BODY
double


A Novel

TESS GERRITSEN
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright � 2004 by Tess Gerritsen

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions.
Published in the United States of America by Random House
Large Print in association with Ballantine Books, New York, and
simultaneously in Canada by
Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Distributed by Random House, Inc., New York.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Gerritsen, Tess.
Body double/Tess Gerritsen.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-375-43374-0
1. Medical examiners (Law)--Fiction. 2. Sisters--Crimes
against--Fiction. 3. Forensic pathologists--Fiction. 4. Women
physicians--Fiction. 5. Women murderers--Fiction. 6. Boston
(Mass.)--Fiction. 7. Adoptees--Fiction. 8. Twins--Fiction.
9. Large type books. I. Title.

PS3557.E687B632004
813'.54--dc22
2004049807
www. randomlargeprint.com
FIRST LARGE PRINT EDITION
10 987654321

This Large Print edition published in accord with the standards of the N.A.V.H.
To Adam and Danielle
acknowledgments


Writing is lonely work, but no writer truly
labors alone. I'm lucky to have had the help
and support of Linda Marrow and Gina Cenrello
at Ballantine Books, Meg Ruley, Jane
Berkey, Don Cleary and the superb team at
the Jane Rotrosen Agency, Selina Walker at
Transworld, and--most important of all--my
husband Jacob. Warmest thanks to you all!
body double
prologue

that boy was watching her again.
Fourteen-year-old Alice Rose tried to focus
on the ten exam questions on her desk, but her
mind was not on freshman English; it was on
Elijah. She could feel the boy's gaze, like a beam aimed at her face, could feel its heat on
her cheek, and knew she was blushing.
Concentrate, Alice!
The next question on the test was smudged
from the mimeograph machine, and she had
to squint to make out the words.
Charles Dickens often chooses names that
match his characters' traits. Give some examples
and describe why the names fit those
particular characters.

Alice chewed her pencil, trying to dredge
up an answer. But she couldn't think while he
was sitting at the next desk, so close that she
could inhale his scent of pine soap and wood
smoke. Manly smells. Dickens, Dickens, who
cared about Charles Dickens and Nicholas
Nickleby and boring freshman English when
gorgeous Elijah Lank was looking at her? Oh
my, he was so handsome, with his black hair
and blue eyes. Tony Curtis eyes. The very first
time she'd ever seen Elijah, that's what she'd
thought: that he looked exactly like Tony Curtis,
whose beautiful face beamed from the
pages of her favorite magazines, Modern
Screen and Photoplay.

She bent her head forward, and as her hair
fell across her face, she cast a furtive glance
sideways through the curtain of blond strands.
Felt her heart leap when she confirmed that he
was, indeed, looking at her, and not in that
disdainful way that all the other boys in school
did, those mean boys who made her feel slow
and dim-witted. Whose ridiculing whispers
were always just out of earshot, too soft for her
to make out their words. She knew the whispers
were about her, because they were always
looking at her as they did it. Those were the
same boys who'd taped the photo of a cow to
her locker, who mooed if she accidentally
brushed against them in the hallway. But
Elijah--he was looking at her in a different
way altogether. With smoldering eyes. Movie
star eyes.
Slowly she raised her head and stared back,
not through a protective veil of hair this time,
but with frank acknowledgment of his gaze.
His test paper was already completed and
turned facedown, his pencil put away in his
desk. His full attention was focused on her,
and she could scarcely breathe under the spell
of his gaze.
He likes me. I know it. He likes me.
Her hand lifted to her throat, to the top button
of her blouse. Her fingers brushed across
her skin, leaving a trail of heat. She thought of
Tony Curtis's molten gaze on Lana Turner, a
look that could make a girl go tongue-tied and
wobble-kneed. The look that came just before
the inevitable kiss. That's when the movies always
went out of focus. Why did that have to
happen? Why did it always go fuzzy, just at the
moment when you most wanted to see ...
"Time's up, class! Please turn in your test
papers."
Alice's attention snapped back to her desk,
to the mimeographed test paper, half the ques-tions still unanswered. Oh, no. Where had the
time gone? She knew these answers. She just
needed a few more minutes . . .
"Alice. Alice!"
She looked up and saw Mrs. Meriweather's
hand held out.
"Didn't you hear me? Time to turn in your
test."
"But I-
"No
excuses. You've got to start listening,
Alice." Mrs. Meriweather snatched up Alice's
exam and moved on down the aisle. Though
Alice could barely hear their murmurs, she
knew the girls right behind her were gossiping
about her. She turned and saw their heads bent
together, their hands shielding their mouths,
muffling giggles. Alice can read lips, so don't
let her see we're talking about her.
Now some of the boys were laughing, too,
pointing at her. What was so funny?
Alice glanced down. To her horror she saw
that the top button had fallen off her blouse,
which was now gaping open.
The school bell rang, announcing dismissal.
Alice snatched up her book bag and hugged
it to her chest as she fled the classroom. She
didn't dare look anyone in the eye, just kept
walking, head down, tears building in her
throat. She dashed into the restroom and
locked herself in a stall. As other girls came in
and stood laughing, primping in front of the
mirrors, Alice hid behind the latched door.
She could smell all their different perfumes,
could feel the whoosh of air each time the
door swung open. Those golden girls, with
their brand-new sweater sets. They never lost
buttons; they never came to school wearing
hand-me-down skirts and shoes with cardboard
soles.
Go away. Everyone please just go away.
The door finally stopped whooshing open.
Pressed up against the stall door, Alice
strained to hear if anyone was still in the room.
Peeking out through the crack, she saw no one
standing in front of the mirror. Only then did
she creep out of the bathroom.
The hallway was deserted as well, everyone
gone for the day. There was no one to torment
her. She walked, shoulders hunched self-protectively,
down the long corridor with its battered
lockers and wall posters announcing the
Halloween dance in two weeks. A dance she
would certainly not be going to. The humiliation
of last week's dance still stung, and would
probably always sting. The two hours of standing
alone against the wall, waiting, hoping a
boy would ask her onto the floor. When a boy
had at last approached her, it was not to dance.
Instead he'd suddenly doubled over and thrown
up on her shoes. No more dances for her. She'd
been in this town only two months, and already
she wished her mother would pack them
up and move them again, take them someplace
where they could start over. Where things
would finally be different.
Only, they never are.
She walked out the school's front entrance,
into the autumn sunshine. Bending over her
bicycle, she was so intent on opening the lock
that she didn't hear the footsteps. Only as his
shadow fell across her face did she realize Elijah
was standing beside her.
"Hello, Alice."
She jerked to her feet, sending her bike
crashing onto its side. Oh god, she was an
idiot. How could she be so clumsy?
"That was a hard exam, wasn't it?" He spoke
slowly, distinctly. That was one more thing she
liked about Elijah; unlike the other kids, his
voice was always clear, never muddled. And he
always let her see his lips. He knows my secret,
she thought. Yet he still wants to be my friend.
"So did you finish all the questions?" he
asked.
She bent down to pick up her bike. "I
knew the answers. I just needed more time."
As she straightened, she saw that his gaze
had dropped to her blouse. To the gap left
by the missing button. Flushing, she crossed
her arms.
"I've got a safety pin," he said.
"What?"
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a
pin. "I'm always losing buttons myself. It's
kind of embarrassing. Here, let me fasten it
for you."
She held her breath as he reached for her
blouse. She could barely suppress her trembling
as he slipped his finger beneath the fabric
to close the pin. Does he feel my heart pounding?
she wondered. Does he know I'm dizzy
from his touch?
When he stepped back, her breath flew out.
She looked down and saw that the gap was
now modestly pinned shut.
"Better?" he asked.
"Oh. Yes!" She paused to compose herself.
Said, with queenly dignity: "Thank you, Elijah.
That's very thoughtful of you."
A moment passed. Crows cawed, and the
autumn leaves were like bright flames engulfing
the branches above.
"You think you could help me with something,
Alice?" he asked.
"With what?"
Oh, stupid, stupid answer. You should just
have said yes! Yes, I'll do anything for you,
Elijah Lank.
"I've got this project I'm doing for biology. I
need a partner to help me with it, and I don't
know who else to ask."
"What kind of project is it?"
"I'll show you. We've got to go up by my
house."
His house. She'd never been to a boy's house.
She nodded. "Let me drop my books off at
home."
He pulled his bike from the rack. It was almost
as battered as hers, the fenders going
rusty, the vinyl peeling off the seat. That old
bike made her like him even more. We're a real
pair, she thought. Tony Curtis and me.
They rode to her house first. She didn't invite
him in; she was too embarrassed to let him
see the shabby furniture, the paint peeling off
the walls. She just ran inside, dumped her book
bag on the kitchen table, and ran out.
Unfortunately, her brother's dog, Buddy,
did as well. Just as she came out the front door,
he scampered out in a blur of black and white.
"Buddy!" she yelled. "You come back here!"
"He doesn't listen very well, does he?" said
Elijah.
"Because he's a stupid dog. Buddy!"
The mutt glanced back, tail wagging, then
trotted off down the road.
"Oh, never mind," she said. "He'll come
home when he's ready." She climbed onto her
bike. "So where do you live?"
"Up on Skyline Road. You ever been up
there?"
No.
"It's kind of a long ride up the hill. Think
you can make it?"
She nodded. I can do anything for you.
They pedaled away from her house. She
hoped that he'd turn onto Main Street, past
the malt shop where the kids always hung out
after school playing the jukebox and sipping
their sodas. They'll see us go riding by together,
she thought, and wouldn't that set the
girls' tongues wagging? There goes Alice and
Elijah with the blue eyes.
But he didn't lead her down Main Street. Instead,
he turned up Locust Lane, where there
were hardly any houses, just the backside of a
few businesses and the employee parking lot
for the Neptune's Bounty Cannery. Oh, well.
She was riding with him, wasn't she? Close
enough behind him to watch his thighs pumping,
his rear end perched on the seat.
He glanced back at her, and his black hair
danced in the wind. "You doing okay, Alice?"
"I'm fine." Though the truth was, she was
getting out of breath because they had left
the village and were starting to climb up the
mountain. Elijah must ride his bike up Skyline
every day, so he was used to it; he seemed
hardly winded, his legs moving like powerful
pistons. But she was panting, pushing herself
onward. A flash of fur caught her eye. She
glanced sideways and saw that Buddy had followed
them. He looked tired too, his tongue
hanging way out as he ran to keep up.
"Go home!"
"What did you say?" Elijah glanced back.
"It's that stupid dog again," she panted. "He
won't stop following us. He's gonna--gonna get lost."
She glared at Buddy, but he just kept trotting
along beside her in his cheerful dumb dog
way. Well, go ahead, she thought. Tucker yourself
out. I don't care.
They kept moving up the mountain, the
road winding in gentle switchbacks. Through
the trees she caught occasional glimpses of Fox
Harbor far below, the water like battered copper
in the afternoon sunlight. Then the trees became
too thick, and she could see only the forest,
clothed in brilliant reds and oranges. The
leaf-strewn road curved ahead of them.
When at last Elijah pedaled to a stop, Alice's
legs were so tired she could barely stand without
trembling. Buddy was nowhere in sight;
she only hoped he could find his own way
home, because she sure wasn't going to go
looking for him. Not now, not with Elijah
standing here, smiling at her, his eyes glittering.
He leaned his bike up against a tree and
hoisted his book bag over his shoulder.
"So where's your house?" she asked.
"It's that driveway there." He pointed down
the road, to a mailbox rusting on a post.
"Aren't we going to your house?"
"Naw, my cousin's home sick today. She
was throwing up all night, so let's not go in
the house. Anyway, my project's out here, in
the woods. Leave your bike. We're gonna have
to walk."
She propped her bike up next to his and followed
him, her legs still wobbly from the ride
up the mountain. They tramped into woods.
The trees were dense here, the ground thickly
carpeted by leaves. Gamely she followed him,
waving at mosquitoes. "So your cousin lives
with you?" she asked.
"Yeah, she came to stay with us last year. I
guess it's permanent now. Got nowhere else
to go."
"Your parents don't mind?"
"It's just my dad. My mom's dead."
"Oh." She didn't know what to say about
that. Finally murmured a simple "I'm sorry,"
but he didn't seem to hear her.
The undergrowth became thicker, and
brambles scratched her bare legs. She had trouble
keeping up with him. He was pulling
ahead of her, leaving her with her skirt snagged
on blackberry canes.
"Elijah!"
He didn't answer. He just kept moving
ahead like a bold explorer, his book bag slung
over his shoulder.
"Wait!"
"Do you want to see this or don't you?"
"Yes, but--"
"Then come on." His voice had taken on an
impatient edge and it startled her. He stood a
few yards ahead, looking back at her, and she
noticed that his hands were clenched into fists.
"Okay," she said meekly. "I'm coming."
A few yards farther, the woods suddenly
opened up into a clearing. She saw an old
stone foundation, all that remained of a long-gone
farmhouse. Elijah glanced back at her, his
face dappled by afternoon light.
"It's right here," he said.
"What is?"
He bent down and pulled aside two
wooden boards, revealing a deep hole. "Take a
look in there," he said. "I spent three weeks
digging that."
Slowly she approached the pit and stared inside.
The afternoon light was slanting low behind
the trees, and the bottom of the hole was
in shadow. She could make out a layer of dead
leaves, which had accumulated at the bottom.
A rope was curled over the side.
"Is this to trap a bear, or something?"
"It could. If I laid some branches over it, to
hide the opening, I could catch a lot of things.
Even a deer." He pointed into the hole. "Look,
you see it?"
She leaned in closer. Something gleamed
faintly in the shadows below; chips of white
that peeked out from beneath the scattering of
leaves.
"What is it?"
"That's my project." He reached for the
rope and pulled.
At the bottom of the pit, leaves rustled,
boiled up. Alice stared as the rope went taut, as
Elijah hauled up something from the shadows.
A basket. He pulled it out of the hole and set it
on the ground. Brushing aside the leaves, he
revealed what had gleamed white at the pit's
bottom.
It was a small skull.
As he picked off the leaves, she saw clumps
of black fur and spindly ribs. A knobby chain
of spine. Leg bones as delicate as twigs.
"Isn't that something? It doesn't even smell
anymore," he said. "Been down there almost
seven months now. Last time I checked it,
there was still some meat on it. Neat how even
that disappears. It started to rot real fast after it
got warm, back in May."
"What is it?"
"Can't you tell?"
"No."
Picking up the skull, he gave it a little twist,
pulling it off the spine. She flinched as he
thrust it toward her.
"Don't!" she squealed.
"Meow!"
"Elijah!"
"Well, you did ask what it was."
She stared at hollow eye sockets. "It's a cat?"
He pulled a grocery sack out of his book bag
and began placing the bones in the sack.
"What are you going to do with the
skeleton?"
"It's my science project. From kitty to skeleton
in seven months."
"Where did you get the cat?"
"Found it."
"You just found a dead cat?"
He looked up. His blue eyes were smiling.
But these were no longer Tony Curtis eyes anymore;
these eyes scared her. "Who said it was
dead?"
Her heart was suddenly pounding. She took
a step back. "You know, I think I have to go
home now."
"Why?"
"Homework. I've got homework."
He was on his feet now, had sprung there effortlessly.
The smile was gone, replaced by a
look of quiet expectation.
"I'll . . . see you at school," she said. She
backed away, glancing left and right at woods
that looked the same in every direction. Which
way had they come from? Which way should
she go?
"But you just got here, Alice," he said. He
was holding something in his hand. Only as he
raised it over his head did she see what it was.
A rock.
The blow sent her to her knees. She
crouched in the dirt, her vision almost black,
her limbs numb. She felt no pain, just dumb
disbelief that he had hit her. She started to
crawl, but could not see where she was going.
Then he grabbed her ankles and yanked her
backward. Her face scraped against the ground
as he dragged her by her feet. She tried to kick
free, tried to scream, but her mouth filled with
dirt and twigs as he pulled her toward the pit.
Just as her feet dropped over the edge, she
grabbed a sapling and held on, her legs dangling
into the hole.
"Let go, Alice," he said.
"Pull me up! Pull me up!"
"I said, let go." He lifted a rock and brought
it down on her hand.
She shrieked and lost her grip. Slid feet first
into the hole, landing on a bed of dead leaves.
"Alice. Alice."
Stunned by the fall, she looked up at the circle
of sky above, and saw the silhouette of his
head, leaning forward, peering down at her.
"Why are you doing this?" she sobbed.
"Why?"
"It's nothing personal. I just want to see how
long it takes. Seven months for a kitty. How
long do you think it'll take you?"
"You can't do this to me!"
"Bye-bye, Alice."
"Elijah! Elijah!"
The wooden boards slid across the opening,
eclipsing the circle of light. Her last glimpse of
sky vanished. This isn't real, she thought. This
is a joke. He's just trying to scare me. He'll
leave me down here for a few minutes, and
then he'll come back and let me out. Of course
he'll come back.
Then she heard something thud onto the
well cover. Rocks. He's piling rocks on top.
She stood up and tried to climb out of the
hole. Found a dry wisp of vine that immediately
disintegrated in her hands. She clawed at
the dirt, but could not find a handhold, could
not pull herself even a few inches without sliding
back. Her screams pierced the darkness.
"Elijah!" she shrieked.
Her only answer was stones thudding onto
wood.
ONE


Pesez le matin que vous n'irez peut-etre pas

jusqu'au soir,
Et au soir que vous n'irez peut-etre pas jusqu'au

matin.

Be aware every morning that you may not last the day,
And every evening that you may not last the night.

--engraved plaque in the catacombs

of paris


A ROW OF SKULLS glared from atop a wall of
intricately stacked femurs and tibias. Though
it was June, and she knew the sun was shining
on the streets of Paris sixty feet above her, Dr.
Maura Isles felt chilled as she walked down the
dim passageway, its walls lined almost to the
ceiling with human remains. She was familiar,
even intimate, with death, and had confronted
its face countless times on her autopsy table,
but she was stunned by the scale of this display,
by the sheer number of bones stored in this
network of tunnels beneath the City of Light.
The one-kilometer tour took her through only
a small section of the catacombs. Off-limits to
tourists were numerous side tunnels and bone-filled
chambers, their dark mouths gaping seductively
behind locked gates. Here were the
remains of six million Parisians who had once
felt the sun on their faces, who had hungered
and thirsted and loved, who had felt the beating
of their own hearts in their chests, the rush
of air in and out of their lungs. They could
never have imagined that one day their bones
would be unearthed from their cemetery resting
places, and moved to this grim ossuary beneath
the city.
That one day they would be on display, to
be gawked at by hordes of tourists.
A century and a half ago, to make room for
the steady influx of dead into Paris's overcrowded
cemeteries, the bones had been disinterred
and moved into the vast honeycomb of
ancient limestone quarries that lay deep beneath
the city. The workmen who'd transferred
the bones had not carelessly tossed them into
piles, but had performed their macabre task
with flair, meticulously stacking them to form
whimsical designs. Like fussy stonemasons,
they had built high walls decorated with alternating
layers of skulls and long bones, turning
decay into an artistic statement. And they had
hung plaques engraved with grim quotations,
reminders to all who walked these passageways
that Death spares no one.
One of the plaques caught Maura's eye, and
she paused among the flow of tourists to read
it. As she struggled to translate the words using her shaky high school French, she heard the incongruous
sound of children's laughter echoing
in the dim corridors, and the twang of a
man's Texas accent as he muttered to his wife.
"Can you believe this place, Sherry? Gives me
the goddamn creeps ..."
The Texas couple moved on, their voices
fading into silence. For a moment Maura was
alone in the chamber, breathing in the dust of
the centuries. Under the dim glow of the tunnel
light, mold had flourished on a cluster of
skulls, coating them in a greenish cast. A single
bullet hole gaped in the forehead of one skull,
like a third eye.
I know how you died.
The chill of the tunnel had seeped into her
own bones. But she did not move, determined
to translate that plaque, to quell her
horror by engaging in a useless intellectual
puzzle. Come on, Maura. Three years of high
school French, and you can't figure this out?
It was a personal challenge now, all thoughts
of mortality temporarily held at bay. Then
the words took on meaning, and she felt her
blood go cold ...

Happy is he who is forever faced with the hour of his
death
And prepares himself for the end every day.

Suddenly she noticed the silence. No voices,
no echoing footsteps. She turned and left that
gloomy chamber. How had she fallen so far behind
the other tourists? She was alone in this
tunnel, alone with the dead. She thought about
unexpected power outages, about wandering
the wrong way in pitch darkness. She'd heard of
Parisian workmen a century ago who had lost
their way in the catacombs and died of starvation.
Her pace quickened as she sought to catch
up with the others, to rejoin the company of
the living. She felt Death pressing in too closely
in these tunnels. The skulls seemed to stare
back at her with resentment, a chorus of six
million berating her for her ghoulish curiosity.
We were once as alive as you are. Do you
think you can escape the future you see here?
When at last she emerged from the catacombs
and stepped into the sunshine on Rue
Remy Dumoncel, she took in deep breaths of
air. For once she welcomed the noise of traffic,
the press of the crowd, as if she had just been
granted a second chance at life. The colors
seemed brighter, the faces friendlier. My last
day in Paris, she thought, and only now do I
really appreciate the beauty of this city. She
had spent most of the past week trapped in
meeting rooms, attending the International
Conference of Forensic Pathology. There had
been so little time for sightseeing, and even the
tours arranged by the conference organizers
had been related to death and illness: the
medical museum, the old surgical theater.
The catacombs.
Of all the memories to bring back from
Paris, how ironic that her most vivid one
would be of human remains. That's not
healthy, she thought as she sat at an outdoor
cafe, savoring one last cup of espresso and a
strawberry tart. In two days, I'll be back in my
autopsy room, surrounded by stainless steel,
shut off from sunlight. Breathing only the
cold, filtered air flowing from the vents. This
day will seem like a memory of paradise.
She took her time, recording those memories.
The smell of coffee, the taste of buttery
pastry. The natty businessmen with cell
phones pressed to their ears, the intricate knots
of the scarves fluttering around women's
throats. She entertained the fantasy that surely
danced in the head of every American who had
ever visited Paris: What would it be like to miss
my plane? To just linger here, in this cafe, in
this glorious city, for the rest of my life?
But in the end, she rose from her table and
hailed a taxi to the airport. In the end she
walked away from the fantasy, from Paris, but
only because she promised herself she would
someday return. She just didn't know when.

