, fallen angels who had sexual
congress with women, producing an unholy race that would forever plague
mankind:
Evil spirits have proceeded from their bodies;
because they are born from men and from the holy Watchers is their beginning
and primal origin; they shall be evil spirits on earth, and evil spirits shall
they be called.
These mixed-race creatures, also known as Nephilim,
appear in yet another ancient text, The Book of Jubilees. Here, also,
they are described as evil and malignant. According to Jubilees, most Nephilim were destroyed during Noah’s time, but God
allowed one tenth of their number to survive as subjects of Satan. Through
their line, evil would continue to afflict the earth.
Angels and women mating to produce hybrid monsters? This is a fantastical
tale indeed, and some biblical scholars suggest quite reasonably that these matings were, in truth, simply forbidden marriages between
different tribes. That the “angels” were men from the lofty line of
Seth, and the women came from a much lowlier tribe, descended from Cain.
Still, as a novelist, I could not help thinking: What if the tale of The
Watchers was not merely allegory but history? What if Nephilim
were real, and their descendants are still among us, still wreaking havoc?
Throughout the history of mankind, certain people have committed acts of
such appalling cruelty that one wonders if they are truly members of the human
race, or if they are a violent subspecies, driven by different needs and
instincts. If one believes what was written in Enoch and Jubilees,
then the acts of real monsters such as mass slaughterers Pol
Pot and Vlad the Impaler
can be explained. Nephilim have simply co-existed
alongside us, invisible predators among the prey. And when the opportunity
arises, when society breaks down during wartime or civil chaos, when the force
of laws cannot keep us safe, those predators come out to play.
Only then do we discover who they really are.
Evil has no easy explanation. Today, more than two thousand years after The
Book of Enoch was written, we are no closer to understanding why evil
exists. All we know is that it does.
TESS
GERRITSEN left a successful practice as an internist to raise her children and
concentrate on her writing. She gained nationwide acclaim for her first novel
of medical suspense, the New York Times bestseller Harvest. She
is also the author of the bestsellers Life Support, Bloodstream, and Gravity,
as well as The Surgeon, The Apprentice, The Sinner, Body Double, and Vanish.
Tess Gerritsen lives in Maine. Visit her website at www.tessgerritsen.com.
END OF THE MEPHISTO CLUB