Her flight home was delayed three hours.
That's three hours I could have spent walking
along the Seine, she thought as she sat disgruntled
in Charles de Gaulle. Three hours I could
have wandered the Marais or poked around in
Les Halles. Instead she was trapped in an airport
so crowded with travelers she could find
no place to sit. By the time she finally boarded
the Air France jet, she was tired and thoroughly
cranky. One glass of wine with the inflight
meal was all it took for her to fall into a
deep and dreamless sleep.
Only as the plane began its descent into
Boston did she awaken. Her head ached, and
the setting sun glared in her eyes. The
headache intensified as she stood in baggage
claim, watching suitcase after suitcase, none of
them hers, slide down the ramp. It grew to a
relentless pounding as she later waited in line
to file a claim for her missing luggage. By the
time she finally stepped into a taxi with only
her carry-on bag, darkness had fallen, and she
wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a
hefty dose of Advil. She sank back in the taxi
and once again drifted off to sleep.
The sudden braking of the vehicle awakened
her.
"What's going on here?" she heard the
driver say.
Stirring, she gazed through bleary eyes at
flashing blue lights. It took a moment for her
to register what she was looking at. Then she
realized that they had turned onto the street
where she lived, and she sat up, instantly alert,
alarmed by what she saw. Four Brookline po-
lice cruisers were parked, their roof lights slicing
through the darkness.
"Looks like some kind of emergency going
on," the driver said. "This is your street, right?"
"And that's my house right down there.
Middle of the block."
"Where all the police cars are? I don't think
they're gonna let us through."
As if to confirm the taxi driver's words, a patrolman
approached, waving at them to turn
around.
The cabbie stuck his head out the window.
"I got a passenger here I need to drop off. She
lives on this street."
"Sorry, bud. This whole block's cordoned
off."
Maura leaned forward and said to the
driver, "Look, I'll just get out here." She
handed him the fare, grabbed her carryon
bag, and stepped out of the taxi. Only moments
before, she'd felt dull and groggy; now
the warm June night itself seemed electric with
tension. She started up the sidewalk, her sense
of anxiety growing as she drew closer to the
gathering of bystanders, as she saw all the official
vehicles parked in front of her house. Had
something happened to one of her neighbors?
A host of terrible possibilities passed through
her mind. Suicide. Homicide. She thought of
Mr. Telushkin, the unmarried robotics engineer
who lived next door. Hadn't he seemed
particularly melancholy when she'd last seen
him? She thought, too, of Lily and Susan, her
neighbors on the other side, two lesbian attorneys
whose gay rights activism made them
high-profile targets. Then she spotted Lily and
Susan standing at the edge of the crowd, both
of them very much alive, and her concern flew
back to Mr. Telushkin, whom she did not see
among the onlookers.
Lily glanced sideways and saw Maura approaching.
She did not wave but just stared at
her, wordless, and gave Susan a sharp nudge.
Susan turned to look at Maura, and her jaw
dropped open. Now other neighbors were
turning to stare as well, all their faces registering
astonishment.
Why are they looking at me? Maura wondered.
What have I done?
"Dr. Isles?" A Brookline patrolman stood
gaping at her. "It is--it is you, isn't it?" he asked.
Well, that was a stupid question, she
thought. "That's my house, there. What's
going on, officer?"
The patrolman huffed out a sharp breath.
"Urn--I think you'd better come with me."
He took her by the arm and led her through
the crowd. Her neighbors solemnly parted before
her, as though making way for a condemned
prisoner. Their silence was eerie; the
only sound was the crackle of police radios.
They reached a barrier of yellow police
tape, strung between stakes, several of them
pounded into Mr. Telushkin's front yard. He's
proud of his lawn and he's not going to be
happy about that, was her immediate and utterly
inane thought. The patrolman lifted the
tape and she ducked under it, crossing into
what she now realized was a crime scene.
She knew it was a crime scene because she
spotted a familiar figure standing at the center
of it. Even from across the lawn, Maura could
recognize homicide detective Jane Rizzoli.
Now eight months pregnant, the petite Rizzoli
looked like a ripe pear in a pantsuit. Her presence
was yet another bewildering detail. What
was a Boston detective doing here in Brookine,
outside her usual jurisdiction? Rizzoli did
not see Maura approaching; her gaze was fixed
instead on a car parked at the curb in front of
Mr. Telushkin's house. She was shaking her
head, clearly upset, her dark curls springing
out in their usual disarray.
It was Rizzoli's partner, Detective Barry
Frost, who spotted Maura first. He glanced at
her, glanced away, and then did a sudden double
take, his pale face whipping back to stare at
her. Wordlessly he tugged on his partner's arm.
Rizzoli went absolutely still, the strobelike
flashes of blue cruiser lights illuminating her
expression of disbelief. She began to walk, as
though in a trance, toward Maura.
"Doc?" Rizzoli said softly. "Is that you?"
"Who else would it be? Why does everyone
keep asking me that? Why do you all look at
me as though I'm a ghost?"
"Because ..." Rizzoli stopped. Gave a shake
of her head, tossing unkempt curls. "Jesus. I
thought for a minute you were a ghost."
"What?"
Rizzoli turned and called out: "Father
Brophy?"
Maura had not seen the priest standing off
by himself at the periphery. Now he emerged
from the shadows, his collar a slash of white
across his neck. His usually handsome face
looked gaunt, his expression shellshocked.
Why is Daniel here? Priests were not usually
called to crime scenes unless a victim's family
requested counsel. Her neighbor Mr. Telushkin
was not Catholic, but Jewish. He would have
no reason to request a priest.
"Could you please take her into the house,
Father?" Rizzoli said.
Maura asked: "Is anyone going to tell me
what's going on?"
"Go inside, Doc. Please. We'll explain
later."
Maura felt Brophy's arm slip around her
waist, his firm grasp clearly communicating
that this was not the time for her to resist. That
she should simply obey the detective's request.
She allowed him to guide her to her front
door, and she registered the secret thrill of the
close contact between them, the warmth of his
body pressed against hers. She was so aware of
him standing beside her that her hands were
clumsy as she inserted the key into her front
door. Though they had been friends for
months, she had never before invited Daniel
Brophy into her house, and her reaction to
him now was a reminder of why she had so
carefully maintained a distance between them.
They stepped inside, into a living room where
the lamps were already on, lit by automatic
timers. She paused for a moment near the
couch, uncertain of what to do next.
It was Father Brophy who took command.
"Sit down," he said, pointing her to the
couch. "I'll get you something to drink."
"You're the guest in my house. I should be
offering you the drink," she said.
"Not under the circumstances."
"I don't even know what the circumstances
are."
"Detective Rizzoli will tell you." He left the
room and came back with a glass of water-- not exactly her beverage of choice at that moment,
but then, it didn't seem appropriate to
ask a priest to fetch the bottle of vodka. She
sipped the water, feeling uneasy under his gaze.
He sank into the chair across from her, watching
her as though afraid she might vanish.
At last she heard Rizzoli and Frost come
into the house, heard them murmuring in the
foyer to a third person, a voice Maura didn't
recognize. Secrets, she thought. Why is everyone
keeping secrets from me? What don't they
want me to know?
She looked up as the two detectives walked
into the living room. With them was a man
who introduced himself as Brookline Detective
Eckert, a name she'd probably forget
within five minutes. Her attention was completely
focused on Rizzoli, with whom she had
worked before. A woman she both liked and
respected.
The detectives all settled into chairs, Rizzoli
and Frost facing Maura across the coffee table.
She felt outnumbered, four to one, everyone's
gazes on her. Frost pulled out his notepad and
pen. Why was he taking notes? Why did this
feel like the start of an interrogation?
"How are you doing, Doc?" Rizzoli asked,
her voice soft with concern.
Maura laughed at the trite question. "I'd be
doing a lot better if I knew what was going on."
"Can I ask you where you've been tonight?"
"I just got home from the airport."
"Why were you at the airport?"
"I flew in from Paris. From Charles de
Gaulle. It was a long flight, and I'm not in the
mood for twenty questions."
"How long were you in Paris?"
"A week. I flew there last Wednesday."
Maura thought she detected a note of accusation
in Rizzoli's brusque questions, and her irritation
was now building toward anger. "If
you don't believe me, you can ask my secretary,
Louise. She's the one who booked the flight for
me. I was there for a meeting--"
"The International Conference of Forensic
Pathology. Is that correct?"
Maura was taken aback. "You already know?"
"Louise told us."
They've been asking questions about me.
Even before I got home, they were talking to
my secretary.
"She told us your plane was supposed to
land at five P.M. at Logan," said Rizzoli. "It's
now nearly ten o'clock. Where've you been?"
"We had a late departure from Charles de
Gaulle. Something about extra security checks.
The airlines are so paranoid, we were lucky just
to get off the ground three hours late."
"So your departure was three hours delayed."
"I just told you that."
"What time did you land?"
"I don't know. About eight thirty."
"It took you an hour and a half to get home
from Logan?"
"My suitcase didn't show up. I had to file a
claims form with Air France." Maura stopped,
suddenly at her limit. "Look, goddamn it,
what is this all about? Before I answer any
more questions, I have a right to know. Are
you accusing me of something?"
"No, Doc. We're not accusing you of anything.
We're just trying to figure out the time
frame."
"Time frame for what?"
Frost said, "Have you received any threats,
Dr. Isles?"
She looked at him in bewilderment.
"What?"
"Do you know anyone who might have reason
to hurt you?"
No.
You're sure?"
Maura gave a frustrated laugh. "Well, is
anyone ever sure?"
"You must have had a few cases in court
where your testimony pissed off someone,"
said Rizzoli.
"Only if they're pissed off by the truth."
"You've made enemies in court. Perps you've
helped convict."
"I'm sure you have too, Jane. Just by doing
your job."
"Have you received any specific threats?
Any letters or phone calls?"
"My phone number's unlisted. And Louise
never gives out my address."
"What about letters sent to you at the medical
examiner's office?"
"There's been the occasional weird letter.
We all get them."
"Weird?"
"People writing about space aliens or conspiracies.
Or accusing us of trying to cover up
the truth about an autopsy. We just put those
letters in the screwball file. Unless there's an
overt threat, in which case we refer it to the
police."
Maura saw Frost scribble in his notebook,
and she wondered what he had written. By
now she was so angry, she wanted to reach
across the coffee table and snatch the notebook
out of his hands.
"Doc," said Rizzoli quietly, "do you have a
sister?"
The question, so out of the blue, startled
Maura and she stared at Rizzoli, her irritation
suddenly forgotten. "Excuse me?"
"Do you have a sister?"
"Why are you asking that?"
"I just need to know."

Maura released a sharp breath. "No, I don't
have a sister. And you know that I'm adopted.
When the hell are you going to tell me what
this is all about?"
Rizzoli and Frost looked at each other.
Frost closed his notebook. "I guess it's time
to show her."
Rizzoli led the way to the front door. Maura
stepped outside, into a warm summer night
that was lit up like a garish carnival by the
flashing lights from the cruisers. Her body was
still functioning on Paris time, where it was
now four A.M., and she saw everything
through a haze of exhaustion, the night as surreal
as a bad dream. The instant she emerged
from her house, all faces turned to stare at her.
She saw her neighbors gathered across the
street, watching her across the crime scene
tape. As medical examiner, she was accustomed
to being in the public eye, her every
move followed by both police and media, but
tonight the attention was somehow different.
More intrusive, even frightening. She was glad
to have Rizzoli and Frost flanking her, as
though to shield her from curious eyes as they
moved down the sidewalk, toward the dark
Ford Taurus parked at the curb in front of Mr.
Telushkin's house.
Maura did not recognize the car, but she did
recognize the bearded man standing beside it,
his thick hands gloved in latex. It was Dr. Abe
Bristol, her colleague from the M.E.'s office.
Abe was a man of hearty appetites, and his
girth reflected his love of rich foods, his belly
spilling over his belt in flabby excess. He stared
at Maura and said, "Christ, it's uncanny.
Could've fooled me." He nodded toward the
car. "I hope you're ready for this, Maura."
Ready for what?
She looked at the parked Taurus. Saw, backlit
by the flashing lights, the silhouette of a figure
slumped over the steering wheel. Black
splatters obscured the windshield. Blood.
Rizzoli shone her flashlight on the passenger
door. At first, Maura did not understand what
she was supposed to be looking at; her attention
was still focused on the blood-spattered
window, and the shadowy occupant in the
driver's seat. Then she saw what Rizzoli's
Maglite beam was shining on. Just below the
door handle were three parallel scratches,
carved deep into the car's finish.
"Like a claw mark," said Rizzoli, curling her
fingers as though to trace the scar.
Maura stared at the marks. Not a claw, she
thought as a chill ran up her back. A raptor's
talon.
"Come around to the driver's side," said
Rizzoli.
Maura asked no questions as she followed
Rizzoli around the rear of the Taurus.
"Massachusetts license plate," Rizzoli said,
her flashlight beam sweeping across the rear
bumper, but it was just a detail mentioned in
passing; Rizzoli continued around to the
driver's side of the car. There she paused and
looked at Maura.
"This is what got us all so shook up," she
said. She aimed her flashlight into the car.
The beam fell squarely on the woman's face,
which stared toward the window. Her right
cheek rested against the steering wheel; her
eyes were open.
Maura could not speak. She gaped at the
ivory skin, the black hair, the full lips, slightly
parted, as though in surprise. She reeled backward,
her limbs suddenly boneless, and she had
the dizzying sense that she was floating away,
her body no longer anchored to the earth. A
hand grasped her arm, steadying her. It was Father
Brophy, standing right behind her. She had
not even noticed he was there.
Now she understood why everyone had
been so stunned by her arrival. She stared at
the corpse in the car, at the face illuminated by
Rizzoli's flashlight beam.
It's me. That woman is me.
TWO


SHE SAT ON THE COUCH, sipping vodka and
soda, the ice cubes clattering in her glass. To
hell with plain water; this shock called for
sterner medicine, and Father Brophy had been
understanding enough to mix her a strong
drink, handing it to her without comment. It's
not every day you see yourself dead. Not every
day you walk onto a crime scene and encounter
your lifeless doppelganger.

"It's just a coincidence," she whispered.
"The woman looks like me, that's all. A lot of
women have black hair. And her face--how
can you really see her face in that car?"

"I don't know, Doc," said Rizzoli. "The resemblance
is pretty scary." She sank into the
easy chair, groaning as the cushions swallowed
up her heavily pregnant frame. Poor Rizzoli,
thought Maura. Women who are eight months
pregnant should not be dragging themselves
through homicide investigations.
"Her hairstyle is different," said Maura.
"A little longer, that's all."
"I have bangs. She doesn't."
"Don't you think that's sort of a superficial
detail? Look at her face. She could be your
sister."
"Wait till we see her with more light. Maybe
she won't look like me at all."
Father Brophy said, "The resemblance is
there, Maura. We all saw it. She looks exactly
like you."
"Plus, she's sitting in a car in your neighborhood,"
added Rizzoli. "Parked practically in
front of your house. And she had this lying on
the back seat." Rizzoli held up an evidence
bag. Through the transparent plastic, Maura
could see it contained an article torn from The
Boston Globe. The headline was large enough
for her to read it even from across the coffee
table.
RAWLINS INFANT WAS BATTERED BABY,
MEDICAL EXAMINER TESTIFIES.
"It's a photo of you, Doc," said Rizzoli.
"The caption says 'Medical Examiner Dr.
Maura Isles leaves the courtroom after testifying
in Rawlins trial.'" She looked at Maura.
"The victim had this in her car."
Maura shook her head. "Why?"
"That's what we're wondering."
"The Rawlins trial--that was almost two
weeks ago."
"Do you remember seeing that woman in
the courtroom?"
"No. I've never seen her before."
"But she's obviously seen you. In the newspaper,
anyway. And then she shows up here.
Looking for you? Stalking you?"
Maura stared at her drink. The vodka was
making her head float. Less than twenty-four
hours ago, she thought, I was walking the
streets of Paris. Enjoying the sunshine, savoring
the scents drifting from the street cafes.
How did I manage to take a wrong turn into
this nightmare?
"Do you keep a firearm, Doc?" asked Rizzoli.
Maura stiffened. "What kind of question is
that?"
"No, I'm not accusing you of anything. I
just wondered if you have a way to defend
yourself."
"I don't have a gun. I've seen the damage
they can do to a human body, and I won't have
one in my house."
"Okay. Just asking."
Maura took another sip of vodka, needing
liquid courage before she asked the next question:
"What do you know about the victim?"
Frost pulled out his notebook, flipping
through it like some fussy clerk. In so many
ways, Barry Frost reminded Maura of a mild-mannered
bureaucrat with his pen always at
the ready. "According to the driver's license in
her purse, her name is Anna Jessop, age forty,
with an address in Brighton. Vehicle registration
matches the same name."
Maura's head lifted. "That's only a few miles
from here."
"The residence is an apartment building.
Her neighbors don't seem to know much
about her. We're still trying to reach the landlady,
to let us into the unit."
"Does the name Jessop ring any bells?"
asked Rizzoli.
She shook her heard. "I don't know anyone
by that name."
"Do you know anyone in Maine?"
"Why do you ask?"
"There was a speeding ticket in her purse.
Looks like she got pulled over two days ago,
driving south on the Maine Turnpike."
"I don't know anyone in Maine." Maura
took a deep breath. Asked: "Who found her?"
"Your neighbor Mr. Telushkin made the
call," said Rizzoli. "He was out walking his dog
when he noticed the Taurus parked at the curb."
"When was that?"
"Around eight P. M."
Of course, thought Maura. Mr. Telushkin
walked his dog at precisely the same time every
night. Engineers were like that, precise and
predictable. But tonight he had encountered
the unpredictable.
"He didn't hear anything?" Maura asked.
"He said he'd heard what he thought was a
car backfiring, maybe ten minutes before that.
But no one saw it happen. After he found the
Taurus, he called nine-one-one. Reported that
someone had just shot his neighbor, Dr. Isles.
Brookline Police responded first, along with
Detective Eckert here. Frost and I arrived
around nine."
"Why?" Maura said, finally asking a question
that had occurred to her when she'd first spotted
Rizzoli standing on her front lawn. "Why are
you in Brookline? This isn't your beat."
Rizzoli glanced at Detective Eckert.
He said, a little sheepishly, "You know, we
only had one homicide last year in Brookline.
We thought, under the circumstances, it made
sense to call in Boston."
Yes, it did make sense, Maura realized.
Brookline was little more than a bedroom
community trapped within the city of Boston.
Last year, Boston PD had investigated sixty
homicides. Practice made perfect, with murder
investigations as well as anything else.
"We would have come in on this anyway,"
said Rizzoli. "After we heard who the victim
was. Who we thought it was." She paused. "I
have to admit, it never even occurred to me
that it might not be you. I took one look at the
victim and assumed ..."
"We all did," said Frost.
There was a silence.
"We knew you were due to fly home this
evening from Paris," said Rizzoli. " That's what
your secretary told us. The only thing that didn't
make sense to us was the car. Why you'd be
sitting in a car registered to another woman."
Maura drained her glass and set it on the
coffee table. One drink was all she could handle
tonight. Already, her limbs were numb and
she was having trouble focusing. The room
had softened to a blur, the lamps casting everything
in a warm glow. This is not real, she
thought. I'm asleep in a jet somewhere over the
Atlantic, and I'll wake up to find the plane has
landed. That none of this has happened.
"We don't know anything yet about Anna
Jessop," said Rizzoli. "All we do know--what
we've all seen with our own eyes--is that whoever
she is, she's a dead ringer for you, Doc.
Maybe her hair's a little longer. Maybe there's a
few differences here and there. But the point is,
we were fooled. All of us. And we know you."
She paused. "You can see where I'm going with
this, can't you?"
Yes, Maura could, but she didn't want to say
it. She just sat staring at the glass on the coffee
table. At the melting ice cubes.
"If we were fooled, anyone else could have
been as well," said Rizzoli. "Including whoever
fired that bullet into her head. It was just before
eight P.M. when your neighbor heard the
backfire. Already getting dark. And there she
was, sitting in a parked car just a few yards
from your driveway. Anyone seeing her in that
car would assume it's you."
"You think I was the target," said Maura.
"It makes sense, doesn't it?"
Maura shook her head. "None of this makes
sense."
"You have a very public job. You testify at
homicide trials. You're in the newspaper. You're
our Queen of the Dead."
"Don't call me that."
"It's what all the cops call you. What the
press calls you. You know that, don't you?"
"It doesn't mean I like that nickname. In
fact, I can't stand it."
"But it does mean you're noticed. Not just
because of what you do, but also because of the
way you look. You know the guys notice you,
don't you? You'd have to be blind not to see it.
Nice-looking woman always gets their attention.
Right, Frost?"
Frost gave a start, obviously not expecting to
be put on the spot, and his cheeks reddened.
Poor Frost, so easily caught in a blush. "It's
only human nature," he admitted.
Maura looked at Father Brophy, who did
not return her gaze. She wondered if he, too,
was subject to the same laws of attraction. She
wanted to think so; she wanted to believe that
Daniel was not immune to the same thoughts
that went through her head.
"Nice-looking woman in the public eye,"
said Rizzoli. "Gets stalked, attacked in front of
her own residence. It's happened before. What
was the name of that actress out in L.A.? The
one who got murdered."
"Rebecca Schaefer," said Frost.
"Right. And then there's the Lori Hwang
case here. You remember her, Doc."
Yes, Maura remembered it, because she had
performed the autopsy on the Channel Six
newscaster. Lori Hwang had been on the air
only a year when she was shot to death in
front of the studio. She'd never realized she
was being stalked. The perp had been watching
her on TV and had written a few fan letters.
And then one day he had waited outside
the studio doors. As Lori had stepped out and
walked toward her car, he had fired a bullet
into her head.
"That's the hazard of living in the public
eye," said Rizzoli. "You never know who's
watching you on all those TV screens. You
never know who's in the car right behind yours
when you drive home from work at night. It's
not something we even think about--that
someone might be following us. Fantasizing
about us." Rizzoli paused. Said, quietly: "I've
been there. I know what it's like to be the focus
of someone's obsession. I'm not even that
much to look at, but it happened to me." She
held out her hands, revealing the scars on her
palms. The permanent souvenirs of her battle
with the man who had twice almost taken her
life. A man who still lived, though trapped in a
quadriplegic's body.
"That's why I asked whether you'd received
any strange letters," said Rizzoli. "I was thinking
about her. Lori Hwang."
"Her killer was arrested," said Father Brophy.
"Yes."
"So you're not implying it's the same man."
"No, I'm just pointing out the parallels. A
single gunshot wound to the head. Women in
public jobs. It just makes you think." Rizzoli
struggled to her feet. It took some effort to
push herself out of the easy chair. Frost was
quick to offer her his hand, but she ignored it.
Though heavily pregnant, Rizzoli was not one
to reach for assistance. She hoisted her purse
over her shoulder and gave Maura a searching
look. "Do you want to stay somewhere else
tonight?"
"This is my house. Why would I go anywhere
else?"
"Just asking. I guess I don't need to tell you
to lock your doors."
"I always do."
Rizzoli looked at Eckert. "Can Brookline
PD watch the house?"
He nodded. "I'll make sure a patrol car
comes by every so often."
"I appreciate that," said Maura. "Thank you."
Maura accompanied the three detectives to
the front door and watched them walk to their
cars. It was now after midnight. Outside, the
street had been transformed back into the quiet
neighborhood she knew. The Brookline PD
cruisers were gone; the Taurus had already been
towed away to the crime lab. Even the yellow
police tape had been removed. In the morning,
she thought, I'll wake up and think I imagined
the whole thing.
She turned and faced Father Brophy, who
was still standing in her foyer. She had never
felt more uneasy in his company than at this
moment, the two of them alone in her house.
The possibilities surely swirled in both their
heads. Or just mine? Late at night, alone in
your bed, do you ever think of me, Daniel?
The way I think of you?
"Are you sure you feel safe staying here
alone?" he asked.
"I'll be fine." And what's the alternative?
That you spend the night with me? Is that
what you're offering?
He turned toward the door.
"Who called you here, Daniel?" she asked.
"How did you know?"
He looked back at her. "Detective Rizzoli
did. She told me ..." He paused. "You know, I
get calls like this all the time from the police. A
death in the family, someone needs a priest. I'm
always willing to respond. But this time ..."
He paused. "Lock your doors, Maura," he said.
"I don't ever want to go through another night
like this one."
She watched him walk out of her house and
climb into his car. He did not immediately
start the engine; he was waiting to make sure
that she was safely inside for the night.
She closed the door and locked it.
Through the living room window, she
watched Daniel drive away. For a moment she
stared at the empty curb, feeling suddenly
abandoned. Wishing, at that moment, that
she could call him back. And what would happen
then? What did she want to happen between
them? Some temptations, she thought,
are best kept beyond our reach. She scanned
the dark street one last time, then stepped
away from the window, aware that she was
framed by the light in her living room. She
closed the curtains and went from room to
room, checking the locks and the windows.
On this warm June night, she would normally
sleep with her bedroom window open. But
tonight, she left the windows closed and
turned on the air conditioner.
In the early morning she awakened, shivering
from the chill air blowing out the vent.
Her dreams had been of Paris. Of strolling
under blue skies, past buckets of roses and stargazer
lilies, and for a moment, she did not remember
where she was. Not in Paris any
longer, but in my own bed, she realized. And
something terrible has happened.
It was only five A.M., yet she felt wide awake.
It's eleven A.M. in Paris, she thought. There the
sun is shining and if I were there now, I would
already have had my second cup of coffee. She
knew that jet lag would catch up with her later
today, that this burst of early morning energy
would be gone by afternoon, but she could not
force herself to sleep any longer.
She rose and got dressed.
The street in front of her house looked the
same as it always had. The first streaks of dawn
lit the sky. She watched the lights come on in
Mr. Telushkin's house next door. He was an
early riser, usually heading off to work at least
an hour before she did, but this morning,
she'd been the first to awaken, and she saw her
neighborhood with fresh eyes. Saw the automatic
sprinklers come on across the street,
water hissing circles on the lawn. She saw the
paperboy cycle past, baseball cap turned backward,
and heard the thump of The Boston
Globe hitting her front porch. Everything
seems the same, she thought, but it's not.
Death has paid a visit to my neighborhood,
and everyone who lives here will remember it.
They will look out their front windows at the
curb where the Taurus was parked, and shudder
at how close it came to touching any one
of us.
Headlights swung around the corner, and a
vehicle drove along the street, slowing down as
it approached her house. A Brookline police
cruiser.
No, nothing is the same, she thought as she
watched the cruiser drive past.
Nothing ever is.

She arrived at work before her secretary did. By
six, Maura was at her desk, tackling the large
stack of transcribed dictations and lab reports
that had accumulated in her in-box during the
week she had been at the Paris conference. She
was already a third of the way through when
she heard footsteps, and she looked up to see
Louise standing in the doorway.
"You're here," Louise murmured.
Maura greeted her with a smile. "Bonjour! I thought I'd get an early start on all this paperwork."
Louise just stared at her for a moment,
then she came into the room and sat down in
the chair facing Maura's desk, as though she
was suddenly too tired to stand. Though fifty
years old, Louise always seemed to have twice
the stamina of Maura, who was ten years
younger. But this morning, Louise looked
drained, her face thin and sallow under fluorescent
lights.
"Are you all right, Dr. Isles?" Louise asked
quietly.
"I'm fine. A little jet-lagged."
"I mean--after what happened last night.
Detective Frost sounded so sure it was you, in
that car ..."
Maura nodded, her smile fading. "It was
like being in the Twilight Zone, Louise. Coming
home to find all those police cars in front
of my house."
"It was awful. We all thought . . ." Louise
swallowed and looked down at her lap. "I was
so relieved when Dr. Bristol called me last
night. To let me know it was a mistake."
There was a silence, heavy with reproach. It
suddenly dawned on Maura that she should
have been the one to call her own secretary.
She should have realized that Louise was
shaken, and would want to hear her voice. I've
been living alone and unattached for so long,
she thought, that it doesn't even occur to me
that there are people in this world who might
care what happens to me.
Louise stood up to leave. "I'm so glad to see
you back, Dr. Isles. I just wanted to tell you
that."
"Louise?"
"Yes?"
"I brought you a little something back from
Paris. I know this sounds like a lame excuse,
but it's packed in my suitcase. And the airline
lost it."
"Oh." Louise laughed. "Well, if it's chocolate,
my hips certainly don't need it."
"Nothing caloric, I promise." She glanced at
the clock on her desk. "Is Dr. Bristol in yet?"
"He just got here. I saw him in the parking
lot."
"Do you know when he's doing the autopsy?"
"Which one? He has two today."
"The gunshot from last night. The
woman."
Louise gave her a long look. "I think that
one is second on his schedule."
"Do they know anything more about her?"
"I don't know. You'll have to ask Dr.
Bristol."
THREE

Although she had no autopsies on her
own schedule that day, at two o'clock Maura
headed downstairs and changed into a scrub
suit. She was alone in the women's locker
room, and she took her time removing her
street clothes, folding her blouse and slacks
and placing them in a tidy pile inside the
locker. The scrubs felt crisp against her bare
skin, like freshly laundered sheets, and she found comfort in the familiar routine of tightening
the trouser drawstrings and tucking her
hair into a cap. She felt contained and protected
by laundered cotton, and by the role she
donned along with the uniform. She glanced
in the mirror, at a reflection as cool as a
stranger's, all emotions shielded from sight.
She left the locker room, walked down the
hall, and pushed into the autopsy suite.
Rizzoli and Frost were already standing beside
the table, both of them gowned and
gloved, their backs obstructing Maura's view of
the victim. It was Dr. Bristol who first spotted
Maura. He stood facing her, his generous girth
filling the extra-large surgical gown, and he
met her gaze as she entered the room. His eyebrows
pinched into a frown above the surgical
mask, and she saw the question in his eyes.
"I thought I'd drop in to watch this one,"
she said.
Now Rizzoli turned to look at her. She, too,
was frowning. "Are you sure you want to be
here?"
"Wouldn't you be curious?"
"But I'm not sure I'd want to watch. Considering."
"I'm just going to observe. If that's okay
with you, Abe."
Bristol shrugged. "Well hell, I guess I'd be
curious, too," he said. "Join the party."
She moved around to Abe's side of the table
and at her first unobstructed view of the
corpse, her throat went dry. She had seen her
share of horrors in this lab, had gazed at flesh
in every stage of decay, at bodies so damaged
by fire or trauma that the remains could
scarcely be categorized as human. The woman
on the table was, in the scope of her experience,
remarkably intact. The blood had been
washed away, and the bullet's entry wound, in
the left scalp, was obscured by her dark hair.
The face was undamaged, the torso marred
only by dependent mottling of the skin. There
were fresh puncture marks in the groin and
neck, where the morgue assistant Yoshima had
drawn blood for lab tests, but the torso was
otherwise untouched; Abe's scalpel had yet to
make a single slice. Had the chest already been
split open, the cavity exposed, the body would
have struck her as a far less disturbing sight.
Opened corpses are anonymous. Hearts and
lungs and spleens are merely organs, so lacking
in individuality that they can be transplanted,
like spare auto parts, between bodies.
But this woman was still whole, her features
startlingly recognizable. Last night, Maura
had seen the corpse fully clothed and in
shadow, lit only by the beam of Rizzoli's
Maglite. Now the features were harshly lit by
autopsy lamps, the clothes stripped off to reveal
the naked torso, and those features were
more than merely familiar.
Dear god, that's my own face, my own
body, on the table.
Only she knew just how close the resemblance
was. No one else in that room would
have seen the shape of Maura's bare breasts, the
curve of her thighs. They knew only what she
allowed them to see, her face, her hair. They
could not possibly know that the similarities
between her and this corpse were as intimate as
the flecks of reddish brown in the pubic hair.
Maura looked at the woman's hands, the
fingers long and slender like her own. A pianist's
hands. The fingers had already been
inked. Skull and dental X-rays had been completed
as well; the dental panograph was now
displayed on the light box, two white rows of
teeth glowing in a Cheshire cat's grin. Is that
how my X-rays would look? she wondered. Are
we the same, right down to the enamel on our
teeth?
She asked, in a voice that struck her as unnaturally
calm, "Have you learned anything
else about her?"
"We're still checking on that name, Anna
Jessop," said Rizzoli. "All we have so far is
that Massachusetts driver's license, issued four
months ago. It says she's forty years old. Five
foot seven, black hair, green eyes. A hundred
twenty pounds." Rizzoli eyed the corpse on the
table. "I'd say she fits that description."
So do I, thought Maura. I'm forty years old
and five foot seven. Only the weight is different;
I weigh a hundred twenty-five. But what
woman doesn't lie about her weight on her
driver's license?
She watched, wordless, as Abe completed
his surface exam. He jotted occasional notations
on the preprinted diagram of a female
body. Bullet wound in the left temple. Dependent
mottling of the lower torso and thighs.
Appendectomy scar. Then he set down the
clipboard and moved to the foot of the table to
collect vaginal swabs. As he and Yoshima rotated
the thighs to expose the perineum, it was
the corpse's abdomen that Maura focused on.
She stared at the appendectomy scar, a thin
white line tracing across ivory skin.
I have one, too.
Swabs collected, Abe moved to the instrument
tray and picked up the scalpel.
The first cut was almost unbearable to
watch. Maura actually lifted her hand to her
chest, as though she could feel the blade slice
into her own flesh. This was a mistake, she
thought as Abe made his Y incision. I don't
know if I can watch this. But she remained
rooted to her spot, trapped by appalled fascination
as she saw Abe reflect back the skin
from the chest wall, swiftly peeling it away as
though skinning game. He worked unaware of
her horror, his attention focused only on the
task of opening up the torso. An efficient pathologist
can complete an uncomplicated autopsy
in under an hour, and at this stage of the
postmortem, Abe wasted no time on needlessly
elegant dissection. Maura had always
thought Abe a likable man, with his hearty appetite
for food and drink and opera, but at this
moment, with his bulging abdomen and his
neck thick as a bull's, he looked like a fat
butcher, his knife tearing through flesh.
The skin of the chest was now flayed open,
the breasts concealed beneath the peeled-back
flaps, the ribs and muscles exposed. Yoshima
leaned forward with pruning shears and cut
through the ribs. Each snap made Maura
wince. How easily a human bone is cracked,
she thought. We think of our hearts as protected
within a sturdy cage of ribs, yet all it
takes is the squeeze of a handle, the scissoring
of blades, and one by one, the ribs surrender to
tempered steel. We are made of such fragile
material.
Yoshima snipped through the last bone, and
Abe sliced the last strands of gristle and muscle.
Together they removed the breastplate, as
though lifting off the lid of a box.
Inside the open thorax, the heart and lungs
glistened. Young organs, was Maura's first
thought. But no, she realized; forty years old
wasn't so young, was it? It was not easy to acknowledge
that, at age forty, she was at the
halfway mark in her life. That she, like this
woman on the table, could no longer be considered
young.
The organs she saw in the open chest appeared
normal, without obvious signs of pathology.
With a few swift cuts, Abe excised the
lungs and heart and placed them in a metal
basin. Under bright lights he made a few slices
to view the lung parenchyma.
"Not a smoker," he said to the two detectives.
"No edema. Nice healthy tissue."
Except for the fact it was dead.
He dropped the lungs back into the basin,
where they formed a pink mound, and he
picked up the heart. It rested easily in his massive
hand. Maura was suddenly aware of her own heart, thumping in her chest. Like this
woman's heart, it would fit in Abe's palm. She
felt a twinge of nausea at the thought of him
holding it, turning it over to inspect the coro
nary vessels as he was doing now. Though mechanically
just a pump, the heart sits at the
very core of one's body, and to see this one so
exposed to view made her own chest feel hollow.
She took a breath, and the scent of blood
made her nausea worse. She turned away from
the corpse and found herself meeting Rizzoli's
gaze. Rizzoli, who saw too much. They had
known each other almost two years now, had
worked enough cases together to have developed
the highest regard for each other as professionals.
But along with that regard came a
measure of respectful wariness. Maura knew
just how acute were Rizzoli's instincts, and as
they looked at each other across the table, she
knew that the other woman must surely see
how close Maura was to bolting from the
room. At the unspoken question in Rizzoli's
eyes, Maura simply squared her jaw. The
Queen of the Dead reasserted her invincibility.
She focused, once again, on the corpse.
Abe, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension
in the room, had sliced open the heart's
chambers. "Valves all look normal," he commented.
"Coronaries are soft. Clean vessels.
Geez, I hope my heart looks this good."
Maura glanced at his enormous belly and
doubted it, knowing his passion for foie gras
and buttery sauces. Enjoy life while you can,
was Abe's philosophy. Indulge your appetites
now, because we all end up, sooner or later, like
our friends on the table. What good are clean
coronaries if you've lived a life deprived of
pleasures?
He set the heart in the basin and went to
work on the contents of the abdomen, his
scalpel slicing deep, through peritoneum. Out
came the stomach and liver, spleen and pancreas.
The odor of death, of chilled organs, was
familiar to Maura, yet this time so disturbing.
As if she was experiencing an autopsy for the
very first time. No longer the jaded pathologist,
she watched Abe cut with scissors and
knife, and the brutality of the procedure appalled
her. Dear god, this is what I do every
day, but when my scalpel cuts, it's through the
unfamiliar flesh of strangers.
This woman does not feel like a stranger.
She slipped into a numb void, watching Abe
work as though from a distance. Fatigued by
her restless night, by jet lag, she felt herself recede
from the scene unfolding on the table, retreating
to some safer vantage point from
which she could watch with dulled emotions.
It was just a cadaver on the table. No connection,
no one she knew. Abe quickly freed the
small intestines and dropped the coils into the
basin. With scissors and kitchen knife, he gutted
the abdomen, leaving only a hollow shell.
He carried the basin, now heavy with entrails,
to the stainless steel countertop, where he
lifted out the organs one by one for closer examination.
On the cutting board, he slit open the stomach
and drained the contents into a smaller
basin. The smell of undigested food made Rizzoli
and Frost turn away, their faces grimacing
in disgust.
"Looks like the remains of supper here," said
Abe. "I'd say she had a seafood salad. I see lettuce
and tomatoes. Maybe shrimp ..."
"How close to the time of death was her last
meal?" asked Rizzoli. Voice oddly nasal, her
hand over her face, blocking the smells.
"An hour, maybe more. I'm guessing she ate
out, since seafood salad's not the kind of meal
I'd fix for myself at home." Abe glanced at Rizzoli.
"You find any restaurant receipts in her
purse?"
"No. She could've paid cash. We're still
waiting for her credit card info."
"Jesus," said Frost, still averting his gaze.
"This just about kills any appetite I ever had
for shrimp."
"Hey, you can't let that bother you," said
Abe, now slicing into the pancreas. "When
you get right down to it, we're all made up of
the same basic building blocks. Fat, carbohydrates,
and protein. You eat a juicy steak,
you're eating muscle. You think I'd ever swear
off steak, just because that's the tissue I dissect
every day? All muscle has the same biochemical
ingredients, but sometimes it just smells
better than at other times." He reached for the
kidneys. Made neat slices into each, and
dropped small tissue samples into a jar of formalin.
"So far, everything looks normal," he
said. He glanced at Maura. "You agree?"
She gave a mechanical nod but said nothing,
suddenly distracted by the new set of
X-rays that Yoshima was now hanging on the
light box. They were skull films. On the lateral
view, the outline of soft tissue could be seen,
like a semitransparent ghost of a face in profile.
Maura crossed to the light box and stared
at the star-shaped density, startlingly bright
against the softer shadow of bone. It had
lodged up against the skull table. The bullet's
deceptively small entrance wound in the scalp
gave little indication of the damage this devastating
projectile could do to the human
brain.
"Jesus," she murmured. "It's a Black Talon
bullet."
Abe glanced up from the basin of organs.
"Haven't seen one of those in a while. We'll
have to be careful. Metal tips on that bullet are
razor-sharp. They'll cut right through your
glove." He looked at Yoshima, who had
worked at the M.E.'s office longer than any of
the current pathologists, and who served as
their institutional memory. "When's the last
time we had a vie come in with a Black Talon?"
"I'd guess it was about two years ago," said
Yoshima.
"That recent?"
"I remember Dr. Tierney had the case."
"Can you ask Stella to look it up? See if that
case got closed. Bullet's unusual enough to
make you wonder about any linkage."
Yoshima stripped off his gloves and went to
the intercom to buzz Abe's secretary. "Hello,
Stella? Dr. Bristol would like a search for the
last case involving a Black Talon bullet. It
would have been Dr. Tierney's ..."
"I've heard of them," said Frost, who'd
moved to the light box for a closer look at the
X-ray. "First time I've had a vie with one."
"It's a hollow point, manufactured by Winchester,"
said Abe. "Designed to expand and
cut through soft tissue. When it penetrates
flesh, the copper jacket peels open to form a
six-pointed star. Each tip's as sharp as a claw."
He moved to the corpse's head. "They were
taken off the market in '93, after some nut out
in San Francisco used them to kill nine people
in a mass shooting. Winchester got such bad
publicity, they decided to stop production. But
there are still a few out there in circulation.
Every so often, one'll turn up in a vie, but
they're getting pretty rare."
Maura's gaze was still on the X-ray, on that
lethal white star. She thought of what Abe had
just said: Each tip's as sharp as a claw. And she
remembered the scratch marks left on the victim's
car. Like the claw mark of a raptor's
talon.
She turned back to the table, just as Abe
completed his scalp incision. In that brief instant,
before he peeled the skin flap forward,
Maura found herself unavoidably staring at the
dead woman's face. Death had mottled the lips
to a dusky blue. The eyes were open, the exposed
corneas dry and clouded by exposure to
air. The eye's bright gleam during life is merely
the light's reflection off moist corneas; when
the lids no longer blink, when the cornea is no
longer bathed in fluid, the eyes turn dry and
dull. It's not the departure of the soul that
drains the appearance of life from one's eyes;
it's simply the cessation of the blink reflex.
Maura gazed down at the two clouded bands
across the cornea, and for an instant she imagined
the eyes as they must have looked while
alive. It was a startling glimpse into the mirror.
She had the sudden, vertiginous thought that
in fact she was the one lying on the table. That
she was watching her own corpse being autopsied
Didn't ghosts linger in the same places
they frequented while alive? This is my haunt,
she thought. The autopsy lab. This is where
I'm doomed to spend eternity.
Abe peeled the scalp forward and the face
collapsed like a rubber mask.
Maura shuddered. Looking away, she noticed
that Rizzoli was once again watching her. Is she looking at me? Or at my ghost?
The whir of the Stryker saw seemed to drill
straight into her marrow. Abe cut through the
dome of exposed skull, preserving the segment
where the bullet had punched through. Gently,
he pried off and removed the cap of bone. The
Black Talon tumbled out of the open cranium
and clattered into the basin Yoshima was holding
beneath it. It gleamed there, its metal points
splayed open like the petals of a lethal blossom.
The brain was mottled with dark blood.
"Extensive hemorrhage, both hemispheres.
Just what you'd expect from the X-rays," Abe
said. "The bullet entered here, left temporal bone. But it didn't exit. You can see it there,
in the films." He pointed to the light box,
where the bullet stood out as a bright star-burst,
resting against the inner curve of the
left occipital bone.
Frost said, "Funny how it ended up on the
same side of the skull it entered."
"There was probably ricochet. The bullet
punched into the cranium and bounced back
and forth, slicing through brain. Expending all
its energy on the soft tissue. Like spinning the
blades of a blender."
"Dr. Bristol?" It was his secretary, Stella, on
the intercom.
"Yeah?"
"I found that case with the Black Talon.
Victim's name was Vassily Titov. Dr. Tierney
did the autopsy."
"Who was the detective on that case?"
"Um . . . here it is. Detectives Vann and
Dunleavy."
"I'll check with them," said Rizzoli. "See
what they remember about it."
"Thanks, Stella," called Bristol. He looked
at Yoshima, who had the camera ready. "Okay,
snap away"
Yoshima began to take photos of the exposed
brain, capturing a permanent record of its appearance
before Abe removed it from its bony
house. Here is where a lifetime's worth of memories
were laid down, Maura thought, as she gazed
at the glistening folds of gray matter. The ABC's
of childhood. Four times four is sixteen. The first
kiss, the first lover, the first heartbreak. All are
deposited, as packets of messenger RNA, into
this complex collection of neurons. Memory was
merely biochemistry, yet it defined each human
being as an individual.
With a few nicks of the scalpel, Abe freed
the brain and carried it in both hands, as
though bearing treasure, to the countertop. He
would not dissect it today; instead he would let
it soak in a basin of fixative, to be sectioned
later. But he needed no microscopic examination
to see the evidence of trauma; it was there,
in the bloody discoloration on the surface.
"So we've got the entrance wound here, in
the left temple," said Rizzoli.
"Yes, and the skin hole and cranial hole line
up perfectly," said Abe.
"That's consistent with a straight shot into
the side of the head."
Abe nodded. "The perp probably pointed
right through the driver's window. And the
window was open, so there was no glass to distort
the trajectory."
"So she's just sitting there," said Rizzoli.
"Warm night. Window down. Eight o'clock,
it's getting dark. And he walks up to her car.
Just points the gun and fires." Rizzoli shook
her head. "Why?"
"Didn't take the purse," said Abe.
"So not a robbery," said Frost.
"Which leaves us with a crime of passion.
Or a hit." Rizzoli glanced at Maura. There
it was again--that possibility of a targeted
killing.
Did he hit the right target?
Abe suspended the brain in a bucket of formalin.
"No surprises so far," he said, as he
turned to perform the neck dissection.
"You'll be running tox screens?" asked
Rizzoli.
Abe shrugged. "We can send one off, but
I'm not sure it's necessary. The cause of death is
right up there." He nodded toward the light
box, where the bullet stood out against the cranial
shadow. "You have any reason to want a
tox screen? Did CST find any drugs or paraphernalia
in the car?"
"Nothing. The car was pretty tidy. I mean,
except for the blood."
"And all of it is from the victim?"
"It's all B positive, anyway."
Abe glanced at Yoshima. "You typed our
gal yet?"
Yoshima nodded. "It matches. She's B
positive."
No one was looking at Maura. No one saw
her chin snap up, or heard her sharp intake of
breath. Abruptly she turned so they could not
see her face, and she untied her mask, pulling
it off with a brisk tug.
As she crossed to the trash can, Abe called
out: "You bored with us already, Maura?"
"This jet lag is getting to me," she said,
shrugging off the gown. "I think I'm going to
go home early. I'll see you tomorrow, Abe."
She fled the lab without a backward glance.
The drive home went by in a blur. Only as
she reached the outskirts of Brookline did her
brain suddenly unlock. Only then did she
break out of the obsessive loop of thoughts
that kept playing in her head. Don't think
about the autopsy. Put it out of your mind.
Think about dinner, about anything but
what you saw today.
She stopped at the grocery store. Her refrig
erator was empty, and unless she wanted to eat
tuna and frozen peas tonight, she needed to
shop. It was a relief to focus on something else.
She threw items into her cart with manic urgency.
Far safer to think about food, about what
she would cook for the rest of the week. Stop
thinking about blood spatters and women's organs
in steel basins. I need grapefruits and apples.
And don't those eggplants look good? She
picked up a bundle of fresh basil and greedily
inhaled its scent, grateful that its pungency
swept away, if only for the moment, all the remembered
smells of the autopsy lab. A week of
bland French meals had left her starved for
spices; tonight, she thought, I'll cook a That
green curry so hot it will burn my mouth.
At home she changed into shorts and a
T-shirt and threw herself into preparing dinner.
Sipped chilled white Bordeaux as she
sliced chicken and onions and garlic. The
steamy fragrance of jasmine rice filled the
kitchen. No time to think of B positive blood
and black-haired women; the oil's smoking in
the pot. Time to saute the chicken, add the
curry paste. Pour in the can of coconut milk.
She covered the pot to let it simmer. Looked
up at the kitchen window and suddenly caught
a reflection of herself in the glass.
I look like her. Exactly like her.
A chill swept through her, as though the
face in the window was not a reflection, but a
phantom staring back. The lid on the pot rattled
from the rising steam. Ghosts trying to get
out. Desperate to get her attention.
She turned off the burner, crossed to the
telephone, and dialed a pager number she
knew by heart.
A moment later, Jane Rizzoli called. In the
background, Maura could hear a phone ringing.
So Rizzoli was not at home yet, but probably
sitting at her desk in Schroeder Plaza.
"I'm sorry to bother you," said Maura. "But
I need to ask you something."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I just want to know one more
thing about her."
"Anna Jessop?"
"Yes. You said she had a Massachusetts
driver's license."
"That's right."
"What's the birth date on her license?"
"What?"
"Today, in the autopsy lab, you said she was
forty years old. What day was she born?"
"Why?"
"Please. I just need to know."
"Okay. Hold on."
Maura heard the shuffling of pages, then
Rizzoli came back on the line. "According to
that license, her birthday's November twenty-fifth."
For a moment, Maura did not say anything.
"You still there?" asked Rizzoli.
"Yes."
"What's the problem, Doc? What's going
on?"
Maura swallowed. "I need you to do something
for me, Jane. It's going to sound crazy."
"Try me."
"I want the crime lab to run my DNA
against hers."
Over the line, Maura heard the other telephone
finally stop ringing. Rizzoli said, "Tell
me that again. Because I don't think I heard
you right."
"I want to know if my DNA matches Anna
Jessop's."
"Look, I agree there's a strong resemblance
--"
"There s more."
"What else are you talking about?"
"We both have the same blood type. B
positive."
Rizzoli said, reasonably: "How many other
people have B positive? It's like, what? Ten percent
of the population?"
"And her birthday. You said her birthday's
November twenty-fifth. Jane, so is mine."
That news brought dead silence. Rizzoli
said softly: "Okay, you just made the hairs on
the back of my arms stand up."
"You see why I want it, now? Everything
about her--from the way she looks, to her
blood type, to her date of birth ..." Maura
paused. "She's me. I want to know where
she comes from. I want to know who that
woman is."
A long pause. Then Rizzoli said, "Answering
that question is turning out to be a lot harder
than we thought."
"Why?"
"We got back a credit report on her this
afternoon. Found out that her MasterCard account
is only six months old."
So?
"Her driver's license is four months old. The
plates on her car were issued only three
months ago."
"What about her residence? She had an address
in Brighton, right? You must have spoken
to her neighbors."
"We finally got hold of the landlady late
last night. She says she rented it out to Anna
Jessop three months ago. She let us into the
apartment."
"And?"
"It's empty, Doc. Not a stick of furniture,
not a frying pan, not a toothbrush. Someone
had paid for cable TV and a phone line, but no
one was there."
"What about the neighbors?"
"Never saw her. They called her 'the ghost.'"
"There must be some prior address. Another
bank account--"
"We've looked. We can't find anything on
this woman that dates back earlier."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," said Rizzoli, "that until six
months ago, Anna Jessop didn't exist."
FOUR

when Rizzoli walked into J. P. Doyle's,
she found the usual suspects gathered around
the bar. Cops, most of them, trading the day's
war stories over beer and peanuts. Located right
down the street from Boston PD's Jamaica Plain
substation, Doyle's was probably the safest watering
hole in the city. Make one false move, and
a dozen cops would be on you like a New England
Patriots' pile-on. She knew this crowd,
and they all knew her. They parted to let the
pregnant lady through, and she saw a few grins
as she waddled in among them, her belly leading
the way like a ship's prow.
"Geez, Rizzoli," someone called out. "You
putting on weight or what?"
"Yeah." She laughed. "But unlike you, I'll be
skinny by August."
She made her way toward Detectives Vann
and Dunleavy, who were waving at her from
the bar. Sam and Frodo--that's what everyone
called the pair. The fat Hobbit and the skinny
one, partners so long they acted like an old
married couple, and probably spent more time
with each other than they did with their wives.
Rizzoli seldom saw the two apart, and she figured
it was only a matter of time before they
started dressing in matching outfits.
They grinned and saluted her with identical
pints of Guinness.
"Hey, Rizzoli," said Vann.
"--you're late," said Dunleavy.
"Already on our second round--"
"--You want one?"
Jesus, they even finished each other's sentences.
"It's too noisy in here," she said. "Let's
go in the other room."
They headed into the dining area, toward
her usual booth beneath the Irish flag. Dunleavy
and Vann slid in opposite her, sitting coily
side by side. She thought of her own
partner, Barry Frost, a nice guy, even a swell
guy, but with whom she had absolutely nothing
in common. At the end of the day, she
went her way, Frost went his. They liked each
other well enough, but she didn't think she
could stand much more togetherness than
that. Certainly not as much as these two guys.
"So you've got yourself a Black Talon vie,"
said Dunleavy.
"Last night, out in Brookline," she said.
"First Talon since your case. That was what,
two years ago?"
"Yeah, about."
"Closed?"
Dunleavy gave a laugh. "Nailed tight as a
coffin."
"Who was the shooter?"
"Guy named Antonin Leonov. Ukrainian
immigrant, two-bit player, trying to go big
league. Russian mob would've taken him out
eventually, if we hadn't arrested him first."
"What a moron," snorted Vann. "He had
no idea we were watching him."
"Why were you?" she asked.
"We got a tip he was expecting a delivery
from Tajikistan," said Dunleavy. "Heroin. Big
one. We were on his tail for almost a week, and
he never spotted us. So we follow him to his partners house. Vassily litov. litov mustve
pissed off Leonov or something. We watch as
Leonov goes into Titov's house. Then we hear
gunshots, and Leonov comes back out."
"And we're waiting for him," said Vann.
"Like I said, a moron."
Dunleavy raised his Guinness in a toast.
"Open and shut. Perp's caught with the
weapon. We're there to witness it. Don't know
why he even bothered to plead innocent. Took
the jury less than an hour to come back with
the verdict."
"Did he ever tell you how he got hold of
those Black Talons?" she asked.
"You kidding?" said Vann. "He wouldn't tell
us anything. Hardly spoke any English, but he
sure as hell knew the word Miranda."
"We brought a team in to search his house
and business," said Dunleavy. "Found, like,
eight boxes of Black Talons stored in his warehouse,
can you believe it? Don't know how he
got his hands on so many, but he had quite a
stash." Dunleavy shrugged. "So that's the
scoop on Leonov. I don't see how he connects
with your shooting."
"There've been only two Black Talon shootings
here in five years," she said. "Your case and
mine."
"Yeah, well, there's probably a few bullets
still floating around out there on the black market.
Hell, check eBay. All I know is, we nailed
Leonov, and good." Dunleavy downed his pint.
"You've got yourself a different shooter."
Something she had already concluded. A
feud between small-time Russian mobsters
two years ago did not seem relevant to the
murder of Anna Jessop. That Black Talon
bullet was a dead link.
"You'll lend me that file on Leonov?" she
asked. "I still want to look it over."
"On your desk tomorrow."
"Thanks, guys." She slid out of the booth
and hauled herself to her feet.
"So when're you popping?" asked Vann,
nodding at her belly.
"Not soon enough."
"The guys, they have a bet going, you know.
On the baby's sex."
"You're kidding."
"I think we're up to seventy bucks it's a girl,
forty bucks it's a boy."
Vann giggled. "And twenty bucks," he said,
"is on other."

Rizzoli felt the baby give a kick as she let herself
into her apartment. Settle down in there,
Junior, she thought. It's bad enough you
treated me like a punching bag all day; now
you're going to keep it up all night as well? She
didn't know if she was carrying a boy, girl, or
other; all she knew was that this kid was eager
to be born.
Just stop trying to kung-fu your way out,
okay?
She threw her purse and keys on the kitchen
counter, kicked off her shoes by the door, and
tossed her blazer over a dining room chair. Two
days ago her husband, Gabriel, had left for
Montana as part of an FBI team investigating a
paramilitary weapons cache. Now the apartment
was sliding back into the same comfortable
anarchy that had reigned here before their
marriage. Before Gabriel had moved in and instilled
some semblance of discipline. Leave it
to an ex-Marine to rearrange your pots and
pans in order of size.
In the bedroom, she caught a glimpse of her
reflection in the mirror. She scarcely recognized
herself, apple-cheeked and swaybacked,
her belly bulging beneath maternity stretch
pants. When did I disappear? she thought. Am
I still there, hidden somewhere in that distorted
body? She confronted that stranger's reflection,
remembering how flat her belly had
once been. She did not like the way her face
had plumped up, the way her cheeks had
turned as rosy as a child's. The glow of pregnancy,
Gabriel had called it, trying to reassure
his wife that she did not, in fact, look like a
shiny-nosed whale. That woman there is not
really me, she thought. That's not the cop who
can kick down doors and blow away perps.
She flopped on her back onto the bed and
spread both arms across the mattress like a bird
taking flight. She could smell Gabriel's scent in
the sheets. I miss you tonight, she thought.
This was not the way marriage was supposed
to be. Two careers, two work-obsessed people.
Gabriel on the road, her alone in this apartment.
But she'd known, going into it, that it
would not be easy. That there'd be too many
nights like this one, when his job, or hers,
would keep them apart. She thought of calling
him again, but they had already talked twice
that morning, and Verizon was stealing
enough of her paycheck as it was.
Oh, what the hell.
She rolled sideways, pushed herself off the
bed, and was about to reach for the phone on
the nightstand when it suddenly rang. Startled,
she looked at the caller ID readout. An
unfamiliar number--not Gabriel's.
She picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Detective Rizzoli?" a
man asked.
"Yes it is."
"I apologize for the late hour. I just got back
into town this evening, and--"
"Who's calling, please?"
"Detective Ballard, Newton PD. I understand
you're lead investigator on that shooting
last night, out in Brookline. A victim named
Anna Jessop."
"Yes, I am."
"Last year, I caught a case here. It involved a
woman named Anna Jessop. I don't know if it's
the same person, but--"
"You said you're with Newton PD?"
"Yes."
"Could you identify Ms. Jessop? If you
viewed the remains?"

A pause. "I think I need to. I need to be sure it's her.
And if it is?
"Then I know who killed her."
Even before Detective Rick Ballard pulled out
his ID, Rizzoli could have guessed the man was
a cop. As she walked into the reception area of
the M.E.'s building, he immediately rose to his
feet, as though at attention. His eyes were a direct
and crystalline blue, his brown hair
clipped in a conservative cut, and his shirt was
pressed with military neatness. He had the
same quiet air of command that Gabriel possessed,
the same rock-solid gaze that seemed to
say, In a pinch, you can count on me. He
made her wish, just for an instant, that she was
slim-waisted again, and attractive. As they
shook hands, as she looked at his ID, she felt
him studying her face.
Definitely a cop, she thought.
"You ready to do this?" she asked. When he
nodded, she glanced at the receptionist. "Is Dr.
Bristol downstairs?"
"He's finishing up an autopsy right now. He
said you can meet him down there."
They took the elevator to the basement level
and walked into the morgue anteroom, where
cabinets held supplies of shoe covers and
masks and paper caps. Through the large viewing
window they could see into the autopsy
lab, where Dr. Bristol and Yoshima were at
work on a gaunt, gray-haired man. Bristol
spotted them through the glass and he waved
in greeting.
Ten minutes more! he said.
Rizzoli nodded. "We'll wait."
Bristol had just made the scalp incision.
Now he peeled the scalp forward over the cranium,
collapsing the face.
"I always hate this part," said Rizzoli.
"When they start messing with the face. The
rest, I can handle."
Ballard didn't say anything. She looked at
him and saw that his back was now rigid, his
face grimly stoic. Since he was not a homicide
detective, he probably did not make many visits
to the morgue, and the procedure now
going on beyond that window must surely
strike him as appalling. She remembered the
first visit she'd ever made here as a police cadet.
She'd been part of a group from the academy,
the only woman among the six brawny cadets,
and the men had all towered over her. Everyone
had expected the girl to be the squeamish
one, that she'd be the one who'd turn away
during the autopsy. But she had planted herself
front and center, had watched the entire procedure
without flinching. It was one of the men,
the most strapping among them, who had
paled and stumbled off to a nearby chair. She
wondered if Ballard was about to do the same.
Under fluorescent lights, his skin had taken on
a sickly pallor.
In the autopsy room, Yoshima began sawing
the cranium open. The whir of blade against
bone seemed to be more than Ballard could deal
with. He turned from the window, fixing his
gaze instead on the boxes of gloves stacked up in
various sizes on the shelf. Rizzoli actually felt a
little sorry for him. It had to be humiliating
when you were a tough-looking guy like Ballard,
to let a girl cop see you going rubber-kneed.
She shoved a stool his way, then pulled one
up for herself. Gave a sigh as she sat down.
"Nowadays, I'm not so good at standing on my
feet too long."
He sat down too, looking relieved to be focused
on anything other than that whining
bone saw. "Is that your first?" he asked, pointing
to her belly.
"Yep."
Boy or girl?
"I don't know. We'll be happy either way."
"That's how I felt when my daughter was
born. Ten fingers and toes, that's all I was asking
for ..." He paused, swallowing hard, as the
saw continued to whine.
"How old is your daughter now?" asked
Rizzoli, trying to distract him.
"Oh, fourteen, going on thirty. Not a barrel
of laughs right now."
"Rough age for girls."

"See all my gray hairs coming in?"
Rizzoli laughed. "My mom used to do that.
Point to her head and say, 'These gray hairs are
all your fault.' I have to admit, I wasn't nice to
be around when I was fourteen. It's the age."
"Well, we've got some problems going on,
too. My wife and I separated last year. Katie's
getting pulled in different directions. Two
working parents, two households."
"That's gotta be hard on a kid."
The whine of the bone saw mercifully
ceased. Through the window, Rizzoli saw
Yoshima remove the skullcap. Saw Bristol free
up the brain, cupping it gently in both hands
as he extracted it from the cranium. Ballard
kept his gaze averted from the window, his attention
focused on Rizzoli.
"It's hard, isn't it?" he said.
"What is?"
"Working as a cop. Your condition and all."
"At least no one expects me to kick down
any doors these days."
"My wife was a rookie when she got
pregnant."
"Newton PD?"
"Boston. They wanted to yank her right off
patrol. She told them being pregnant was an advantage.
Said perps are a lot more courteous."
"Perps? They're never courteous to me."
In the next room, Yoshima was sewing the
corpse's incision closed with needle and suture,
a macabre tailor stitching together not fabric,
but flesh. Bristol stripped off his gloves,
washed his hands, then lumbered out to meet
his visitors.
"Sorry for the delay. Took a little longer
than I expected. The guy had tumors all over
his abdomen and never saw a doctor. So instead,
he gets me." He reached out with a beefy
hand, still damp, to greet Ballard. "Detective.
So you're here to take a look at our gunshot."
Rizzoli saw Ballard's face tighten. "Detective
Rizzoli asked me to."
Bristol nodded. "Well, let's go then. She's in
the cold room." He led them across the autopsy
lab, through another doorway to the
large refrigeration unit. It looked like any
walk-in meat locker, with temperature dials
and a massive stainless steel door. Hanging on
the wall beside it was a clipboard with the log
of deliveries. The name of the elderly man on
whom Bristol had just finished the postmortem
was there on the list, delivered at
eleven P.M. last night. This was not a roster
one wanted to be on.
Bristol opened the door and wisps of con
densation drifted out. They stepped inside,
and the smell of chilled meat almost made
Rizzoli gag. Since becoming pregnant, she had
lost her tolerance for foul odors; even a whiff
of decay could send her reeling for the nearest
sink. This time she managed to hold back the
nausea as she gazed with grim resolve at the
row of gurneys in the cold room. There were
five body bags, their contents shrouded in
white plastic.
Bristol walked up the row of gurneys and
scanned the various tags. He stopped at the
fourth one. "Here's our girl," he said, and unzipped
the bag low enough to reveal the upper
half of the torso, the Y-incision stitched
together with mortician's suture. More of
Yoshima's handiwork.
As the plastic parted, Rizzoli's gaze wasn't on
the dead woman, but on Rick Ballard. He was
silent as he stared down at the corpse. The sight
of Anna Jessop seemed to freeze him in place.
"Well?" said Bristol.
Ballard blinked, as though snapping out of
his trance. He released a breath. "It's her," he
whispered.
"You're absolutely sure?"
"Yes." Ballard swallowed. "What happened?
What did you find?"
Bristol glanced at Rizzoli, a silent request for
her go-ahead to release the information. She
gave a nod.
"Single gunshot, left temple," Bristol said,
pointing to the entrance wound in the scalp.
"Extensive damage to the left temporal as well
as both parietal lobes, from intracranial ricochet.
Massive intracranial bleed."
"That was the only wound?"
"Correct. Very quick, very efficient."
Ballard's gaze had drifted to the torso. To
the breasts. It was not a surprising male response,
when confronted with a nude young
woman, but Rizzoli was nonetheless disturbed
by it. Alive or dead, Anna Jessop had a right to
her dignity. Rizzoli was relieved when Dr. Bristol
matter-of-factly zipped the bag shut, granting
the corpse its privacy.
They walked out of the cold room and Bristol
swung the heavy refrigerator door shut.
"Do you know the names of next of kin?" he
asked. "Anyone we need to notify?"
"There are none," said Ballard.
"You're sure of that."
"She has no living ..." His voice abruptly
faded. He had gone stock-still, and was staring
through the window, into the autopsy lab.
Rizzoli turned to see what he was looking at,
and knew immediately what had caught his attention.
Maura Isles had just walked into the
lab, carrying an envelope of X-rays. She crossed
to the viewing box, clipped up films, and
turned on the light. As she stood gazing at images
of shattered limb bones, she did not realize
that she was being watched. That three pairs of
eyes were staring at her through the window.
"Who is that?" Ballard murmured.
"That's one of our M.E.'s," said Bristol. "Dr.
Maura Isles."
"The resemblance is scary, isn't it?" said
Rizzoli.
Ballard gave a startled shake of his head.
"For a moment I thought..."
"We all did, when we first saw the victim."
In the next room, Maura slid the films back
into the envelope. She walked out of the lab,
never realizing she'd been observed. How easy
it is, to stalk another person, thought Rizzoli.
There is no such thing as a sixth sense that tells
us when others are staring at us. We don't feel
the stalker's gaze on our backs; only at the instant
when he makes his move do we realize
he's there.
Rizzoli turned to Ballard. "Okay, you've
seen Anna Jessop. You've confirmed you knew
her. Now tell us who she really was."
THE ULTIMATE DRIVING MACHINE. That's
what all the ads called it, what Dwayne called
it, and Mattie Purvis was steering that powerful
machine down West Central Street, blinking
back tears and thinking: You have to be
there. Please, Dwayne, be there. But she didn't
know if he would be. There was so much about
her husband that she didn't understand these
days, as if some stranger had stepped into his
place, a stranger who scarcely paid attention to
her. Scarcely even looked at her. I want my
husband back. But I don't even know how I
lost him.
The giant sign with PURVIS BMW beckoned
ahead; she turned into the lot, passing
rows of other gleaming ultimate machines,
and spotted Dwayne's car, parked near the
showroom door.
She pulled into the stall next to his and
turned off her engine. Sat for a moment,
breathing deep. Cleansing breaths, just like
they'd taught her in Lamaze class. The class
Dwayne had stopped coming to a month ago,
because he thought it was a waste of his time.
You're the one having the baby, not me. Why
do I need to be there?
Uh-oh, too many deep breaths. Suddenly
light-headed, she reeled forward against the
steering wheel. Accidentally bumped the horn
and flinched as it gave a loud blare. She
glanced out the window and saw one of the
mechanics looking at her. At Dwayne's idiot
wife, honking her horn for nothing. Flushing,
she pushed open the door, eased her big belly
out from behind the steering wheel, and
walked into the BMW showroom.
Inside it smelled like leather and car wax.
An aphrodisiac for guys, Dwayne called it, this
banquet of scents that now made Mattie
faintly nauseated. She paused among the sexy
sirens of the showroom: this year's new models,
all sensuous curves and chrome, gleaming
under spotlights. A man could lose his soul in
this room. Run his hand over a metallic blue
flank, stare too long at his reflection in a windshield,
and he'd begin to see his dreams. He'd
see the man he could be if only he owned one
of these machines.
"Mrs. Purvis?"
Mattie turned and saw Bart Thayer, one of
her husband's salesmen, waving at her. "Oh.
Hi," she said.
"You looking for Dwayne?"
"Yes. Where is he?"
"I think, uh . . ." Bart glanced toward the
back offices. "Let me check."
"That's okay, I can find him."
"No! I mean, uh, let me get him, okay? You
should sit down, take a load off. In your condition,
you shouldn't be standing around too
much." Funny thing for Bart to say; he had a
belly bigger than hers.
She managed a smile. "I'm only pregnant,
Bart. Not crippled."
"So when's the big day?"
"Two weeks. That's when we think it's due,
anyway. You never know."
"Ain't that the truth. My first son, he didn't
want to come out. Born three weeks late and
he's been late for everything ever since." He
winked. "Let me get Dwayne for you."
She watched him walk toward the back offices.
Trailed after him, just far enough to
watch him knock on Dwayne's door. There
was no response, so he knocked again. At last
the door opened and Dwayne stuck his head
out. He gave a start when he spotted Mattie
waving at him from the showroom.
"Can I talk to you?" she called out to him.
Dwayne stepped right out of his office, closing
the door behind him. "What are you doing
here?" he snapped.
Bart looked back and forth at the couple.
Slowly he began to sidle away toward the exit.
"Uh, Dwayne, I think I'll just take a little coffee
break now."
"Yeah, yeah," muttered Dwayne. "I don't care."
Bart fled the showroom. Husband and wife
looked at each other.
"I waited for you," Mattie said.
"What?"
"My OH appointment, Dwayne. You said
you were coming. Dr. Fishman waited twenty
minutes, and then we couldn't wait any longer.
You missed seeing the sonogram."
"Oh. Oh, Jesus. I forgot." Dwayne ran his
hand over his head, smoothing back his dark
hair. Always fussing over his hair, his shirt, his
tie. When you're dealing with a high-end product,
Dwayne liked to say, you have to look the
part. "I'm sorry."
She reached in her purse and pulled out a
Polaroid. "Do you even want to take a look at
the picture?"
"What is it?"
"It's our daughter. That's a picture of the
sonogram."
He glanced at the photo and shrugged.
"Can't see much of anything."
"You can see her arm here, and her leg. If you
look real hard, you can almost see her face."
"Yeah, cool." He handed it back. "I'll be
home a little late tonight, okay? There's a guy
coming by at six for a test drive. I'll catch dinner
on my own."
She put the Polaroid back in her purse and
sighed. "Dwayne--"
He gave her a quick peck on the forehead.
"Let me walk you out. C'mon."
"Can't we go out for coffee or something?"
"I've got customers."
"But there's no one else in the showroom."
"Mattie, please. Just let me do my job,
okay?"
Dwayne's office door suddenly opened. Mat-tie's
head swiveled around as a woman stepped
out, a lanky blonde who quickly ducked across
the hall, into another office.
"Who's that?" said Mattie.
"What?"
"That woman who was just in your office."
"Oh. Her?" He cleared his throat. "New
hire. I
thought it was about time we brought in
a saleswoman. You know, diversify the team.
She's turned into a real asset. Moved out more
cars last month than Bart did, and that's saying
something."
Mattie stared at Dwayne's closed door,
thinking: That's when it started. Last month.
That's when everything changed between us,
when the stranger moved into Dwayne's body.
"What's her name?" she asked.
"Look, I've really got to get back to work."
"I just want to know her name." She turned
and looked at her husband and, in that instant,
she saw raw guilt in his eyes, as glaring as neon.
"Oh, Jesus." He turned away. "I don't need
this."
"Uh, Mrs. Purvis?" It was Bart, calling from
the showroom doorway. "Did you know you
have a flat tire? The mechanic just pointed it
out to me."
Dazed, she turned and stared at him. "No.
I... I didn't."
"How can you not notice you have a flat
tire?" Dwayne said.
"It might have--well, it seemed to handle a
little sluggishly, but--"
"I don't believe this." Dwayne was already
heading for the door. Walking away from me as
always, she thought. And now he's angry. How
did everything suddenly become my fault?
She and Bart followed him to her car.
Dwayne was crouched down by the right rear
wheel, shaking his head.
"Can you believe she didn't notice this?" he
said to Bart. "Look at this tire! She shredded
the fucking tire!"
"Hey, it happens," said Bart. He gave Mattie
a sympathetic glance. "Look, I'll ask Ed to slip
on a new one. No problem."

"But look at the rim, it's all screwed up.
How many miles you think she drove on this
thing? How can anyone be that dense?"
"C'mon, Dwayne," said Bart. "It's no big
deal."
"I didn't know," said Mattie. "I'm sorry."
"Did you drive it like this all the way from
the doctor's office?" Dwayne glanced at her
over his shoulder, and the anger she saw in his
eyes scared her. "Were you daydreaming or
what?"
"Dwayne, I didn't know."
Bart patted Dwayne on the shoulder.
"Maybe you should lighten up a little, how
'bout it?"
"Stay the hell out of this!" snapped Dwayne.
Bart retreated, hands lifted in submission.
"Okay, okay." He shot a last glance at Mattie, a
look of good luck, honey, and walked away.
"It's only a tire," said Mattie.
"You must've been throwing sparks all down
the road. How many people you think saw you
driving around like this?"
"Does it matter?"
"Hello! This is a Beemer. When you're driving
a machine like this, you're upholding an
image. People see this car, they expect the
driver to be a little smarter, a little more hip. So
you go clanking around on a bare rim, it ruins
the image. It makes every other Beemer driver
look bad. It makes me look bad."
"It's only a tire."
"Stop saying that."
"But it is."
Dwayne gave a snort of disgust and rose to
his feet. "I give up."
She swallowed back tears. "It's not about the
tire. Is it, Dwayne?"
"What?"
"This fight is about us. Something's wrong
between us."
His silence only made things worse. He
didn't look at her, but turned, instead, to
watch the mechanic walking toward them.
"Hey," the mechanic called out. "Bart said I
should go ahead and change that tire."
"Yeah, take care of it, will you?" Dwayne
paused, his attention shifting to a Toyota that
had just driven into the lot. A man climbed
out and stood eyeing one of the BMWs. Bent
close to read the dealer's sticker on the window.
Dwayne smoothed back his hair, gave
his tie a tug, and started walking toward the
new customer.
"Dwayne?" said Mattie.
"I got a client here."
"But I'm your wife."
He spun around, his gaze suddenly, shockingly,
poisonous. "Don't. Push it. Mattie."
"What do I have to do to get your attention?"
she cried. "Buy a car from you? Is that
what it takes? Because I don't know any other
way." Her voice broke. "I don't know any
other way."
"Then maybe you should just stop trying.
Because I don't see the point anymore."
She watched him walk away. Saw him pause
to square his shoulders, put on a smile. His
voice suddenly boomed out, warm and friendly,
as he greeted the new client on the lot.
"Mrs. Purvis? Ma'am?"
She blinked. Turned to look at the mechanic.
"I'll need your car keys, if you don't mind.
So I can move her into the bay and get that tire
on." He held out a grease-stained hand.
Wordless, she gave him her key ring, then
turned to look at Dwayne. But he did not even
glance her way. As if she was invisible. As if she
was nothing.
She scarcely remembered driving home.
She found herself sitting at the kitchen
table, still holding the keys, the day's mail
stacked in front of her. On top was the credit
card bill, addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Dwayne
Purvis. Mr. and Mrs. She remembered the first
time someone had called her Mrs. Purvis, and
the joy she'd felt at hearing the name. Mrs.
Purvis, Mrs. Purvis.
Mrs. Nobody.
The keys spilled to the floor. She dropped
her head in her hands and began to cry. Cried
as the baby kicked inside her, cried until her
throat ached and the mail was soaked with her
tears.
I want him back the way he was. When he
loved me.
Through the stuttering of her own sobs, she
heard the squeal of a door. It came from the
garage. Her head shot up, hope blooming in
her chest.
He's home! He's come home to tell me he's
sorry.
She jumped up so quickly that her chair
tipped over. Giddy, she opened the door and
stepped into the garage. Stood blinking in the
gloom, bewildered. The only car parked in the garage was hers.
"Dwayne?" she said.
A strip of sunlight caught her eye; the door
leading to the side yard was ajar. She crossed
the garage to close it. She had just pushed it
shut when she heard a footfall behind her, and
she froze, heart thumping. Knew, in that instant,
that she was not alone.
She turned. Halfway around, darkness
met her.
SIX

maura stepped from the afternoon
SUNSHINE into the cool gloom of the Church
of Our Lady of Divine Light. For a moment
she could see only shadows, the vague outlines
of pews, and the silhouette of a lone woman
parishioner seated at the front, her head
bowed. Maura slipped into a pew and sat
down. She let the silence envelop her as her
eyes adjusted to the dim interior. In the stained
glass windows above, glowing with richly
somber hues, a woman with swirling hair
gazed adoringly at a tree from which hung a
bloodred apple. Eve in the Garden of Eden.
Woman as temptress, seducer. Destroyer. Staring
up at the window, she felt a sense of dis
quiet, and her gaze moved to another. Though
she had been raised by Catholic parents, she
did not feel at home in the church. She gazed
at the jewel-toned images of holy martyrs
framed in these windows, and though they
might now be enshrined as saints, she knew
that, as living flesh and blood, they could not
have been flawless. That their time on earth
was surely marred by sins and bad choices and
petty desires. She knew, better than most, that
perfection was not human.
She rose to her feet, turned toward the aisle,
and paused. Father Brophy was standing there,
the light from the stained glass casting a mosaic
of colors on his face. He had approached
so quietly that she hadn't heard him, and now
they faced each other, neither one daring to
break the silence.
"I hope you're not leaving already," he finally
said.
"I just came to meditate for a few minutes."
"Then I'm glad I caught you before you left.
Would you like to talk?"
She glanced toward the rear doors, as
though contemplating escape. Then she released
a sigh. "Yes. I think I would."
The woman in the front pew had turned
and was watching them. And what does she
see? Maura wondered. The handsome young
priest. An attractive woman. Intent whispers
exchanged beneath the gazes of saints.
Father Brophy seemed to share Maura's uneasiness.
He glanced at the other parishioner,
and he said: "It doesn't have to be here."
They walked in Jamaica Riverway Park, following
the tree-shaded path that led alongside
the water. On this warm afternoon, they
shared the park with joggers and cyclists and
mothers pushing baby strollers. In such a public
place, a priest walking with a troubled
parishioner could hardly stir gossip. This is
how it always has to be between us, she
thought as they ducked beneath the drooping
branches of a willow. No hint of scandal, no
whiff of sin. What I want most from him is
what he can't give me. Yet here I am.
Here we both are.
"I wondered when you'd come by to see
me," he said.
"I've wanted to. It's been a rough week." She
stopped and gazed at the river. The whish of
traffic from the nearby road obscured the
sound of the rushing water. "I'm feeling my
own mortality these days."
"You haven't before?"
"Not like this. When I watched that autopsy
last week--"
"You watch so many of them."
"Not just watch them, Daniel. I perform them. I hold the scalpel in my hand and I cut. I
do it almost every day at work, and it never
bothered me. Maybe it means I've lost touch
with humanity. I've grown so detached that I
don't even register it's human flesh I'm slicing.
But that day, watching it, it all became personal.
I looked at her and I saw myself on the
table. Now I can't pick up a scalpel without
thinking about her. About what her life might
have been like, what she felt, what she was
thinking when . . ." Maura stopped and sighed.
"It's been hard going back to work. That's all."
"Do you really have to?"
Perplexed by the question, she looked at
him. "Do I have a choice?"
"You make it sound like indentured
servitude."
"It's my job. It's what I'm good at."
"Not, in itself, a reason to do it. So why do
you:
"Why are you a priest?"
Now it was his turn to look perplexed. He
thought about it for a moment, standing very
still beside her, the blueness of his eyes muted
in the shadows cast by the willow trees. "I
made that choice so long ago," he said, "I don't
think about it much anymore. Or question it."
"You must have believed."
"I still believe."
"Isn't that enough?"
"Do you really think that faith is all that's
required?"
"No, of course not." She turned and began
walking again, along a path dappled with sunlight
and shade. Afraid to meet his gaze, afraid
that he'd see too much in hers.
"Sometimes it's good to come face-to-face
with your own mortality," he said. "It makes us
reconsider our lives."
"I'd rather not."
"Why?"
"I'm not big on introspection. I grew so
impatient with philosophy classes. All those
questions without answers. But physics and
chemistry, I could understand. They were comforting
to me because they taught principles
that are reproducible and orderly." She paused
to watch a young woman on Rollerblades skate
past, pushing a baby in a stroller. "I don't like
the unexplainable."
"Yes, I know. You always want your mathe
matical equations solved. That's why you're
having such a hard time with that woman's
murder."
"It's a question without an answer. The sort
of thing I hate."
She sank onto a wooden bench facing the
river. Daylight was fading, and the water
flowed black in the thickening shadows. He
too sat down, and although they didn't touch,
she was so aware of him, sitting close beside
her, that she could almost feel his heat against
her bare arm.
"Have you heard any more about the case
from Detective Rizzoli?"
"She hasn't exactly been keeping me in the
loop."
"Would you expect her to?"
"As a cop, no. She wouldn't."
"And as a friend?"
"That's just it, I thought we were friends.
But she's told me so little."
"You can't blame her. The victim was found
outside your house. She has to wonder--"
"What, that I'm a suspect?"
"Or that you were the intended target. It's
what we all thought that night. That it was you
in that car." He stared across the river. "You
said you can't stop thinking about the autopsy.
Well, I can't stop thinking about that night,
standing in your street with all those police
cars. I couldn't believe any of it was happening.
I refused to believe."
They both fell silent. Before them flowed a
river of dark water, and behind them, a river
of cars.
She asked, suddenly: "Will you have dinner
with me tonight?"
He didn't answer for a moment, and his
hesitation made her flush with embarrassment.
What a foolish question. She wanted to take it
back, to replay the last sixty seconds. How
much better to have just said good-bye and
walked away. Instead, she'd blurted out that ill-considered
invitation, one that they both knew
he shouldn't accept.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I guess it's not
such a good--"
"Yes," he said. "I'd like to very much."

She stood in her kitchen dicing tomatoes for
the salad, her hand jittery as it gripped the
knife. On the stove simmered a pot of coq au
vin, wafting out steam fragrant with the scents
of red wine and chicken. An easy, familiar meal
that she could cook without consulting a
recipe, without having to stop and think about
it. She could not cope with any meal more
complicated. Her mind was completely focused
on the man who was now pouring two
glasses of pinot noir.
He placed one glass beside her on the
counter. "What else can I do?"
"Not a thing."
"Make the salad dressing? Wash lettuce?" "I didn't invite you here to make you work. I
just thought you'd prefer this to a restaurant,
where it's so public."
"You must be tired of always being in the
public's eye," he said.
"I was thinking more about you."
"Even priests eat out at restaurants, Maura."
"No, I meant. . ." She felt herself flush and
renewed her efforts with the tomato.
"I guess it would make people wonder," he
said. "If they saw us out together." He watched
her for a moment, and the only sound was her
knife blade rapping against the cutting board.
What does one do with a priest in the kitchen?
she wondered. Ask him to bless the food? No
other man could make her feel so uneasy, so
human and flawed. And what are your flaws,
Daniel? she wondered as she slid the diced
tomatoes into a salad bowl, as she tossed them
with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Does that
white collar give you immunity to temptation?
"At least let me slice that cucumber," he said.
"You really can't relax, can you?"
"I'm not good at sitting idle while others
work."
She laughed. "Join the club."
"Would that be the club for hopeless workaholics?
Because I'm a charter member." He
pulled a knife from the wooden block and
began to slice the cucumber, releasing its fresh,
summery fragrance. "It comes from having to
help out with five brothers and a sister."
"Seven of you in the family? My god."
"I'm sure that's what my dad said every time
he heard there was another one on the way."
"So where were you in that seven?"
"Number four. Smack in the middle. Which,
according to psychologists, makes me a natural
born mediator. The one always trying to keep
the peace." He glanced up at her with a smile.
"It also means I know how to get in and out of
the shower really fast."
"And how do you go from sibling number
four to being a priest?"
He looked back down at the cutting board.
"As you might expect, a long story."
"One you don't want to talk about?"
"My reasons will probably strike you as illogical."
"Well, it's funny how our biggest decisions
in life are usually the least logical. The person
we choose to marry, for instance." She took a
sip of wine and set the glass back down. "I certainly
couldn't defend my own marriage on the
basis of logic."
He glanced up. "Lust?"
"That would be the operative word. That's
how I made the biggest mistake of my life. So
far, that is." She took another sip of wine. And
you could be my next big mistake. If God
wanted us to behave, He shouldn't have created
temptation.
He slid the sliced cucumbers into the salad
bowl and rinsed the knife. She watched him
standing at the sink, his back to her. He had
the tall, lean build of a long-distance runner.
Why do I put myself through this? she wondered.
Of all the men I could be attracted to,
why does it have to be this one?
"You asked why I chose the priesthood,"
he said.
"Why did you?"
He turned to look at her. "My sister had
leukemia."
Startled, she didn't know what to say. Nothing
seemed appropriate.
"Sophie was six years old," he said. "The
youngest one in the family, and the only girl."
He reached for a dish towel to dry his hands,
and neatly hung it back on the rack, taking his
time, as though he needed to measure his next
words. "It was acute lymphocytic leukemia. I
suppose you could call it the good kind, if
there's any such thing as a good leukemia."
"It's the one with the best prognosis in children.
An eighty percent survival rate." A true
statement, but she was sorry the instant after
she'd said it. The logical Dr. Isles, responding
to tragedy with her usual helpful facts and
heartless statistics. It was the way she'd always
coped with the messy emotions of those
around her, by retreating into her scientist's
role. A friend just died of lung cancer? A relative
left quadriplegic from a car accident? For
every tragedy she could cite a statistic, drawing
reassurance in the crisp certainty of numbers.
In the belief that behind every horror, there is
an explanation.
She wondered if Daniel thought her detached,
even callous, for her response. But he
did not seem to take offense. He simply nod
ded, accepting her statistic in the spirit she had
offered it, as a simple fact.
"The five-year survival rates weren't quite so
good back then," he said. "By the time she was
diagnosed, she was pretty sick. I can't tell you
how devastating it was, to all of us. To my
mother, especially. Her only girl. Her baby. I
was fourteen then, and I was the one who kind
of took over keeping an eye on Sophie. Even
with all the attention she got, all the coddling,
she never acted spoiled. Never stopped being
the sweetest kid you could imagine." He still
wasn't looking at Maura; he was gazing at the
floor, as though unwilling to reveal the depth
of his pain.
"Daniel?" she said.
He took a deep breath, straightened. "I'm
not sure how to tell this story to a seasoned
skeptic like you."
"What happened?"
"Her doctor informed us that she was terminal.
In those days, when a doctor renders his
opinion, you accept it as gospel. That night,
my parents and brothers went off to church.
To pray for a miracle, I guess. I stayed behind
in the hospital, so Sophie wouldn't be alone.
She was bald by then. Lost it all with the
chemotherapy. I remember her falling asleep in
my lap. And me praying. I prayed for hours,
made all sorts of crazy promises to God. If she
had died, I don't think I would have set foot in
church again."
"But she lived," said Maura softly.
He looked at her and smiled. "Yes, she did.
And I kept all those promises I made. Every
single one. Because that day, He was listening
to me. I don't doubt it."
"Where is Sophie now?"
"Happily married, living in Manchester.
Two adopted kids." He sat down facing her
across the kitchen table. "So here I am."
"Father Brophy."
"Now you know why I made the choice."
And was it the right one? she wanted to ask,
but didn't.
They refilled their wineglasses. She sliced
crusty French bread and tossed the salad. Ladled
steaming coq au vin into serving bowls.
The way to a man's heart is through his stomach;
was that what she was trying to reach,
what she really wanted? Daniel Brophy's heart?
Maybe it's because I can't have him that I
feel safe wanting him. He's beyond my reach,
so he can't hurt me, the way Victor did.
But when she'd married Victor, she'd thought
he could never hurt her either.
We're never as impervious as we think.
They had just finished their meal when the
ringing of the doorbell made them both
stiffen. Innocent though the evening had been,
they exchanged uneasy glances, like two guilty
lovers caught in the act.
Jane Rizzoli was standing on Maura's front
porch, black hair frizzed to an unruly mass of
curls in the humid summer air. Though the
night was warm, she was dressed in one of the
dark business pantsuits she always wore to
work. This was not a social call, thought
Maura, as she met Rizzoli's somber gaze.
Glancing down, she saw that Rizzoli was carrying
a briefcase.
"I'm sorry to bother you at home, Doc. But
we need to talk. I thought it'd be better to see
you here, and not at your office."
"Is this about the case?"
Rizzoli nodded. Neither one of them had to
specify which case they were talking about; they
both knew. Though she and Rizzoli respected
each other as professionals, they had not yet
crossed that line into a comfortable friendship,
and tonight, they regarded each other with a
measure of uneasiness. Something has happened,
Maura thought. Something that has
made her wary of me.
"Please come in."
Rizzoli stepped into the house and paused,
sniffing the scent of food. "Am I interrupting
your dinner?"
"No, we just finished."
The we did not escape Rizzoli's notice. She
gave Maura an inquiring look. Heard footsteps
and turned to see Daniel in the hallway, carrying
wineglasses back to the kitchen.
"Evening, Detective!" he called.
Rizzoli blinked in surprise. "Father Brophy."
He continued into the kitchen, and Rizzoli
turned back to Maura. Though she didn't say
anything, it was clear what she was thinking.
The same thing that woman parishioner had
been thinking. Yes, it looks bad, but nothing
has happened. Nothing except dinner and
conversation. Why the hell must you look at
me like that?
"Well," said Rizzoli. A lot of meaning was
crammed into that one word. They heard the
sound of clattering china and silverware.
Daniel was loading the dishwasher. A priest at
home in her kitchen.
"I'd like to talk to you in private, if I could,"
said Rizzoli.
"Is that really necessary? Father Brophy is
my friend."
"This is going to be tough enough to talk
about as it is, Doc."
"I can't just tell him to leave." She stopped
at the sound of Daniel's footsteps emerging
from the kitchen.
"But I really should go," he said. He glanced
at Rizzoli's briefcase. "Since you obviously
have business to discuss."
"Actually, we do," said Rizzoli.
He smiled at Maura. "Thank you for
dinner."
"Wait," said Maura. "Daniel." She stepped
outside with him, onto the front porch, and
closed the door behind her. "You don't have to
leave," she said.
"She needs to talk to you in private."
"I'm so sorry."
"Why? It was a wonderful evening."
"I feel as if you're being chased out of my
house."
He reached out and grasped her arm in a
warm and reassuring squeeze. "Call me whenever
you need to talk again," he said. "No matter
what the hour."
She watched him walk toward his car, his
black clothes blending into the summer night.
When he turned to wave good-bye, she caught
a glimpse of his collar, one last glimmer of
white in the darkness.
She stepped back into the house and found
Rizzoli still standing in the hallway, watching
her. Wondering about Daniel, of course. She
wasn't blind; she could see that something more
than friendship was growing between them.
"So can I offer you a drink?" asked Maura.
"That'd be great. Nothing alcoholic." Rizzoli
patted her belly. "Junior's too young for
booze yet."
"Or course."
Maura led the way down the hall, forcing
herself to play the proper hostess. In the
kitchen she dropped ice cubes into two glasses
and poured orange juice. Added a splash of
vodka to hers. Turning to set the drinks on the
kitchen table, she saw Rizzoli take a file folder
from her briefcase and set it on the kitchen
table.
"What's that?" asked Maura.
"Why don't we both sit down first, Doc? Because
what I'm gonna tell you may be kind of
upsetting."
Maura sank into a chair at the kitchen
table; so did Rizzoli. They sat facing each
other, the folder lying between them. A Pan
Pandora's box of secrets, thought Maura, staring
at the file. Maybe I don't really want to know
what's inside.
"Do you remember what I told you last
week, about Anna Jessop? That we could find
almost no records on her that went back more
than six months? And the only residence we
had for her was an empty apartment?"
"You called her a phantom."
"In a sense, that's true. Anna Jessop didn't
really exist."
"How is that possible?"
"Because there was no Anna Jessop. It was
an alias. Her real name was Anna Leoni. About
six months ago, she took on an entirely new
identity. Started closing her accounts, and finally
moved out of her house. Under the new
name, she rented an apartment in Brighton
that she never intended to move into. It was
just a blind alley, in case anyone managed to
learn her new name. Then she packed up and
moved to Maine. A small town, halfway up the
coast. That's where she's been living for the last
two months."
"How did you learn all this?"
"I spoke to the cop who helped her do it."
"A cop?"
"A Detective Ballard, out in Newton."
"So the alias--it wasn't because she was running
from the law?"
"No. You can probably guess what she was
running from. It's an old story."
"A man:"
"Unfortunately, a very wealthy man. Dr.
Charles Cassell."
"I don't know the name."
"Castle Pharmaceuticals. He founded it.
Anna was a researcher in his company. They
became involved, but three years later, she
tried to leave him."
"And he wouldn't let her."
"Dr. Cassell sounds like the kind of guy you
don't just walk out on. She ended up in a Newton ER one night with a black eye. From there,
it got seriously scary. Stalking. Death threats.
Even a dead canary in her mailbox."
"Jesus."
"Yeah, that's true love for you. Sometimes,
the only way you can stop a man from hurting
you is to shoot him--or to hide. Maybe she'd
still be alive if she'd chosen the first option."
"He found her."
"All we have to do is prove it."
"Can you?"
"We haven't been able to talk to Dr. Cassell
yet. Quite conveniently, he left Boston the
morning after the shooting. He's been traveling
on business for the past week, and isn't expected
home till tomorrow." Rizzoli lifted the
glass of orange juice to her lips, and the clatter
of ice cubes jarred Maura's nerves. Rizzoli set
the drink back down and was silent for a moment.
She seemed to be buying time, but for
what? Maura wondered.
"There's something else about Anna Leoni
you need to know," Rizzoli said. She pointed to
the file on the table. "I brought that for you."
Maura opened the folder and felt a jolt of
recognition. It was a color photocopy of a
wallet-sized photo. A young girl with black
hair and a serious gaze was standing between
an older couple whose arms enfolded her in a
protective embrace. She said, softly: "That
girl could be me."
"She was carrying that in her wallet. We believe
that's Anna at around ten years old, with
her parents, Ruth and William Leoni. They're
both dead now."
"These are her parents?"
"Yes."
"But. . . they're so old."
"Yes, they were. The mother, Ruth, was sixty-two
years old when that photo was taken." Rizzoli
paused. "Anna was their only child."
An only child. Older parents. I know where
this is going, thought Maura, and I'm afraid of
what she's about to tell me. This is why she
really came tonight. It's not just about Anna
Leoni and her abusive lover; it's about something far more startling.

Maura looked up at Rizzoli. "She was
adopted?"
Rizzoli nodded. "Mrs. Leoni was fifty-two
the year Anna was born."
"Too old for most agencies."
"Which is why they probably had to arrange
a private adoption, through an attorney."
Maura thought of her own parents, now
both dead. They too had been older, in their
forties.
"What do you know about your own adoption,
Doc?"
Maura took a deep breath. "After my father
died, I found my adoption papers. It was all
done through an attorney here in Boston. I
called him a few years ago, to see if he would
tell me my birth mother's name."
"Did he?"
"He said my records were sealed. He refused
to release any information."
"And you didn't pursue it?"
"I haven't, no."
"Was the attorney's name Terence Van
Gates?"
Maura went dead silent. She didn't have to
answer the question; she knew Rizzoli could
read it in her stunned gaze. "How did you
know?" Maura asked.
"Two days before her death, Anna checked
into the Tremont Hotel, here in Boston. From
her hotel room, she made two phone calls.
One was to Detective Ballard, who was out of
town at the time. The other was to Van Gates's
law office. We don't know why she contacted
him--he hasn't returned my calls yet."
Now the revelation is coming, thought
Maura. The real reason she's here tonight, in
my kitchen.
"We know Anna Leoni was adopted. She
had your blood type and your birth date. And
just before she died, she was talking to Van
Gates--the attorney who handled your adoption.
An amazing set of coincidences."
"How long have you known all this?"
"A few days."
"And you didn't tell me? You kept it
from me."
"I didn't want to upset you if it wasn't
necessary."
"Well, I am upset that you waited this long."
"I had to, because there was one more thing
I needed to find out." Rizzoli took a deep
breath. "This afternoon, I had a talk with
Walt DeGroot in the DNA lab. Earlier this
week, I asked him to expedite that test you requested.
This afternoon, he showed me the
autorads he'd developed. He did two separate
VNTR profiles. One was Anna Leoni's. The
other was yours."
Maura sat frozen, braced for the blow she
knew was about to fall.
"They're a match," said Rizzoli. "The two
genetic profiles are identical. "
SEVEN


THE CLOCK ON the kitchen wall ticked. The
ice cubes slowly melted in the glasses on the
table. Time moved on, but Maura felt trapped
in that moment, Rizzoli's words looping endlessly
in her head.

"I'm sorry," said Rizzoli. "I didn't know how
else to tell you. But I thought you had a right
to know that you have a . . ." Rizzoli stopped.

Had. I had a sister. And I never even knew
she existed.

Rizzoli reached across the table and grasped
Maura's hand. It was unlike her; Rizzoli was
not a woman who easily gave comfort or offered
hugs. But here she was, holding Maura's
hand, watching her as though she expected
Maura to crumble.
"Tell me about her," Maura said softly. "Tell
me what kind of woman she was."
"Detective Ballard's the one you should
talk to."
"Who?"
"Rick Ballard. He's in Newton. He was assigned
to her case after Dr. Cassell assaulted
her. I think he got to know her pretty well."
"What did he tell you about her?"
"She grew up in Concord. She was briefly
married, at twenty-five, but it didn't last. They
had an amicable divorce, no kids."
"The ex-husband's not a suspect?"
"No. He's since remarried, and he's living in
London."
A divorcee, like me. Is there a gene that
preordains failed marriages?
"As I said, she worked for Charles Cassell's
company, Castle Pharmaceuticals. She was a
microbiologist, in their research division."
"A scientist."
"Yeah."
Again, like me, thought Maura, gazing at
her sister's face in the photo. So I know that
she valued reason and logic, as I do. Scientists
are governed by intellect. They take comfort in
facts. We would have understood each other.
"It's a lot to absorb, I know it is," said Rizzoli
"I'm trying to put myself in your place,
and I really can't imagine. It's like discovering a
parallel universe, where there's another version
of you. Finding out she's been here all this
time, living in the same city. If only ..." Rizzoli
stopped.
Is there any phrase more useless than "if
only"?
"I'm sorry," said Rizzoli.
Maura breathed deeply and sat up straight,
indicating she was not in need of hand-holding.
That she was capable of dealing with this.
She closed the folder and slid it back to Rizzoli.
"Thank you, Jane."
"No, you keep it. That photocopy's meant
for you."
They both stood up. Rizzoli reached into
her pocket and laid a business card on the
table. "You might want this, too. He said you
could call him with any questions."
Maura looked down at the name on the
card: RICHARD D. BALLARD, DETECTIVE.
NEWTON POLICE DEPARTMENT.
"He's the one you should talk to," said
Rizzoli.
They walked together to the front door,
Maura still in control of her emotions, still
playing the proper hostess. She stood on the
porch long enough to give a good-bye wave,
then she shut the door and went into the living
room. Stood there, listening as Rizzoli's car
drove away, leaving only the quiet of a suburban
street. All alone, she thought. Once again
I'm all alone.
She went into the living room. From the
bookshelf, she pulled down an old photo
album. She had not looked at its pages in
years, not since her father's death, when she'd
cleaned his house a few weeks after the funeral.
She had found the album on his nightstand,
and had imagined him sitting in bed on the
last night of his life, alone in that big house,
gazing at the photos of his young family. The
last images he would have seen, before turning
off the light, would have been happy faces.
She opened the album and gazed at those
faces now. The pages were brittle, some of the
photos nearly forty years old. She lingered over
the first one of her mother, beaming at the
camera, a dark-haired infant in her arms.
Behind them was a house that Maura did not
remember, with Victorian trim and bow windows.
Underneath the photo, her mother,
Ginny, had written in her characteristically
neat hand: Bringing Maura home.
There were no pictures taken in the hospital,
none of her mother in pregnancy. Just this
sudden, sharp image of Ginny smiling in
the sunshine, holding her instant baby. She
thought of another dark-haired baby, held in
another mother's arms. Perhaps, on that very
same day, a proud father in another town had
snapped off a photo of his new daughter. A girl
named Anna.
Maura turned the pages. Saw herself grow
from a toddler to a kindergartener. Here on a
brand-new bicycle, steadied by her father's
hand. There at her first piano recital, dark hair
gathered back with a green bow, her hands
poised on the keys.
She turned to the last page. Christmas.
Maura, about seven years old, standing flanked
by her mother and father, their arms intertwined
in a loving weave. Behind them was a
decorated tree, sparkling with tinsel. Everyone
smiling. A perfect moment in time, thought
Maura. But they never last; they arrive and
then they vanish, and we can't bring them
back; we can only make new ones.
She'd reached the end of the album. There
were others, of course, at least four more vol
umes in the history of Maura, every event
recorded and catalogued by her parents. But
this was the book her father had chosen to
keep beside his bed, with the photos of his
daughter as an infant, of himself and Ginny as
energetic parents, before the gray had crept
into their hair. Before grief, and Ginny's death,
had touched their lives.
She gazed down at her parents' faces and
thought: How lucky I am that you chose me. I
miss you. I miss you both so much. She closed
the album and stared through tears at the
leather cover.
If only you were here. If only you could tell
me who I really am.
She went into the kitchen and picked up the
business card that Rizzoli had left on the table.
On the front was printed Rick Ballard's work
number at the Newton PD. She flipped over
the card and saw he'd written his home number
as well, with the words: "Call me anytime.
Day or night. --R.B."
She went to the phone and dialed his home
number. On the third ring, a voice answered:
"Ballard." Just that one name, spoken with crisp
efficiency. This is a man who gets right down to
business, she thought. He's not going to welcome
a call from a woman in emotional melt
down. In the background she could hear a TV
commercial playing. He was at home, relaxing;
the last thing he'd want was to be bothered.
"Hello?" he said, now with a note of impatience.
She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry to call you
at home. Detective Rizzoli gave me your card.
My name is Maura Isles, and I ..." And I
what? Want you to help me get through this
night?
"I was expecting you to call, Dr. Isles," he
said.
"I know I should have waited till morning,
but--"
"Not at all. You must have a lot of questions."
"I'm having a really hard time with this. I
never knew I had a sister. And suddenly--"
"Everything's changed for you. Hasn't it?"
The voice that had sounded brusque only a
moment before was now so quiet, so sympathetic,
that she found herself blinking back
tears.
"Yes," she whispered.
"We should probably meet. I can see you
any day next week. Or if you want to meet in
the evening--"
"Could you see me tonight?"
"My daughter's here. I can't leave right now."
Of course he has a family, she thought. She
gave an embarrassed laugh. "I'm sorry. I wasn't
thinking straight--"
"So why don't you come here, to my house?"
She paused, her pulse hammering in her ear.
"Where do you live?" she asked.

He lived in Newton, a comfortable suburb
west of metropolitan Boston, scarcely four
miles from her home in Brookline. His house
was like all the other homes on that quiet
street, undistinguished but well kept, yet another
boxy home in a neighborhood where
none of the houses were particularly remarkable.
From the front porch, she saw the blue
glow of a TV screen and heard the monotonous
throb of pop music. MTV--not at all
what she expected a cop to be watching.
She rang the bell. The door swung open
and a blond girl appeared, dressed in ripped
blue jeans and a navel-baring T-shirt. A provocative
outfit for a girl who could not be
much older than fourteen, judging by the slim
hips and the barely-there breasts. The girl
didn't say a thing, just stared at Maura with
sullen eyes, as though guarding thethreshold
from this new interloper.
"Hello," said Maura. "I'm Maura Isles, here
to see Detective Ballard."
"Is my dad expecting you?"
"Yes, he is."
A man's voice called out: "Katie, it's for me."
"I thought it was Mom. She's supposed to
be here by now."
Ballard appeared at the door, towering over
his daughter. Maura found it hard to believe
that this man, with his conservative haircut
and pressed Oxford shirt, could be the father
of a pubescent pop-tart. He held out his hand
to shake hers in a firm grip. "Rick Ballard.
Come in, Dr. Isles."
As Maura stepped into the house, the girl
turned and walked back to the living room,
flopping down in front of the TV.
"Katie, at least say hello to our guest."
"I'm missing my show."
"You can take a moment to be polite, can't
your
Katie sighed loudly, and gave Maura a
grudging nod. "Hi," she said, and fixed her
gaze back on the TV.
Ballard eyed his daughter for a moment, as
though debating whether it was worth the effort
to demand some courtesy. "Well, turn
down the sound," he said. "Dr. Isles and I
need to talk."
The girl grabbed the remote and aimed it
like a weapon at the TV. The volume barely
dropped.
Ballard looked at Maura. "Would you like
some coffee? Tea?"
"No, thank you."
He gave an understanding nod. "You just
want to hear about Anna."
"Yes."
"I have a copy of her file in my office."
If the office reflected the man, then Rick Ballard
was as solid and reliable as the oak desk that
dominated the room. He chose not to retreat
behind that desk; instead he pointed her toward
a sofa, and he sat in an armchair facing her. No
barriers stood between them except a coffee
table, on which a single folder rested. Through
the closed door, they could still hear the manic
thump of the TV.
"I have to apologize for my daughter's rudeness,"
he said. "Katies been going through a
hard time, and I'm not quite sure how to deal
with her these days. Felons, I can handle, but
fourteen-year-old girls?" He gave a rueful laugh.
"I hope my visit isn't making things worse."
"This has nothing to do with you, believe
me. Our family's going through a tough transition
right now. My wife and I separated last
year, and Katie refuses to accept it. It's led to a
lot of fights, a lot of tension."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Divorce is never pleasant."
"Mine certainly wasn't."
"But you did get past it."

She thought of Victor, who had so recently
intruded upon her life. And how, for a brief
time, he had lured her into thoughts of reconciliation.
"I'm not sure one ever gets past it,"
she said. "Once you've been married to someone,
they're always part of your life, good or
bad. The key is to remember the good parts."
"Not so easy, sometimes."
They were silent for a moment. The only
sound was the TV's irritating pulse of teen
defiance. Then he straightened, squaring his
broad shoulders, and looked at her. It was a
gaze she could not easily turn away from, a
gaze that told her she was the sole focus of his
attention.
"Well. You came to hear about Anna."
"Yes. Detective Rizzoli told me you knew
her. That you tried to protect her."
"I didn't do a good enough job," he said
quietly. She saw a flash of pain in his eyes, and
then his gaze dropped to the file on the coffee
table. He picked up the folder and handed it to
her. "It's not pleasant to look at. But you have a
right to see it."
She opened the folder and stared at a photograph
of Anna Leoni, posed against a stark
white wall. She was wearing a paper hospital
gown. One eye was swollen almost shut, and
the cheek was bruised purple. Her intact eye
gazed at the camera with a stunned expression.
"That's the way she looked when I first met
her," he said. "That photo was taken in the ER
last year, after the man she'd been living with
struck her. She'd just moved out of his home in
Marblehead, and was renting a house here, in
Newton. He showed up at her front door one
night and tried to talk her into coming back.
She told him to leave. Well, you don't tell Charles Cassell to do anything. That's what
happened."
Maura heard the anger in his voice, and she
looked up. Saw that his mouth had tightened.
"I understand she pressed charges."
"Hell, yes. I coached her through it every
step of the way. A man who hits a woman understands
only one thing: punishment. I was
going to make damn sure he faced the consequences.
I deal with domestic abuse all the
time, and it makes me angry every time I see it.
It's like flipping a switch inside me; all I want
to do is nail the guy. That's what I tried to do
to Charles Cassell."
"And what happened?"
Ballard gave a disgusted shake of his head.
"He ended up in jail for one lousy night.
When you have money, you can buy yourself
out of just about anything. I hoped that would
be the end of it--that he'd stay away from her.
But this is a man who's not used to losing. He
kept calling her, showing up on her doorstep.
She moved twice, but each time he found her.
She finally took out a restraining order, but it
didn't stop him from driving past her house.
Then, around six months ago, it started to get
deadly serious."
"How?"
He nodded at the file. "It's there. She found
it wedged in her front door one morning."
Maura turned to a photocopied sheet. On it
were only two typed words centered on a blank
sheet of paper.
You're dead.
Fear whispered up Maura's spine. She imagined
waking up one morning. Opening her
front door to pick up the newspaper, and seeing
this single sheet of white paper flutter to the
ground. Unfolding it to read those two words.
"That was only the first note," he said.
"There were others that came afterwards."
She turned to the next page. It had the same
two words.
You're dead.
And turned to a third, and a fourth sheet.
You're dead.
You're dead.
Her throat had gone dry. She looked at Ballard
"Wasn't there something she could do to
stop him?"
"We tried, but we could never prove he actually
wrote those. Just like we couldn't prove
he was the one who scratched her car or
slashed her window screens. Then one day she
opened her mailbox. Inside was a dead canary
with its neck broken. That's when she decided
she wanted to get the hell out of Boston. She
wanted to disappear."
"And you helped her."
"I never stopped helping her. I was the one
she called whenever Cassell came by to harass
her. I helped her get the restraining order. And
when she decided to leave town, I helped her
do that, too. It's not easy to just disappear, es
pecially when someone with Cassell's resources
is looking for you. Not only did she change her
name, she set up a fake residence under that
new name. She rented an apartment and never
moved in--it was just to confuse anyone
tracking her. The idea is that you go someplace
else entirely, where you pay for everything in
cash. You leave behind everything and everyone.
That's the way it's supposed to work."
"But he found her anyway."
"I think that's why she came back to
Boston. She knew she wasn't safe up there anymore.
You know she called me, don't you? The
night before?"
Maura nodded. "That's what Rizzoli said."
"She left a message on my answering machine,
told me she was staying at the Tremont
Hotel. I was in Denver, visiting my sister, so I
didn't hear the message till I got home. By then,
Anna was dead." He met Maura's gaze. "Cassell
will deny he did it, of course. But if he managed
to track her to Fox Harbor, then there has to be
someone in that town who's seen him. That's
what I plan to do next--prove that he was up
there. Find out if anyone remembers him."
"But she wasn't killed in Maine. She was
killed in front of my house."
Ballard shook his head. "I don't know
where you come into this, Dr. Isles. But I
don't believe Anna's death had anything to do
with you."
They heard the chime of the doorbell. He
made no move to rise and answer it, but remained
in his chair, his gaze on her. It was a
gaze so intent she couldn't turn away, could
only stare back, thinking: I want to believe
him. Because I cannot bear to think that her
death was somehow my fault.
"I want Cassell put away," he said. "And I'll
do everything I can to help Rizzoli do it. I
watched the whole thing unfold, and I knew
from the very beginning how it was going to
end. Yet I couldn't stop it. I owe it to her, to
Anna," he said. "I need to see this through
to the end."
Angry voices suddenly drew her attention.
In the other room, the TV had gone silent, but
Katie and a woman were now exchanging
sharp words. Ballard glanced toward the door
as the voices rose to shouts.
"What the hell were you thinking?" the
woman was yelling.
Ballard stood up. "Excuse me, I should
probably find out what the fuss is all about."
He walked out, and Maura heard him say:
"Carmen, what's going on?"
"You should ask your daughter that question,"
the woman answered.
"Give it a rest, Mom. Just give it a fucking
rest."
"Tell your father what happened today. Go
on, tell him what they found in your locker."
"It is not a big deal."
"Tell him, Katie."
"You are totally overreacting."
"What happened, Carmen?" said Ballard.
"The principal called me this afternoon.
The school did a random locker check today,
and guess what they found in our daughter's
locker? A joint. How the hell does that look?
Here she's got two parents in law enforcement,
and she's got drugs in her locker. We're just
lucky he's letting us deal with it ourselves.
What if he'd reported it? I can just see having
to arrest my own daughter."
"Oh, Christ."
"We have to deal with this together, Rick.
We have to agree on how to handle it."
Maura rose from the couch and went to the
door, unsure of how to politely make her exit.
She did not want to intrude on this family's
privacy, yet here she was, listening to an exchange
she knew she shouldn't be hearing. I
should just say good-bye and go, she thought.
Leave these beleaguered parents alone.
She walked into the hall and paused as she
approached the living room. Katie's mother
glanced up, startled to see an unexpected visitor
in the house. If the mother was any indication
of what Katie would one day look like, then
that sullen teenager was destined to be a statuesque
blonde. The woman was almost as tall as
Ballard, with the rangy leanness of an athlete.
Her hair was tied back in a casual ponytail, and
she wore no trace of makeup, but a woman
with her stunning cheekbones needed little enhancement.
Maura said, "Excuse me for interrupting."
Ballard turned to her, and gave a weary
laugh. "I'm afraid you're not exactly seeing us
at our best. This is Katie's mom, Carmen. This
is Dr. Maura Isles."
"I'm going to leave now," said Maura.
"But we hardly got a chance to talk."
"I'll call you another time. I can see you
have other things on your mind." She nodded
to Carmen. "Glad to meet you. Good night."
"Let me walk you out," said Ballard.
They stepped out of the house, and he gave
a sigh, as though relieved to be away from the
demands of his family.
"I'm sorry to intrude on that," she said.
"I'm sorry you had to listen to it."
"Have you noticed we can't stop apologizing
to each other?"
"You have nothing to apologize for, Maura."
They reached her car and paused for a
moment.
"I didn't get to tell you much about your sister,"
he said.
"Next time I see you?"
He nodded. "Next time."
She slid into her car and closed the door.
Rolled down her window when she saw him
lean down to talk to her.
"I will tell you this much about her," he said.
"Yes?"
"You look so much like Anna, it takes my
breath away."

She could not stop thinking of those words as
she sat in her living room, studying the photo
of young Anna Leoni with her parents. All
these years, she thought, you were missing
from my life, and I never realized it. But I must
have known; on some level I must have felt my
sister's absence.
You look so much like Anna, it takes my
breath away.
Yes, she thought, touching Anna's face in the
photo. It takes my breath away, too. She and
Anna had shared the same DNA; what else had
they shared? Anna had also chosen a career in
science, a job governed by reason and logic. She
too must have excelled in mathematics. Had
she, like Maura, played the piano? Had she
loved books and Australian wines and the History
Channel?
There is so much more I want to know
about you.
It was late; she turned off the lamp and went
to her bedroom to pack.
EIGHT


PITCH BLACK. Head aching. The scent of
wood and damp earth and . . . something else
that made no sense. Chocolate. She smelled
chocolate.

Mattie Purvis opened her eyes wide, but she
might as well have kept them tightly closed because
she could see nothing. Not a glimmer of
light, not a wisp of shadow on shadow. Oh
god, am I blind?

Where am I?

She was not in her own bed. She was lying
on something hard, and it made her back ache.
The floor? No, this wasn't polished wood beneath
her, but rough planks, gritty with dirt.

If only her head would stop pounding.
She closed her eyes, fighting off nausea. Trying,
even through the pain, to remember how
she could have arrived at this strange, dark
place where nothing seemed familiar. Dwayne,
she thought. We had a fight, and then I drove
home. She struggled to retrieve the lost fragments
of time. She remembered a stack of mail
on the table. She remembered crying, her tears
dripping onto envelopes. She remembered
jumping up, and the chair hitting the floor.
I heard a noise. I went into the garage. I
heard a noise and went into the garage, and ...
Nothing. She could remember nothing after
that.
She opened her eyes. It was still dark. Oh,
this is bad, Mattie, she thought, this is very,
very bad. Your head hurts, you've lost your
memory, and you're blind.
"Dwayne?" she called. She heard only the
whoosh of her own pulse.
She had to get up. She had to find help, had
to find a phone at the very least.
She rolled onto her right side to push herself
up, and her face slammed up against a wall.
The impact bounced her right onto her back
again. She lay stunned, her nose throbbing.
What was a wall doing here? She reached out
to touch it and felt more rough wooden
planks. Okay, she thought, I'll just roll the
other way. She turned to the left.
And collided with another wall.
Her heartbeat thudded louder, faster. She
lay on her back again, thinking: walls on both
sides. This can't be. This isn't real. Pushing up
off the floor, she sat up, and slammed the top
of her head. Collapsed, once again, onto her
back.
No, no, no!
Panic seized her. Arms flailing, she hit barriers
in every direction. She clawed at the
wood, splinters digging into her fingers. Heard
shrieks but did not recognize her own voice.
Everywhere, walls. She bucked, thrashed, her
fists pummeling blindly until her hands were
bruised and torn, her limbs too exhausted to
move. Slowly her shrieks faded to sobs. Finally,
to stunned silence.
A box. I am trapped in a box.
She took a deep breath and inhaled the scent
of her own sweat, her own fear. Felt the baby
squirm inside her, another prisoner trapped in
a small space. She thought of the Russian dolls
her grandmother had once given her. A doll inside
a doll inside a doll.
We're going to die in here. We're both
going to die, my baby and me.
Closing her eyes, she fought back a fresh
wave of panic. Stop. Stop this right now.
Think, Mattie.
Hand trembling, she reached toward her
right side, touched one wall. Reached to her
left. Touched another wall. How far apart was
that? Maybe three feet wide, maybe more. And
how long? She reached behind her head and
felt a foot of space. Not so bad in that direction.
A little room there. Her fingers brushed
against something soft, just behind her head.
She tugged it closer and realized it was a blanket.
As she unrolled it, something heavy thudded
onto the floor. A cold metal cylinder. Her
heart was pounding again, this time not with
panic, but with hope.
A flashlight.
She found the switch and flicked it on. Released
a sharp breath of relief as a beam of light
slashed the darkness. I can see, I can see! The
beam skimmed across the walls of her prison.
She aimed it toward the ceiling and saw there
was barely enough head room for her to sit up,
if she kept her head cocked.
Big-bellied and clumsy, she had to squirm to
push herself up to a sitting position. Only then
could she see what was at her feet: a plastic
bucket and a bed pan. Two large jugs of water.
A grocery sack. She wriggled toward the sack
and looked inside. That's why I smelled chocolate,
she thought. Inside were Hershey bars,
packets of beef jerky, and saltine crackers. And
batteries--three packages of fresh batteries.
She leaned back against the wall. Heard herself
suddenly laugh. A crazy, frightening laugh
that wasn't hers at all. It was a madwoman's.
Well, this is dandy. I have everything I need
to survive except. . .
Air.
Her laughter died. She sat listening to the
sound of her own breathing. Oxygen in, carbon
dioxide out. Cleansing breaths. But oxygen
runs out eventually. A box can hold only
so much. Didn't it already seem staler? Plus she
had panicked--all that thrashing around. She
had probably used up most of the oxygen.
Then she felt the cool whisper in her hair.
She looked up. Aiming the flashlight just over
her head, she saw the circular grate. It was only
a few inches in diameter, but wide enough to
bring in fresh air from above. She stared at that
grate, bewildered. I am trapped in a box, she
thought. I have food, water, and air.
Whoever had put her in here wanted to
keep her alive.
NINE

rick ballard had told her that Dr.
Charles Cassell was wealthy, but Jane Rizzoli
had not expected this. The Marblehead estate
was surrounded by a high brick wall, and
through the bars of the wrought-iron gate, she
and Frost could see the house, a massive white
Federal surrounded by at least two acres of
emerald lawn. Beyond it glittered the waters of
Massachusetts Bay.
"Wow," said Frost. "This is all from pharmaceuticals?"
"He started off by marketing a single weight-loss
drug," said Rizzoli. "Within twenty years,
he built up to that. Ballard says this is not the
kind of guy you ever want to cross." She looked
at Frost. "And if you're a woman, you sure as
hell don't leave him."
She rolled down her window and pushed
the intercom button.
A man's voice crackled over the speaker:
"Name, please?"
"Detectives Rizzoli and Frost, Boston PD.
Here to see Dr. Cassell."
The gate whined open, and they drove
through, onto a winding driveway that
brought them to a stately portico. She parked
behind a fire-engine-red Ferrari--probably the
closest her old Subaru would ever get to
celebrity cardom. The front door swung open
even before they could knock, and a burly man
appeared, his gaze neither friendly nor unfriendly.
Though dressed in a polo shirt and
tan Dockers, there was nothing casual about
the way this man was eyeing them.
"I'm Paul, Dr. Cassell's assistant," he said.
"Detective Rizzoli." She held out her hand,
but the man did not even glance at it, as
though it was not worth his attention.
Paul ushered them into a house that was not
at all what Rizzoli had expected. Though the
exterior had been traditional Federal, inside
she found the decor starkly modern, even cold,
a white-walled gallery of abstract art. The foyer
was dominated by a bronze sculpture of intertwining
curves, vaguely sexual.
"You do know that Dr. Cassell just got
home from a trip last night," said Paul. "He's
jet-lagged and not feeling well. So if you could
keep it short."
"He was away on business?" said Frost.
"Yes. It was arranged over a month ago, in
case you're wondering."
Which didn't mean a thing, thought Rizzoli,
except that Cassell was capable of planning
his moves ahead of time.
Paul led them through a living room decorated
in black and white, with only a single
scarlet vase to shock the eye. A flat-screen TV
dominated one wall, and a smoked-glass cabinet
contained a dazzling array of electronics. A
bachelor's dream pad, thought Rizzoli. Not a
single feminine touch, just guy stuff. She could
hear music and she assumed it was a CD playing.
Jazz piano chords melted together in a
mournful walk down the keys. There was no
melody, no song, just notes blending in wordless
lament. The music grew louder as Paul led
them toward a set of sliding doors. He opened
them, and announced:
"The police are here, Dr. Cassell."
"Thank you."
"Would you like me to stay?"
"No, Paul, you can leave us."
Rizzoli and Frost stepped into the room,
and Paul slid the doors shut behind them.
They found themselves in a space so gloomy
that they could barely make out the man
seated at the grand piano. So it had been live
music, not a CD playing. Heavy curtains were
drawn over the window, blocking out all but a
sliver of daylight. Cassell reached toward a
lamp and switched it on. It was only a dim
globe shaded by Japanese rice paper, but it
made him squint. A glass of what looked like
whiskey sat on the piano beside him. He was
unshaven, his eyes bloodshot--not the face of
a cold corporate shark, but of a man too distraught
to care what he looked like. Even so, it
was an arrestingly handsome face, with a gaze
so intense it seemed to burn its way into Rizzoli's
brain. He was younger than she had expected
a self-made mogul to be, perhaps in his
late forties. Still young enough to believe in his
own invincibility.
"Dr. Cassell," she said, "I'm Detective Rizzoli,
Boston PD. And this is Detective Frost.
You do understand why we're here?"
"Because he sicced you on me. Didn't he?"
"Who?"
"That Detective Ballard. He's like a goddamn
pit bull."
"We're here because you knew Anna Leoni.
The victim."
He reached for his glass of whiskey. Judging
by his haggard appearance, it was not his first
drink of the day. "Let me tell you something
about Detective Ballard, before you go believing
everything he says. The man is a genuine,
class-A asshole." He downed the rest of his
drink in a single gulp.
She thought of Anna Leoni, her eye swollen
shut, her cheek bruised purple. I think we
know who the real asshole is.
Cassell set the empty glass down. "Tell me
how it happened," he said. "I need to know."
"We have a few questions, Dr. Cassell."
"First tell me what happened."
This is why he agreed to see us, she thought.
He wants information. He wants to gauge how
much we know.
"I understand it was a gunshot wound to the
head," he said. "And she was found in a car?"
"That's right."
"That much I already learned from The
Boston Globe. What kind of weapon was
used? What caliber bullet?"
"You know I can't reveal that."
"And it happened in Brookline? What the
hell was she doing there?"
"That I can't tell you, either."
"Can't tell me?" He looked at her. "Or you
don't know?"
"We don't know."
"Was anyone with her when it happened?"
"There were no other victims."
"So who are your suspects? Aside from me?"
"We're here to ask you the questions, Dr.
Cassell."
He rose unsteadily to his feet and crossed to
a cabinet. Took out a bottle of whiskey and refreshed
his glass. Pointedly he did not offer his
visitors a drink.
"Why don't I just answer the one question
you came to ask," he said, settling back onto
the piano bench. "No, I did not kill her. I
haven't even seen her in months."
Frost asked: "When was the last time you
saw Ms. Leoni?"
"It would have been sometime in March, I
think. I drove by her house one afternoon. She
was out on the sidewalk, getting her mail."
"Wasn't that after she took out the restraining
order against you?"
"I didn't get out of my car, okay? I didn't
even speak to her. She saw me and went right
into the house without saying a word."
"So what was the point of that drive-by?"
said Rizzoli. "Intimidation?"
""NT "
No.
"Then what?"
"I just wanted to see her, that's all. I missed
her. I still ..." He paused and cleared his
throat. "I still miss her."
Now he's going to say that he loved her.
"I loved her," he said. "Why would I
hurt her?"
As if they'd never heard a man say that before.
"Besides, how could I? I didn't know where
she was. After she moved, that last time, I
couldn't find her."
"But you tried?"
"Yes, I tried."
"Did you know she was living in Maine?"
asked Frost.
A pause. He looked up, frowning. "Where
in Maine?"
"A little town called Fox Harbor."
"No, I didn't know that. I assumed she was
somewhere in Boston."
"Dr. Cassell," said Rizzoli, "where were you
last Thursday night?"
"I was here, at home."
"All night?"
"From five P.M. on. I was packing for my
trip."
"Can anyone verify that you were here?"
"No. Paul had the night off. I freely admit I
have no alibi. It was just me here, alone with
my piano." He banged the keyboard, playing a
dissonant chord. "I flew out the next morning.
Northwest Airlines, if you want to check."
"We will."
"The reservations were made six weeks ago.
I had meetings already planned."
"That's what your assistant told us."
"Did he? Well, it's true."
"Do you keep a gun?" asked Rizzoli.
Cassell went very still, his dark eyes searching
hers. "Do you honestly think I did it?"
"Could you answer the question?"
"No, I do not have a gun. Not a pistol or a
rifle or a pop-gun. And I didn't kill her. I didn't
do half the things she accused me of."
"Are you saying she lied to the police?"
"I'm saying she exaggerated."
"We've seen the photo of her taken in the
ER, the night you gave her a black eye. Did she
exaggerate that charge as well?"
His gaze dropped, as though he could not
bear her accusatory look. "No," he said quietly.
"I don't deny hitting her. I regret it. But I don't
deny it."
"What about repeatedly driving past her
house? Hiring a private detective to follow her?
Showing up on her doorstep, demanding to
speak to her?"
"She wouldn't answer any of my calls. What
was I supposed to do?"
"Take a hint, maybe?"
"I don't sit back and just let things happen to me, Detective. I never have. That's why I
own this house, with that view out there. If I
really want something, I work hard for it. And
then I hold on to it. I wasn't going to just let
her walk out of my life."
"What was Anna to you, exactly? Just another
possession?"
"Not a possession." He met her gaze, his
eyes naked with loss. "Anna Leoni was the love
of my life."
His answer took Rizzoli aback. That simple
statement, said so quietly, had the honest ring
of truth to it.
"I understand you were together for three
years," she said.
He nodded. "She was a microbiologist,
working in my research division. That's how
we met. One day she walked into a board
meeting to give us an update on antibiotic trials.
I took one look at her, and I thought: She's the one. Do you know what it's like, to love
someone so much, and then watch them walk
away from you?"
"Why did she?"
"I don't know."
"You must have an idea."
"I don't. Look at what she had here! This
house, anything she wanted. I don't think I'm
ugly. Any woman would've been thrilled to be
with me."
"Until you started hitting her."
A silence.
"How often did that happen, Dr. Cassell?"
He sighed. "I have a stressful job ..."
"Is that your explanation? You slapped your
girlfriend because you had a hard day at the
office?"
He did not answer. Instead he reached for
his glass. And that, no doubt, was part of the
problem, she thought. Mix a hard-driving executive
with too much booze, and you get a
girlfriend with black eyes.
He set the glass down again. "I just wanted
her to come home."
"And your way of convincing her was to
cram death threats in her door?"
"I didn't do that."
"She filed multiple complaints with the
police."
"Never happened."
"Detective Ballard says it did."
Cassell gave a snort. "That moron believed
everything she told him. He likes playing Sir
Galahad, it makes him feel important. Did
you know he showed up here once, and told
me that if I ever touched her again, he'd beat
the shit out of me. I think that's pretty pitiful."
"She claimed you slashed her window
screens."
"I didn't."
"Are you saying she did it herself?"
"I'm just saying I didn't."
"Did you scratch her car?"
"What?"
"Did you mark up her car door?"
"That's a new one to me. When did that
supposedly happen?"
"And the dead canary in her mailbox?"
Cassell gave an incredulous laugh. "Do I look
like somebody who'd do something that perverted?
I wasn't even in town when that supposedly
happened. Where's the proof it was me?"
She regarded him for a moment, thinking:
Of course he denies it, because he's right; we
can't prove he slashed her screens or scratched
her car or put a dead bird in her mailbox. This
man didn't get where he is by being stupid.
"Why would Anna lie about it?" she said.
"I don't know," he said. "But she did."
TEN


by noon maura was on the road, yet
one more weekender caught in traffic as it
streamed north like migratory salmon out of a
city where the streets were already shimmering
with heat. Trapped in their cars, their children
whining in backseats, vacationers could only
inch grimly northward toward the promise of
cool beaches and salt air. That was the vision
Maura held on to as she sat in traffic, gazing at
a line of cars that stretched all the way to the
horizon. She had never been to Maine. She
knew it only as a backdrop in the L.L. Bean
catalogue, where tanned men and women
wore parkas and hiking boots while, at their
feet, golden retrievers lolled on the grass. In
the world of L.L. Bean, Maine was the land of
forests and misty shores, a mythical place too
beautiful to exist except as a hope, a dream. I
am sure to be disappointed, she thought as she
stared at sunlight glaring off the unending line
of cars. But that's where the answers lie.
Months ago, Anna Leoni had made this
same journey north. It would have been a day
in early spring, still chilly, the traffic not nearly
as heavy as today Driving out of Boston, she
too would have crossed the Tobin Bridge and
then headed north on Route 95, toward the
Massachusetts-New Hampshire border.
I am following in your footsteps. I need to
know who you were. It's the only way I'll
learn who I am.
At two, she crossed from New Hampshire
into Maine, where the traffic magically dissolved,
as though the ordeal up till then had
been merely a test, and now the gates were
opening to admit the worthy. She stopped
only long enough to pick up a sandwich at a
rest stop. By three, she had left the interstate
and was traveling on Maine's Route 1, hugging
the coast as she continued north.
You came this way, too.
The views Anna saw would have been different,
the fields just turning green, the trees
still bare. But surely Anna had passed that
same lobster roll shack, had glanced at the
same junk dealer's yard where eternally rusting
bed frames were displayed on the lawn, and
had reacted, like Maura, with an amused shake
of the head. Perhaps she too had pulled off the
road in the town of Rockport to stretch her
legs and had lingered beside the statue of
Andre the seal while she gazed over the harbor.
Had shivered as the wind blew in a chill from
the water.
Maura climbed back into her car and continued
north.
By the time she passed the coastal town of
Bucksport and turned south, down the peninsula,
sunlight was already slanting lower over
the trees. She could see fog rolling in over the
sea, a gray bank of it, advancing toward shore
like a hungry beast swallowing up the horizon.
By sunset, she thought, my car will be enveloped in it. She had made no hotel arrangements
in Fox Harbor, had left Boston with the
quaint idea that she could simply pull into a
seaside motel somewhere and find a bed for
the night. But she saw few motels along this
rugged stretch of coast, and those she did pass
all displayed NO VACANCY signs.
The sun dipped even lower.
The road made an abrupt curve, and she
gripped the wheel, barely managing to stay in
her lane as she rounded a rocky point, past
scraggly trees on one side, the sea on the other.
Suddenly there it was--Fox Harbor, nestled
in the shelter of a shallow inlet. She had not expected
it to be such a small town, little more
than a dock, a steepled church, and a string of
white buildings facing the bay. In the harbor,
lobster boats bobbed at their moorings like
staked prey, waiting to be swallowed up by the
incoming fog bank.
Driving slowly down Main Street, she saw
tired front porches in need of paint, windows
where faded curtains hung. Clearly this was
not a wealthy town, judging by the rusting
trucks in the driveways. The only late-model
vehicles she saw were in the parking lot of the
Bayview Motel, cars with license plates from
New York and Massachusetts and Connecticut.
Urban refugees who'd fled hot cities for
lobster and a glimpse of paradise.
She pulled up in front of the motel registration
office. First things first, she thought; I
need a bed for the night, and this looked like
the only place in town. She got out of her car
and stretched stiff muscles, inhaled damp and
briny air. Though Boston was a harbor town,
she seldom smelled the sea at home; the urban
smells of diesel and car exhaust and hot pavement
contaminated every breeze that blew in
from the harbor. Here, though, she could actually
taste the salt, could feel it cling like a fine
mist to her skin. Standing in that motel parking
lot, the wind in her face, she felt as if she'd
suddenly emerged from a deep sleep, and was
awake again. Alive again.
The motel's decor was exactly as she'd expected
it would be: sixties wood paneling, tired
green carpet, a wall clock mounted in a ship's
wheel. No one was manning the counter.
She leaned forward. "Hello?"
A door creaked open and a man appeared,
fat and balding, delicate spectacles perched like
a dragonfly on his nose.
"Do you have any rooms for the night?"
Maura asked.
Her question was met with dead silence.
The man stared at her, jaw sagging open, his
gaze riveted on her face.
"Excuse me," she said, thinking that he had
not heard her. "Do you have any vacancies?"
"You . . . want a room?"
Didn't I just say that?
He looked down at his registration book,
then back at her. "I'm, uh, sorry. We're full up
for the night."
"I've just driven all the way up from Boston.
Is there some place in town I might find a
room?"
He swallowed. "It's a busy weekend. There
was a couple came in just an hour ago, asking
for a room. I called around, had to send them
all the way up to Ellsworth."
"Where's that?"
"About thirty miles."
Maura looked up at the clock mounted in
the ship's wheel. It was already four forty-five;
the search for a motel room would have to wait.
She said, "I need to find the office for Land
and Sea Realty."
"Main Street. It's two blocks down, on the
left."

Stepping through the door into Land and Sea
Realty, Maura found yet another deserted
reception room. Was no one in this town
manning his post? The office smelled like
cigarettes, and on the desk, an ashtray overflowed
with butts. Displayed on the wall were
the firm's property listings, some of the pho
tos badly yellowed. Clearly this was not a hot
real estate market. Scanning the offerings,
Maura saw a tumble-down barn (PERFECT
FOR A HORSE FARM!), a house with a sagging
porch (perfect handyman special!), and a
photo of trees--that was it, just trees (QUIET
AND PRIVATE! PERFECT HOUSE LOT!). Was
there anything in this town, she wondered,
that wasn't perfect?
She heard a back door open and turned to
see a man emerge, carrying a dripping coffee
carafe, which he set on the desk. He was
shorter than Maura, with a square head and
close-cropped gray hair. His clothes were far
too large for him, the shirtsleeves and trouser
cuffs rolled up as though he was wearing a
giant's hand-me-downs. Keys rattling on his
belt, he swaggered over to greet Maura.
"Sorry, I was out back washing the coffee
pot. You must be Dr. Isles."
The voice took Maura aback. Though it was
husky, no doubt from all those cigarettes in the
ashtray, it was clearly a woman's. Only then
did Maura notice the swell of breasts under
that baggy shirt.
"You're . . . the person I spoke to this morning?"
Maura asked.
"Britta Clausen." She gave Maura a brisk,
no-nonsense handshake. "Harvey told me
you'd gotten into town."
"Harvey?"
"Down the road, Bayview Motel. He called
to let me know you were on the way." The
woman paused, giving Maura the once-over.
"Well, I guess you don't need to show me any
ID. No doubt, looking at you, whose sister
you are. You wanna drive up to the house together?"
"I'll follow you in my car."
Miss Clausen sorted through the key ring
on her belt and gave a satisfied grunt. "Here it
is, Skyline Drive. Police are all finished going
through it, so I guess I can walk you through."

Maura followed Miss Clausen's pickup truck
up a road that suddenly curved away from the
coast and wound up a bluff. As they climbed,
she caught glimpses of the coastline, the water
now obscured beneath a thick blanket of fog.
The village of Fox Harbor vanished into the
mists below. Just ahead of her, Miss Clausen's
brake lights suddenly flared, and Maura barely
had time to hit her own brakes. Her Lexus
skidded across wet leaves, coming to a stop
with its bumper kissing a Land and Sea Realty
FOR SALE sign staked in the ground.
Miss Clausen stuck her head out the window.
"Hey, you okay back there?"
"I'm fine. I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention"

"Yeah, that last curve takes you by surprise.
It's this driveway, off to the right."
"I'm right behind you."
Miss Clausen gave a laugh. "Not too close
behind, okay?"
The dirt road was hugged so closely by trees,
Maura felt as though she was driving through a
tunnel in the woods. It opened up abruptly to
reveal a small cedar-shingled cottage. Maura
parked beside Miss Clausen's pickup truck and
stepped out of the Lexus. For a moment she
stood in the silence of the clearing and stared
at the house. Wooden steps led to a covered
porch where a swing hung motionless in the
still air. In a small shade garden, foxgloves and day lilies struggled to grow. On all sides the forest
seemed to press in, and Maura found herself
breathing more quickly, as though trapped
in a small room. As though the air itself was
too close.
"It's so quiet here," said Maura.
"Yeah, it's a ways from town. That's what
makes this hill such a good value. Real estate
boom's gonna move up this way, you know. Few
years from now, you're gonna see houses all up
and down this road. This is the time to buy."
Because it's perfect, Maura expected her
to add.
"I'm having a house lot cleared right next
door," said Miss Clausen. "After your sister
moved in, I figured it was time to get these
other lots ready. You see one person living up
here, it gets the ball rolling. Pretty soon everyone's
looking to buy in the neighborhood."
She gave Maura a thoughtful look. "So what
kind of doctor are you?"
"A pathologist."
"That's like, what? You work in a lab?"
This woman was starting to irritate her. She
answered, bluntly: "I work with dead people."
That answer didn't seem to disturb the
woman in the least. "Well, you must have regular
hours, then. Lot of weekends off. A summer
place might interest you. You know, the lot next
door's gonna be ready to build on soon. If you
ever thought of owning a little vacation place,
you'll never find a cheaper time to invest."
So this was what it felt like to be trapped
with a time-share salesman. She said, "I'm
really not interested, Miss Clausen."
"Oh." The woman huffed out a breath, then
turned and stomped up onto the porch. "Well,
just come on in, then. Now that you're here,
you can tell me what to do with your sister's
things."
"I'm not really sure I have that authority."
"I don't know what else to do with it all. I
sure don't want to pay for storing them. I've
got to empty out the house if I ever want to sell
it or rent it out again." She rattled through her
keys, looking for the right one. "I manage
most of the rental units in town, and this place
hasn't been the easiest one to fill. Your sister,
she signed a six-month lease, you know."
Is that all Anna's death means to her? Maura
wondered. No more rent checks, a property in
need of a new tenant? She did not like this
woman with her clanking keys and her acquisitive
stare. The real estate queen of Fox Harbor,
whose only concern seemed to be bringing
in her quota of monthly checks.
At last Miss Clausen pushed open the door.
"Go on in."
Maura stepped inside. Though there were
large windows in the living room, the closeness
of the trees, and the late afternoon hour,
filled the house with shadow. She saw dark
pine floors, a worn area rug, a sagging couch.
The faded wallpaper had green vines lacing
across the room, adding to Maura's sense of
leafy suffocation.
"Came completely furnished," said Miss
Clausen. "I gave her a good price, considering
that."
"How much?" asked Maura, staring out the
window at a wall of trees.
"Six hundred a month. I could get four
times that, if this place was closer to the water.
But the man who built it, he liked his privacy."
Miss Clausen gave the living room a slow, surveying
look, as though she hadn't really seen it
in a while. "Kind of surprised me when she
called to ask about the place, especially since I
had other units available, down by the shore."
Maura turned to look at her. Daylight was
fading, and Miss Clausen had receded into the
shadows. "My sister asked specifically about
this house?"
Miss Clausen shrugged. "I guess the price
was right."
They left the gloomy living room and
started down a hallway. If a house reflected the
personality of its occupant, then something of
Anna Leoni must linger within these walls. But
other tenants had also claimed this space, and
Maura wondered which knickknacks, which
pictures on the wall had belonged to Anna,
and which had been left by others before her.
That pastel painting of a sunset--surely not
Anna's. No sister of mine would hang something
so hideous, she thought. And that odor
of stale cigarettes permeating the house-- surely it had not been Anna who smoked.
Identical twins are often eerily alike; wouldn't
Anna have shared Maura's aversion to cigarettes?
Wouldn't she, too, sniffle and cough at
the first whiff of smoke?
They came to a bedroom with a stripped
mattress.
"She didn't use this room, I guess," said Miss
Clausen. "Closet and dressers were empty."
Next came a bathroom. Maura went in and
opened the medicine cabinet. On the shelves
were Advil and Sudafed and Ricola cough
drops, brand names that startled her by their familiarity.
These were the same products she
kept in her own bathroom cabinet. Right down
to our choice of flu medicines, she thought, we
were identical.

She closed the cabinet door. Continued
down the hall to the last doorway.
"This was the bedroom she used," said Miss
Clausen.
The room was neatly kept, the bedcovers
tucked in, the dresser top free of clutter. Like
my bedroom, thought Maura. She went to the
closet and opened the door. Hanging inside
were slacks and pressed blouses and dresses.
Size six. Maura's size.
"State police came in last week, gave the
whole house a going-over."
"Did they find anything of interest?"
"Not that they told me. She didn't keep
much in here. Lived here only a few months."
Maura turned and looked out the window.
It was not yet dark, but the gloom of the
surrounding woods made nightfall seem
imminent.
Miss Clausen was standing just inside the
bedroom door, as though waiting to charge a
toll before she'd let Maura exit. "It's not such a
bad house," she said.
Yes it is, thought Maura. It's a horrid little
house.
"This time of year, there's nothing much left
to rent. Everything's pretty much taken. Hotels,
motels. No rooms at the inn."
Maura kept her gaze on the woods. Anything
to avoid engaging this distasteful woman
in any further conversation.
"Well, it was just a thought. I guess you
found a place to stay tonight, then."
So that's what she's trying to get at. Maura
turned to look at her. "Actually, I don't have a
place to stay. The Bayview Motel was full."
The woman responded with a tight little
smile. "So's everything else."
"They told me there were some vacancies
up in Ellsworth."
"Yeah? If you want to drive all the way up
there. Take you longer than you think in the
dark. Road winding all over the place." Miss
Clausen pointed to the bed. "I could get you
some fresh linens. Charge you what the motel
would have. If you're interested."
Maura looked down at the bed, and felt a
cold whisper up her spine. My sister slept
here.
"Oh, well. Take it or leave it."
"I don't know..."
Miss Clausen gave a grunt. "Seems to me
you don't have much of a choice."

Maura stood on the front porch and watched
the taillights of Britta Clausen's pickup truck disappear into the dark curtain of trees. She
lingered a moment in the gathering darkness,
listening to the crickets, to the rustle of leaves.
She heard creaking behind her, and turned to
see the porch swing was moving, as though
nudged by a ghostly hand. With a shudder, she
stepped back into the house and was about to
lock the door when she suddenly went very
still. Felt, once again, that whisper of a chill
against her neck.
There were four locks on the door.
She stared at two chains, a sliding latch, and
a dead bolt. The brass plates were still bright,
the screws untarnished. New locks. She slid all
the bolts home, inserted the chains into their
slots. The metal felt icy against her fingers.
She went into the kitchen and flipped on
the lights. Saw tired linoleum on the floor, a
small dining table with chipped Formica. In
the corner, a Frigidaire growled. But it was the
back door she focused on. It had three locks,
brass plates gleaming. She felt her heart starting
to thump faster as she fastened the locks.
Then she turned and was startled to see yet another
bolted door in the kitchen. Where did
that one lead?
She slid open the bolt and opened the door.
She saw narrow wooden stairs leading down
into darkness. Cool air rose from below, and
she smelled damp earth. The back of her neck
was prickling.
The cellar. Why would anyone want to
lock the door to the cellar?
She closed the door, slid the bolt shut.
That's when she realized this lock was different;
it was rusted, old.
Now she felt the need to check that all the
windows were bolted as well. Anna had been
frightened so badly that she had turned this
house into a fortress, and Maura could still
feel that fear permeating every room. She
tested the kitchen windows, then moved to
the living room.
Only when she was satisfied that the windows
were all secure in the rest of the house
did she finally begin exploring the bedroom.
Standing before the open closet, she gazed at
the clothes inside. Sliding the hangers across
the pole, she eyed each garment, noting they
were precisely her size. She pulled a dress from
its hanger--a black knit, with the clean,
simple lines that she herself favored. She imagined
Anna standing in a department store, lingering
over this dress on the rack. Checking
the price tag, holding up the garment against
her body as she gazed into a mirror, thinking:
This is the one I want.
Maura unbuttoned her blouse, removed her
slacks. She stepped into the black dress, and as
she pulled up the zipper, she felt the fabric
close over her curves like a second skin. She
turned to face the mirror. This is what Anna
saw, she thought. The same face, the same figure.
Did she, too, deplore the thickening of
her hips, the signs of impending middle age?
Did she too turn sideways, to check the flatness
of her belly? Surely all women who try on
new dresses perform an identical ballet in front
of a mirror. Turn this way, turn that. Do I look
fat from behind?
She paused, her right side to the mirror,
staring at a strand of hair that clung to the fabric.
She plucked it off and held it up to the
light. It was black like hers, but longer. A dead
woman's hair.
The ringing telephone made her jerk
around. She went to the nightstand and
paused, heart pounding, as the phone rang a
second time, a third, each jangle unbearably
loud in that silent house. Before it could ring a
fourth time she picked up the receiver.
"Hello? Hello?"
There was a click, and then the dial tone.
Wrong number, she thought. That's all it is.
Outside, the wind was picking up, and
even through the closed window she heard
the groan of swaying trees. But inside the
house, it was so silent she could hear her own
heartbeat. Is this what your nights were like?
she wondered. In this house, surrounded by
dark woods?
That night, before she climbed into bed, she
locked the bedroom door, then propped a
chair against it as well. She felt a little sheepish
doing so. There was nothing to be afraid of, yet
she felt more threatened here than in Boston,
where the predators were human and far more
dangerous than any animal that might lurk
among these woods.
Anna was afraid here, too.
She could feel that fear, still lingering in this
house with its barricaded doors.

She bolted awake to the sound of screeching.
Lay gasping for breath, heart thudding. Only
an owl, no reason to panic. She was in the
woods, for god's sake; of course she'd hear animals.
Her sheets were soaked in sweat. She had
locked the window before going to bed, and
the room now felt stifling, airless. I can't
breathe, she thought.
She rose and slid open the window. Stood
taking in deep breaths of fresh air as she stared
out at the trees, their leaves silvered by moonlight.
Nothing moved; the woods had once
again gone silent.
She returned to bed and this time slept
soundly until dawn.
Daylight changed everything. She heard
birdsong, and looking out her window, saw
two deer cross the yard and bound off into the
woods, white tails flashing. With sunlight
streaming into the room, the chair she'd
propped up against the door last night now
struck her as irrational. I won't be telling anyone
about this, she thought, as she pulled it
aside.
In the kitchen she made coffee from a bag of
ground French roast she found in the freezer.
Anna's coffee. She poured hot water through
the filter as she inhaled the steamy fragrance.
She was surrounded by Anna's purchases. The
microwave popcorn and packages of spaghetti.
The expired cartons of peach yogurt and milk.
Each item represented a moment in her sister's
life when she had paused before a grocery store
shelf and thought: I need this, too. And then
later, upon the return home, she had emptied
sacks and put away these choices. When Maura
looked at the contents of the cabinets, it was
her sister's hand she saw, stacking the cans of
tuna on the flowered shelf paper.
She carried her coffee mug outside to the
front porch and stood sipping from it as she
surveyed the yard where sunlight dappled the
little garden patch. Everything is so green, she
marveled. The grass, the trees, the light itself.
In the high canopy of branches, birds sang. I
can see now why she might want to live here.
Why she would want to wake up every morning
to the smell of the woods.
Suddenly the birds rose flapping from the
trees, startled by a new sound: the low rumble of
machinery. Though Maura could not see the
bulldozer, she could certainly hear it through
the woods, sounding annoyingly close. She remembered
what Miss Clausen had told her, that
the lot next door was being cleared. So much for
a peaceful Sunday morning.
She went down the steps and circled around
to the side of the house, trying to see the bulldozer
through the trees, but the woods were
too thick, and she could not catch even a
glimpse of it. But looking down, she did spot
animal tracks, and remembered the two deer
she had seen through her bedroom window
that morning. She followed them along the
side of the house, noticing other evidence of
their visit in the chewed leaves of the hostas
planted against the foundation, and marveled
at how bold those deer had been, grazing right
up against the wall. She continued toward the
back, and came to a halt at another set of
tracks. These were not from deer. She stood
very still for a moment. Her heart began to
thud, and her hands went clammy around the
mug. Slowly, her gaze followed the tracks
toward a soft patch of dirt beneath one of the
windows.
A boot's imprints were pressed into the soil
where someone had stood, peering into the
house.
Into her bedroom.
ELEVEN

forty-five minutes later, a Fox Harbor
police cruiser came bouncing down her dirt
road. It pulled up in front of the cottage, and a
cop climbed out. He was in his fifties, bullnecked,
his blond hair going bald on top.
"Dr. Isles?" he said, offering her a meaty
handshake. "Roger Gresham, chief of police."
"I didn't know I'd get the chief himself."
"Yeah, well, we were planning to drive up
here anyway when your call came in."
"We?" She frowned as another vehicle, a
Ford Explorer, came up the driveway and
pulled up next to Gresham's cruiser. The driver
stepped out and waved at her.
"Hello, Maura," said Rick Ballard.
For a moment she just looked at him, startled
by his unexpected arrival. "I had no idea
you were here," she finally said.
"I drove up last night. When did you get in?"
"Yesterday afternoon."
"You spent the night in this house?"
"The motel was full. Miss Clausen--the
rental agent--offered to let me sleep here."
She paused. Added on a defensive note, "She
did say the police were finished with it."
Gresham gave a snort. "Bet she charged you
for the night, too. Didn't she?"
"Yes."
"That Britta, she's something else. She'd
charge ya for air if she could." Turning toward
the house, he said: "So where did you see those
footprints?"
Maura led the men past the front porch and
around the corner of the house. They stayed to
the side of the path, scanning the ground as
they moved. The bulldozer had fallen silent,
and now the only sounds were their footfalls
on the carpet of leaves.
"Fresh deer tracks here," said Gresham,
pointing.
"Yes, there were a pair of deer that came
through here this morning," said Maura.
"That could explain those tracks you saw."
"Chief Gresham," said Maura, and sighed.
"I can tell a boot print from a deer track."
"No, I mean some guy might've been out
here hunting. Out of season, you understand.
Followed those deer outta the woods."
Ballard suddenly halted, his gaze fixed on
the ground.
"Do you see them?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. His voice was strangely quiet.
Gresham squatted down beside Ballard. A
moment passed. Why didn't they say something?
A wind stirred the trees. Shivering, she
looked up at the swaying branches. Last night,
someone had come out of those woods. He
had stood outside her room. Had stared in her
window while she slept.
Ballard glanced up at the house. "Is that a
bedroom window?"
"Yes."
"Yours?"
"Yes."
"Did you close your curtains last night?" He
looked over his shoulder at her, and she knew
what he was thinking: Did you treat them to
an inadvertent peep show last night?
She flushed. "There aren't any curtains in
that room."
"Those are too big to be Britta's boots," said
Gresham. "She's the only person who'd be
tramping around up here, checking on the
house."
"Looks like a Vibram sole," said Ballard.
"Size eight, maybe nine." His gaze followed
the prints back toward the woods. "Deer tracks
overlie them."
"Which means he came through here first,"
said Maura. "Before the deer did. Before I
woke up."
"Yes, but how long before?" Ballard straightened
and stood peering through the window
into her bedroom. For a long time he did not
say anything, and once again she grew impatient
with their silence, anxious to hear a reaction
--any reaction--from these men.
"You know, it hasn't rained here in close to a
week," said Gresham. "Those boot prints may
not be all that fresh."
"But who'd be walking around here, looking
in windows?" she asked.
"I can call Britta. Maybe she had a man up
to work on the place. Or someone peeked in
there 'cause they were curious."
"Curious?" asked Maura.
"Everyone up here's heard about what happened
to your sister, down in Boston. Some
folks might want to peek into her house."
"I don't understand that kind of morbid curiosity.
I never have."
"Rick here tells me you're a medical examiner,
right? Well, you must have to deal with
the same thing I do. Everyone wanting to
know the details. You won't believe how many
folks have asked me about the shooting. Don't
you think some of these busybodies might
want to take a peek inside her house?"
She stared at him in disbelief. The silence was suddenly broken by the crackle of Greham's
car radio.
"Excuse me," he said, and headed back to
his cruiser.
"Well," she said. "I guess that pretty much
dispenses with my concerns, doesn't it?"
"I happen to take your concerns very seriously."
"Do you?" She looked at him. "Come inside,
Rick. I want to show you something."
He followed her back up the steps to the
front porch, and into the house. She swung
the door shut and pointed to the array of
brass locks.
"That's what I wanted you to see," she said.
He frowned at the locks. "Wow."
"There's more. Come with me."
She led him into the kitchen. Pointed to
more gleaming chains and bolts barring the
back door. "These are all new. Anna must have
had them installed. Something scared her."
"She had reason to be afraid. All the death
threats. She didn't know when Cassell might
turn up here."
She looked at him. "That's why you're here,
isn't it? To find out if he did?"
"I've been showing his photograph around
town."
"And?"
"So far, no one remembers seeing him. But
it doesn't mean he wasn't here." He pointed to
the locks. "Those make perfect sense to me."
Sighing, she sank into a chair at the
kitchen table. "How could our lives have
turned out so differently? There I was, getting
off a plane from Paris while she ..." She swallowed.
"What if I'd been raised in Anna's
place? Would it all have turned out the same?
Maybe she'd be the one sitting here now, talking
to you."
"You're two different people, Maura. You
may have her face, her voice. But you're not
Anna."
She looked up at him. "Tell me more about
my sister."
"I'm not sure where to start."
"Anything. Everything. You just said I
sound like her."
He nodded. "You do. The same inflections.
The same pitch."
"You remember her that well?"
"Anna wasn't a woman you'd easily forget,"
he said. His gaze held hers. They stared at each
other, even as footsteps came thumping into
the house. Only when Gresham had walked
into the kitchen did she finally break off eye
contact and turn to look at the police chief.
"Dr. Isles," said Gresham. "I wonder if you
could do me a little favor. Come up the road
with me a ways. There's something I need you
to look at."
"What sort of thing?"
"That was dispatch on the radio. They got a
call from the construction crew right up the
road. Their bulldozer turned up some--well,
some bones."
She frowned. "Human?"
"That's what they're wondering."

Maura rode with Gresham in the cruiser, with
Ballard following right behind them in his Explorer.
The trip was barely worth climbing into
the car for, just a short curve up the road, and
there the bulldozer was, sitting in a freshly
cleared lot. Four men in hard hats stood in the
shade next to their pickup trucks. One of them
came forward to meet them as Maura, Greham,
and Ballard climbed out of the vehicles.
"Hey, Chief."
"Hey, Mitch. Where is it?"
"Out near the bulldozer. I spotted that
bone, and I just shut my engine right down.
There used to be an old farmhouse here, on
this lot. Last thing I want to do is dig up some
family graveyard."
"We'll just have Dr. Isles here take a look before
I make any calls. I'd hate to have the M.E.
drive all the way over from Augusta for a
bunch of bear bones."
Mitch led the way across the clearing. The
newly churned-up soil was an obstacle course
of ankle-snagging roots and overturned rocks.
Maura's pumps were not designed for hiking,
and no matter how carefully she picked her
way across the terrain, she could not avoid soiling
the black suede.
Gresham slapped his cheek. "Goddamn
blackflies. They sure found us."
The clearing was surrounded by thick
stands of trees; the air was close here and windless.
By now, insects had caught their scent and
were swarming, greedy for blood. Maura was
grateful she'd chosen to wear long pants that
morning; her unprotected face and arms were
already turning into blackfly feeding stations.
By the time they reached the bulldozer, the
cuffs of her trousers were soiled. The sun shone
down, sparkling on bits of broken glass. The
canes of an old rosebush lay uprooted and
dying in the heat.
"There," said Mitch, pointing.
Even before she bent down to look more
closely at it, Maura already knew what it was,
lodged there in the soil. She didn't touch it, but
just crouched there, her shoes sunk deep in
freshly overturned earth. Newly exposed to the
elements, the paleness of bone peeked through
the crust of dried dirt. She heard cawing
among the trees and glanced up to see crows
flitting like dark specters among the branches.
They know what it is, too.
"What do you think?" asked Gresham.
"It's an ilium."
"What's that?"
"This bone." She touched her own, where
the pelvis flared against her slacks. She was reminded,
suddenly, of the grim fact that beneath
skin, beneath muscle, she too was merely skeleton.
A structural frame of honeycombed cal
cium and phosphorus that would endure long
after her flesh had rotted. "It's human," she said.
They were silent for a moment. The only
sound on that bright June day came from the
crows, a gathering flock of them, perched in
the trees above, like black fruit among the
branches. They stared down with eerie intelligence
at the humans, and their caws built to a
deafening chorus. Then, as though on cue,
their screeches abruptly stopped.
"What do you know about this place?"
Maura asked the bulldozer operator. "What
used to be here?"
Mitch said, "There were some old stone
walls here. Foundation of a house. We moved
all the stones over there, figured someone
could use the rocks for something else." He
pointed to a pile of boulders near the edge of
the lot. "Old walls, that's really nothing unusual.
You go walking in the woods, you find
a lot of old foundations like this one. Used to
be sheep farms all up and down the coast.
Gone, now."
"So this could be an old grave," said Ballard.
"But that bone's right up where one of the
old walls was standing," said Mitch. "I don't
think you'd want to bury dear old Ma so close
to the house. Bad luck, I'd think."
"Some people believed it was good luck,"
said Maura.
"What?"
"In ancient times, an infant buried alive
under the cornerstone was supposed to protect
the house."
Mitch stared at her. A look of Who the heck
are you, lady?
"I'm just saying that burial practices change
over the centuries," said Maura. "This could
very well be an old grave."
From overhead came a noisy flapping. The
crows simultaneously rose from the tree, feathers
beating the sky. Maura watched them, unnerved
by the sight of so many black wings
lifting at once, as though by command.
"Weird," said Gresham.
Maura rose to her feet and looked at the
trees. Remembered the noise of the bulldozer
that morning, and how close it had seemed.
"Which direction is the house from here? The
one I stayed in last night?" she asked.
Gresham looked up at the sun to orient himself,
then pointed. "That way. Where you're
facing now."
"How far is it?"
"It's right through those trees. You could
walk it."
The Maine state medical examiner arrived
from Augusta an hour and a half later. As he
stepped out of his car, carrying his kit, Maura
immediately recognized the man with the
white turban and neatly trimmed beard. Maura
had first met Dr. Daljeet Singh at a pathology
conference the year before, and they had dined
together in February, when he'd attended a regional
forensics meeting in Boston. Though
not a tall man, his dignified bearing and traditional
Sikh headdress made him seem more formidable
than he really was. Maura had always
been impressed by his air of quiet competence.
And by his eyes; Daljeet had liquid brown eyes
and the longest lashes she'd ever seen on a man.
They shook hands, a warm greeting between
two colleagues who genuinely liked each
other. "So what are you doing here, Maura?
Not enough work for you in Boston? You have
to come poach my cases?"
"My weekend's turned into a busman's
holiday."
"You've seen the remains?"
She nodded, her smile fading. "There's a left
iliac crest, partially buried. We haven't touched
it yet. I knew you'd want to see it in situ first."
"No other bones?"
"Not so far."
"Well, then." He looked at the cleared field,
as though steeling himself for the tramp
through the dirt. She noticed that he'd come
prepared with the right footwear: L.L. Bean
boots that looked as if they were brand-new
and about to get their first test on muddy terrain.
"Let's see what the bulldozer turned up."
By now it was early afternoon, the heat so
thick with humidity that Daljeet's face was
quickly glazed with sweat. As they started
across the clearing, insects swarmed in, taking bloody advantage of fresh meat. Detectives
Corso and Yates from the Maine State Police
had arrived twenty minutes earlier, and
were pacing the field along with Ballard and
Gresham.
Corso waved and called out: "Not the way
to spend a beautiful Sunday, hey, Dr. Singh?"
Daljeet waved back, then squatted down to
look at the ilium.
"This was an old homesite," said Maura.
"There was a stone foundation here, according
to the crew."
"But no coffin remains?"
"We didn't see any."
He looked across the landscape of muddy
stones and uprooted weeds and tree stumps.
"That bulldozer could have scattered bones
everywhere."
There was a shout from Detective Yates: "I
found something else!"
"Way over there?" said Daljeet, as he and
Maura crossed the field to join Yates.
"I was walking by here, got my foot caught
in that knot of blackberry roots," said Yates. "I
tripped over it, and this kind of popped up
from the dirt." As Maura crouched beside him,
Yates gingerly eased apart a thorny tangle of
uprooted canes. A cloud of mosquitoes rose
from the damp soil, lighting on Maura's face as
she stared at what was partially buried there. It
was a skull. One hollow orbit stared up at her,
pierced by tendrils of blackberry roots that had
forced their way through openings that had
once held eyes.
She looked at Daljeet. "You have a pruner?"
He opened his kit. Out came gloves, a rose
pruner, and a garden trowel. Together they
knelt in the dirt, working to free the skull.
Maura clipped roots as Daljeet gently scooped
away earth. The sun beat down, and the soil
itself seemed to radiate heat. Maura had to
pause several times to wipe away sweat. The
insect repellant she had applied an hour ago
was long gone, and blackflies were once again
swarming around her face.
She and Daljeet set aside their tools and
began to dig with their gloved hands, kneeling
so close together that their heads bumped.
Her fingers tunneled deeper into cooler soil,
loosening its hold. More and more cranium
emerged and she paused, staring down at the
temporal bone. At the massive fracture now
revealed.
She and Daljeet glanced at each other, both
registering the same thought: This was not a
natural death.
"I think it's loose now," said Daljeet. "Let's
lift it out."
He laid out a plastic sheet, then reached
deep into the hole. His hands emerged cradling
the skull, the mandible partly anchored to it by
helpful spirals of blackberry roots. He laid his
treasure on the sheet.
For a moment, no one said anything. They
were all staring at the shattered temporal bone.
Detective Yates pointed to the metallic glint
of one of the molars. "Isn't that a filling?" he
said. "In that tooth?"
"Yes. But dentists were using amalgam fillings
a hundred years ago," said Daljeet.
"So it could still be an old burial."
"But where are the coffin fragments? If this
was a formal burial, there should be a coffin.
And there's this little detail." Daljeet pointed
to the crush fracture. He looked up at the two
detectives bending over his shoulder. "Whatever
the age of these remains, I think you have
a crime scene here."

The other men had crowded in around
them, and suddenly the air felt as if all the oxygen
had been sucked out of it. The buzz of
mosquitoes seemed to grow to a pulsing roar.
It's so warm, she thought. She rose to her feet
and walked on unsteady legs toward the edge
of the woods, where the canopy of oak and
maple cast a welcome shade. Sinking onto a
rock, she dropped her head in her hands,
thinking: This is what I get for not eating
breakfast.
"Maura?" called Ballard. "Are you okay?"
"It's just this heat. I need to cool down for a
moment."
"Would you like some water? I have some in
my truck, if you don't mind drinking from the
same bottle."
"Thank you. I could use some."
She watched as he headed toward his vehicle,
the back of his shirt stained with wings of
sweat. He didn't bother to pick his way delicately
across the uneven field, but just forged
ahead, boots tramping across broken soil. Purposeful.
That's the way Ballard walked, like a
man who knew what needed to be done, and
simply got on with it.
The bottle he brought back to her was
warm from sitting in the truck. She took a
greedy gulp, water trickling down her chin.
Lowering the bottle, she found Ballard watching
her. For a moment she didn't notice the
hum of insects, the murmur of men's voices as
they worked yards away. Here, in the green
shadows beneath the trees, she could focus
only on him. On the way his hand brushed
hers as he took the bottle back. On the soft
light dappling his hair, and the web of laugh
lines around his eyes. She heard Daljeet call
her name, but she didn't answer, didn't turn
away; neither did Ballard, who seemed just as
trapped in the moment. She thought: One of
us has got to break the spell. One of us has got
to snap back out of it. But I can't seem to manage
it.
"Maura?" Daljeet was suddenly standing
right beside her; she hadn't even heard his approach.
"We have an interesting problem,"
he said.
"What problem?"
"Come take another look at that ilium."
Slowly she rose to her feet, feeling steadier
now, her head clear. The drink of water, the
few moments in the shade, had given her a second
wind. She and Ballard followed Daljeet
back to the hip bone, and she saw that Daljeet
had already cleared away some of the soil, exposing
more of the pelvis.
"I got it down to the sacrum on this side,"
he said. "You can just see the pelvic outlet and
the ischial tuberosity, here."
She dropped to a crouch beside him. Said
nothing for a moment, just stared at the bone.
"What's the problem?" said Ballard.
"We need to expose the rest of this," she
said. She looked up at Daljeet. "Do you have
another trowel?"
He passed one to her; it was like the slap of a
scalpel handle in her palm. Suddenly she was at
work, and all grim business. Kneeling side by
side, trowels in hand, she and Daljeet cleared
away more stony soil. Tree roots had woven
through bony fossae, anchoring the bones to
their grave, and they had to cut away the wiry
tangle to free the pelvis. The deeper they dug,
the faster her heart began to beat. Treasure
hunters might dig for gold; she dug for secrets.
For the answers that only a grave can reveal.
With each trowelful of dirt they removed, more
of the pelvis came into view. They worked
feverishly now, tools probing deeper.
When at last they stared down at the exposed
pelvis, they were both too stunned to
speak.
Maura rose to her feet and walked back to
look at the skull, still lying on the plastic sheet.
Kneeling beside it, she pulled off her gloves
and ran her bare fingers above the orbit, feeling
the robust curve of the supraorbital ridge.
Then she flipped over the skull, to examine the
occipital protuberance.
This did not make sense.
She rocked back on her knees. Her blouse
was sweat-soaked in the cloying air. Except for
the buzz of insects, the clearing had gone
silent. Trees loomed on all sides, guarding this
secret enclosure. Gazing at that impenetrable
wall of green, she felt eyes staring back, as
though the forest itself was watching her. Waiting
for her next move.
"What's going on, Dr. Isles?"
She looked up at Detective Corso. "We have
a problem," she said. "This skull--"
"What about it?"
"You see the heavy ridges here, above the
eye sockets? And look back here, at the base
of the skull. If you run your finger across it,
you can feel a bump. It's called the occipital
protuberance."
"So?"
"It's where the ligamentum nuchae attaches,
anchoring the muscles from the back of the
neck to the cranium. The fact that bump is so
prominent tells me this individual had robust
musculature. This is almost certainly a man's
skull."
"What's the problem?"
"That pelvis over there is from a woman."
Corso stared at her. Turned to look at Dr.
Singh.
"I completely agree with Dr. Isles," said
Daljeet.
"But that would mean ..."
"We have the remains of two different individuals
here," said Maura. "One male, one female."
She stood up and met Corso's gaze.
"The question is, how many others are buried
out here?"
For a moment, Corso seemed too startled to
respond. Then he turned and slowly scanned
the clearing, as though really seeing it for the
first time.
"Chief Gresham," he said, "we're going to
need volunteers. A lot of them. Cops, firemen.
I'll call in our team from Augusta, but it won't
be enough. Not for what we need to do."
"How many people are you talking about?"
"Whatever it takes to walk this site." Corso
was staring at the surrounding trees. "We're
going to comb every square inch of this place.
The clearing, the woods. If there's more than
two people buried here, I'm going to find
them."
TWELVE

Jane Rizzoli had grown up in the suburb
of Revere, just over the Tobin Bridge from
downtown Boston. It was a working-class
neighborhood of boxy homes on postage-stamp
lots, a place where, every fourth of July,
hot dogs sizzled on backyard grills and American
flags were proudly displayed on front
porches. The Rizzoli family had known its
share of ups and downs, including a few terrible
months when Jane was ten years old, and
her father had lost his job. She'd been old
enough to sense her mother's fear and absorb
her father's angry desperation. She and her two
brothers knew what it was like to live on that
knife edge between comfort and ruin, and
even though she enjoyed a steady paycheck,
she could never quite silence the whispers of
insecurity from her childhood. She would always
think of herself as the girl from Revere
who'd grown up dreaming of one day having a
big house in a grander neighborhood, a house
with enough bathrooms so she wouldn't have
to pound on the door every morning, demanding
her turn in the shower. It would have
to have a brick chimney and a double front
door and a brass knocker. The house she was
now staring at from her car had all those features
and more: the brass knocker, the double
front door, and not one chimney, but two.
Everything she'd dreamed about.
But it was the ugliest house she'd ever seen.
The other homes on this East Dedham
street were what you'd expect to find in a comfortable
middle-class neighborhood: two-car
garages and neatly kept front yards. Late-model
cars parked in driveways. Nothing
fancy, nothing that demanded look at me. But
this house--well, it didn't just demand your
attention. It shrieked for it.
It was as if Tara, the plantation house from
Gone with the Wind, had been whooshed up
in a tornado and plopped down on a city lot.
It had no yard to speak of, just a rim of land
along the sides so narrow you could barely
push a lawnmower between the wall and the
neighbor's fence. White columns stood sentinel
on a porch where Scarlett O'Hara could
have held court in full view of the traffic on
Sprague Street. The house made her think of
Johnny Silva in the old neighborhood, and
how he had blown his first paycheck on
a cherry-red Corvette. "Trying to pretend
he's not a loser," her father had said. "Boy
hasn't even gotten around to moving outta his
parents' basement, and he buys himself a
fancy sports car. The biggest losers buy the
biggest cars."
Or build the biggest house in the neighborhood,
she thought, staring at Tara-on-Sprague-Street.
She maneuvered her belly out from behind
the steering wheel. Felt the baby tap-dance on
her bladder as she walked up the porch steps.
First things first, she thought. Ask to use the
restroom. The doorbell didn't just ring; it bonged, like a cathedral bell calling the faithful
to worship.
The blond woman who opened the door
appeared to have wandered into the wrong
residence. Rather than Scarlett O'Hara, she
was your classic Bambi--big hair, big boobs,
body sausaged into a pink spandex exercise
outfit. A face so unnaturally blank of expression
that it had to be Botoxed.
"I'm Detective Rizzoli, here to see Terence
Van Gates. I called earlier."
"Oh yeah, Terry's expecting you." A girlish
voice, high and sweet. Okay in small doses, but
after an hour, it would be like fingernails scraping
across a chalkboard.
Rizzoli stepped into the foyer and was immediately
confronted with a mammoth oil
painting on the wall. It was Bambi dressed in a
green evening gown, standing beside an enormous
vase of orchids. Everything in this house
seemed oversized. The paintings, the ceilings,
the breasts.
"They're renovating his office building, so
he's working from home today. Down the hall,
on your right."
"Excuse me--I'm sorry, I don't know your
name."
"Bonnie."
Bonnie, Bambi. Close enough.
"That would be ... Mrs. Van Gates?" asked
Rizzoli.
"Uh-huh."
Trophy wife. Van Gates had to be close to
seventy.
"May I use your restroom? I seem to need
one every ten minutes these days."
For the first time, Bonnie seemed to notice
that Rizzoli was pregnant. "Oh, honey! Of
course you can. The powder room's right there."
Rizzoli had never seen a bathroom painted
candy-cane pink. The toilet sat high on a platform,
like a throne, with a telephone mounted
on the wall beside it. As if anyone would want
to conduct business while, well, doing their
business. She washed her hands with pink soap
in the pink marble basin, dried them with pink
towels, and fled the room.
Bonnie had vanished, but Rizzoli could hear
the beat of exercise music, and the thumps of
feet bouncing upstairs. Bonnie going through
her exercise routine. I should get in shape one
of these days too, thought Rizzoli. But I refuse
to do it in pink spandex.
She headed down the hall in search of Van
Gates's office. She peeked first into a vast living
room with a white grand piano and a white rug
and white furniture. White room, pink room.
What came next? She passed another painting
of Bonnie in the hallway, this time posed as a
Greek goddess in a white gown, nipples showing
through diaphanous fabric. Man, these
people belonged in Vegas.
At last she came to an office. "Mr. Van
Gates?" she said.
The man sitting behind the cherry desk
looked up from his papers, and she saw
watery blue eyes, a face gone soft and jowly
with age, and hair that was--what was that
shade? Somewhere between yellow and orange.
Surely not intentional, just a dye job
gone wrong.
"Detective Rizzoli?" he said, and his gaze fell
to her abdomen. Got stuck there, as though
he'd never seen a pregnant cop before.
Talk to me, not the belly. She crossed to his
desk and shook his hand. Noticed the telltale
transplant plugs dotting his scalp, sprouting
hair like little tufts of yellow grass in a last desperate
stand of virility. That's what you deserved
for marrying a trophy wife.
"Sit down, sit down," he said.
She settled into a slick leather chair. Glancing
around the room, she noticed that the
decor in here was radically different from the
rest of the house. It was done up in Traditional
Lawyer, with dark wood and leather. Ma
hogany shelves were filled with law journals
and textbooks. Not a whisper of pink. Clearly
this was his domain, a Bonnie-free zone.
"I don't really know how I can help you, Detective,"
he said. "The adoption you're asking
about was forty years ago."
"Not exactly ancient history."
He laughed. "I doubt you were even born
then."
Was that a little poke? His way of saying she
was too young to be bothering him with these
questions?
"You don't recall the people involved?"
"I'm just saying that it was a long time ago.
I would've been just out of law school then.
Working out of a rented office with rented
furniture and no secretary. Answered my own
phone. I took every case that came in-- divorces, adoptions, drunk driving. Whatever
paid the rent."
"And you still have all those files, of course.
From your cases back then."
"They'd be in storage."
"Where?"
"File-Safe, out in Quincy. But before we go
any further, I have to tell you. The parties involved
in this particular case requested absolute
privacy. The birth mother did not want
her name revealed. Those records were sealed
years ago."
"This is a homicide case, Mr. Van Gates.
One of the two adoptees is now dead."
"Yes, I know. But I fail to see what that has
to do with her adoption forty years ago. How
is it relevant to your investigation?"
"Why did Anna Leoni call you?"
He looked startled. Nothing he said after
that could cover up that initial reaction, that
expression of uh-oh. "Excuse me?" he said.
"The day before she was murdered, Anna
Leoni called your law office from her room at
the Tremont Hotel. We just got her phone
record. The conversation lasted thirty-seven
minutes. Now, you two must have talked
about something during those thirty-seven
minutes. You couldn't have kept the poor
woman on hold all that time?"
He said nothing.
"Mr. Van Gates?"
"That--that conversation was confidential"
"Ms. Leoni was your client? You billed her
for that call?"
"No, but--"
"So you're not bound by attorney-client
privilege."
"But I am bound by another client's confidentiality."
"The birth mother."
"Well, she was my client. She gave up her
babies on one condition--that her name never
be revealed."
"That was forty years ago. She may have
changed her mind."
"I have no idea. I don't know where she is. I
don't even know if she's still alive."
"Is that why Anna called you? To ask about
her mother?"
He leaned back. "Adoptees are often curious
about their origins. For some of them it becomes
an obsession. So they go on document
hunts. Invest thousands of dollars and a lot of
heartache searching for mothers who don't want
to be found. And if they do find them, it's seldom
the fairy-tale ending they expected. That's
what she was looking for, Detective. A fairy-tale
ending. Sometimes they're better off just forgetting
it, and moving on with their lives."
Rizzoli thought of her own childhood, her
own family. She had always known who she
was. She could look at her grandparents, her
parents, and see her own bloodline engraved
on their faces. She was one of them, right
down to her DNA, and no matter how much
her relatives might annoy her or embarrass her,
she knew they were hers.
But Maura Isles had never seen herself
in the eyes of a grandparent. When Maura
walked down a street, did she study the faces of
passing strangers, searching for a hint of her
own features? A familiar curve to the mouth
or slope of the nose? Rizzoli could perfectly
understand the hunger to know your own origins.
To know that you're not just a loose twig,
but one branch of a deeply rooted tree.
She looked Van Gates in the eye. "Who is
Anna Leoni's mother?"
He shook his head. "I'll say it again. This is
not relevant to your--"
"Let me decide that. Just give me the name."
"Why? So you can disrupt the life of a woman who may not want to be reminded of
her youthful mistake? What does this have to
do with the murder?"
Rizzoli leaned closer, placing both her hands
on his desk. Aggressively trespassing on his
personal property. Sweet little Bambis might
not do this, but girl cops from Revere weren't
afraid to.
"We can subpoena your files. Or I can ask
you politely."
They stared at each other for a moment.
Then he released a sigh of capitulation. "Okay, I
don't need to go through this again. I'll just tell
you, okay? The mother's name was Amalthea
Lank. She was twenty-four years old. And she
needed money--badly."
Rizzoli frowned. "Are you telling me she got
paid for giving up her babies?"
"Well..."
"How much?"
"It was substantial. Enough for her to get a
fresh start in life."
"How much?"
He blinked. "It was twenty thousand dollars,
each."
"For each baby?"
"Two happy families walked away with a
child. She walked away with cash. Believe me,
adoptive parents pay a lot more today. Do you
know how hard it is to adopt a healthy Caucasian
newborn these days? There just aren't
enough to go around. It's supply and demand,
that's all."
Rizzoli sank back, appalled that a woman
would sell her babies for cold hard cash.
"Now that's all I can tell you," said Van
Gates. "If you want to find out more, well,
maybe you cops should try talking to each
other. You'd save a lot of time."
That last statement puzzled her. Then she
remembered what he'd said only a moment
earlier: I don't need to go through this
again.
"Who else has asked you about this woman?"
she said.
"You people all go about it the same way.
You come in, threaten to make my life miserable
if I don't cooperate--"
"It was another cop?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"I don't remember. It was months ago. I
must've blocked out his name."
"Why did he want to know?"
"Because she put him up to it. They came in
together."
"Anna Leoni came in with him?"
"He was doing it for her. A favor." Van
Gates snorted. "We should all have cops doing
us favors."
"This was several months ago? They came
in to see you together?"
"I just said that."

"And you told her the mother's name?"
"Yeah."
"So why did Anna call you last week? If she
already knew her mother's name?"
"Because she saw some photo in The Boston
Globe. A lady who looks just like her."
"Dr. Maura Isles."
He nodded. "Ms. Leoni asked me directly,
so I told her."
"Told her what?"
"That she had a sister."
THIRTEEN


THE BONES CHANGED EVERYTHING.

Maura had planned to drive home to
Boston that evening. Instead she returned
briefly to the cottage to change into jeans and a
T-shirt, then drove back in her own car to the
clearing. I'll stay a little longer, she thought,
and leave by four o'clock. But as the afternoon
wore on, as the crime scene unit arrived from
Augusta and search teams began walking the
grid that Corso had mapped out in the clearing,
Maura lost track of the time. She took
only one break, to wolf down a chicken sandwich
that volunteers had delivered to the site.
Everything tasted like the mosquito repellent
she'd slathered all over her face, but she was so
hungry she would have happily gnawed on a
dry crust of bread. Her appetite sated, she once
again pulled on gloves, picked up a trowel, and
knelt down in the dirt beside Dr. Singh.
Four o'clock came and went.
The cardboard boxes began to fill with
bones. Ribs and lumbar vertebrae. Femurs and
tibias. The bulldozer had not, in fact, scattered
the bones far. The female's remains were all located
within a six-foot radius; the male's,
bound together in a web of blackberry roots,
were even more contained. There appeared to
be only two individuals, but it took all afternoon
to unearth them. Gripped by the excitement
of the dig, Maura could not bring herself
to leave, not when every shovelful of dirt she
sifted might reveal some new prize. A button
or a bullet or a tooth. As a Stanford University
undergraduate, she had spent a summer working
on an archaeological site in Baja. Though
the temperatures there had soared well into the
nineties, and her only shade was a broad-brimmed
hat, she had worked straight into the
hottest part of the day, driven by the same
fever that afflicts treasure hunters who believe
that the next artifact is only inches away. That
fever was what she experienced now, kneeling
among the ferns, swatting at blackflies. It was
what kept her digging through the afternoon
and into the evening as storm clouds moved
in. As thunder rumbled in the distance.
That, and the quiet thrill she felt whenever
Rick Ballard came near.
Even as she sifted through dirt, teased away
roots, she was aware of him. His voice, his
proximity. He was the one who brought her a
fresh water bottle, who handed her the sandwich.
Who stopped to place a hand on her
shoulder and ask how she was doing. Her male
colleagues at the M.E.'s office seldom touched
her. Perhaps it was her aloofness, or some silent
signal she gave off that told them she did not
welcome personal contact. But Ballard did not hesitate to reach for her arm, to rest his hand on
her back.
His touches left her flushed.
When the CSU team began packing up
their tools for the day, she was startled to realize
it was already seven, and daylight was fading.
Her muscles ached, her clothes were filthy.
She stood on legs trembling with weariness,
and watched Daljeet tape shut the two boxes
of remains. They each picked up a box and carried
them across the field, to his vehicle.
"After today, I think you owe me dinner,
Daljeet," she said.
"Restaurant Julien, I promise. Next time
I'm down in Boston."
"Believe me, I plan to collect."
He loaded the boxes into his car and shut
the door. Then they shook hands, filthy palm
to filthy palm. She waved as he drove away.
Most of the search team had already left; only a
few cars remained.
Ballard's Explorer was among them.

She paused in the deepening dusk and
looked at the clearing. He was standing near
the woods, talking to Detective Corso, his
back to her. She lingered, hoping that he
would notice she was about to leave.
And then what? What did she want to happen
between them?
Get out of here before you make an idiot of
yourself.
Abruptly she turned and walked to her car.
Started the engine and pulled away so quickly
the tires spun.
Back in the cottage, she peeled off her soiled
clothes. Took a long shower, lathering up twice
to wash away every trace of the oily mosquito
repellant. When she stepped out of the bathroom,
she realized she had no more clean
clothes to change into. She had planned on
staying only one night in Fox Harbor.
She opened the closet door and gazed at
Anna's clothes. They were all her size. What else
was she going to wear? She pulled out a summer
dress. It was white cotton, a little girlish for
her taste, but on this warm and humid evening,
it was just what she felt like wearing. Slipping
the dress over her head, she felt the kiss of sheer
fabric against her skin, and wondered when the
last time was that Anna had smoothed this
dress over her own hips, when had she last
looped the sash around her waist. The creases
were still there, marking the fabric where Anna
had tied the knot. Everything I see and touch of
hers still bears her imprint, she thought.
The ringing telephone made her turn and
face the nightstand. Somehow she knew, even
before she picked it up, that it was Ballard.
"I didn't see you leave," he said.
"I came back to the house to take a shower. I
was such a mess."
He laughed. "I'm feeling pretty grungy
myself."
"When are you driving back to Boston?"
"It's already so late in the day. I think I
might as well just stay another night. What
about you?"
"I don't really feel like driving back tonight,
either."
A moment passed.
"Did you find a hotel room here?" she asked.
"I brought my tent and sleeping bag with
me. I'm staying at a campground up the road."
It took her five seconds to make a decision.
Five seconds to consider the possibilities. And
the consequences.
"There's a spare room here," she said. "You're
welcome to use it."
"I hate to barge in on you."
"The bed's just sitting here, Rick."
A pause. "That'd be great. But on one condition."
"What's that?"
"You let me bring you dinner. There's a
take-out place down on Main Street. Nothing
fancy, maybe just some boiled lobsters."
"I don't know about you, Rick. But in my
book, lobsters definitely qualify as fancy."
"Do you want wine or beer?"
"Tonight feels like a beer night."
"I'll be there in about an hour. Save your
appetite."
She hung up, and suddenly realized she was
starving. Only moments ago, she'd been too
tired to drive into town, and had considered
skipping dinner and simply going to bed early.
Now she was hungry, not just for food but for
company as well.
She wandered the house, restless and driven
by too many contradictory desires. Only a few
nights ago, she had shared dinner with Daniel
Brophy. But the church had long ago laid
claim to Daniel, and she would never be in the
running. Hopeless causes might be seductive,
but they seldom brought you happiness.
She heard the rumble of thunder and went
to the screen door. Outside, dusk had deepened
to night. Though she saw no lightning
flashes, the air itself seemed charged. Electric
with possibilities. Raindrops began to patter
on the roof. At first it was only a few hesitant
taps, then the sky opened up like a hundred
drummers pounding overhead. Thrilled by
the storm's power, she stood on the porch and
watched the rain pour down, and felt the
welcome blast of cool air ripple her dress, lift
her hair.
A pair of headlights cut through the silvery
downpour.
She stood perfectly still on the porch, her
heart pounding like the rain, as the car pulled
up in front of the house. Ballard stepped out,
carrying a large sack and a six-pack of beer.
Head bent under the torrent, he splashed to
the porch and up the steps.
"Didn't know I'd have to swim here," he
said.
She laughed. "Come on, I'll get you a towel."
"Do you mind if I jump into your shower? I
haven't had a chance to wash up yet."
"Go ahead." She took the grocery sack from
him. "The bathroom's down the hall. There
are clean towels in the cabinet."
"I'll get my overnight bag out of the trunk."
She carried the food into the kitchen and
slid the beer into the refrigerator. Heard the screen door clap shut as he came back into the
house. And then, a moment later, she heard
the shower running.
She sat down at the table and released a deep
breath. This is only dinner, she thought. A single
night under the same roof. She thought of
the meal she'd cooked for Daniel only a few
days ago, and how different that evening had
felt from the start. When she'd looked at
Daniel, she'd seen the unattainable. And what
do I see when I look at Rick? Maybe more
than I should.
The shower was off. She sat very still, listening,
every sense suddenly so acute she could
feel the air whisper across her skin. Footsteps
creaked closer, and suddenly he was there,
smelling of soap, dressed in blue jeans and a
clean shirt.
"I hope you don't mind eating with a barefoot
man," he said. "My boots were too muddy
to wear in the house."
She laughed. "Then I'll just go barefoot too.
It'll feel like a picnic." She slipped out of her
sandals and went to the refrigerator. "Are you
ready for a beer?"
"I've been ready for hours."
She uncapped two bottles and handed one
to him. Sipped hers as she watched him tilt his
head back and take a deep gulp. I will never see
Daniel looking like this, she thought. Carefree
and barefoot, his hair damp from a shower.
She turned and went to look in the grocery
sack. "So what have you brought for dinner?"
"Let me show you." Joining her at the
counter, he reached into the sack and took out
various foil-wrapped packets. "Baked potatoes.
Melted butter. Corn on the cob. And the main
event." He produced a large Styrofoam container
and flipped it open to reveal two bright
red lobsters, still steaming.
"How do we get those open?"
"You don't know how to crack one of these
critters?"
"I hope you do."
"Nothing to it." He pulled two nutcrackers
out of the sack. "You ready for surgery, Doctor?"
"Now you're making me nervous."
"It's all in the technique. But first, we need
to suit up."
"Excuse me?"
He reached in the sack and came out with
plastic bibs.
"You've got to be kidding."
"You think restaurants give these things out
just to make tourists look like idiots?"
"Yes."
"Come on, be a sport. It'll keep that nice
dress clean." He circled around behind her and
slipped the bib over her chest. She felt his
breath in her hair as he fastened the ties behind
her neck. His hands lingered there, a touch
that made her shiver.
"It's your turn, now," she said softly.
"My turn?"
"I'm not going to be the only one wearing
one of these ridiculous things."
He gave a sigh of resignation and tied a bib
around his own neck. They looked at each
other, wearing matching cartoon lobsters on
their chests, and they both burst out laughing.
Kept on laughing as they sank into chairs at
the table. A few sips of beer on an empty stomach
and I'm out of control, she thought. And it
feels so good.
He picked up a nutcracker. "Now, Dr. Isles.
Are we ready to operate?"
She reached for hers, holding it like a surgeon
about to make the first incision. "Ready."
The rain pounded its steady drumbeat as
they pulled off claws, cracked shells, and teased
out sweet chunks of meat. They did not bother
with forks but ate with their hands, their fingers
slick with butter as they opened fresh bottles
of beer and broke apart baked potatoes
to expose the warm and yeasty flesh within.
Tonight manners didn't matter; this was a picnic,
and they sat barefoot at the table, licking
their fingers. Stealing glances at each other.
"This is a lot more fun than eating with a
knife and fork," she said.
"You've never eaten lobster with your bare
hands before?"
"Believe it or not, this is the first time I've
encountered one that wasn't already out of its
shell." She reached for a napkin and wiped the
butter from her fingers. "I'm not from New
England, you know. I moved here only two
years ago. From San Francisco."
"That surprises me somehow."
"Why?"
"You strike me as such a typical Yankee."
"Meaning?"
"Self-contained. Reserved."
"I try to be."
"Are you saying that it's not the real you?"
"We all play roles. I have my official mask at
work. The one I wear when I'm Dr. Isles."
"And when you're with friends?"
She sipped her beer, then quietly set it
down. "I haven't made that many friends in
Boston, yet."
"It takes time, if you're an outsider."
An outsider. Yes, that's what she felt like,
every day. She'd watch cops slap each other on
the back. She heard them talk about barbecues
and softball games to which she'd never be invited
because she was not one of them, a cop.
The M.D. behind her name was like a wall,
shutting them out. And her doctor colleagues
in the M.E.'s office, all of them married, didn't
know what to do with her, either. Attractive divorcees
were inconvenient, discomfiting. Either
a threat or a temptation no one wanted to
deal with.
"So what brought you to Boston?" he asked.
"I guess I needed to shake up my life."
"Career blahs?"
"No, not that. I was pretty happy at the
medical school there. I was a pathologist at the
university hospital. Plus I got the chance to
work with all these bright young residents and
students."
"So if it wasn't the job, it must have been the
love life."
She looked down at the table, at the leavings
of her dinner. "Good guess."
"This is where you tell me to mind my own
business."
"I got divorced, that's all."
"Something you want to talk about?"
She shrugged. "What can I say? Victor was
brilliant, incredibly charismatic--"
"Gee, I'm already jealous."
"But you can't stay married to someone like
that. It's too intense. It burns out so fast you
end up exhausted. And he ..." She stopped.
"What?"
She reached for the beer. Took her time sipping
it before she set it down. "He wasn't exactly
honest with me," she said. "That's all."
She knew he wanted to know more, but he
had picked up on that note of finality in her
voice. This far, no further. He stood up and
went to the refrigerator for two more beers.
Popped off the caps and handed a bottle to her.
"If we're gonna talk about exes," he said,
"we'll need a lot more beer than this."
"Let's not, then. If it hurts."
"Maybe it hurts because you don't talk
about it."
"No one wants to hear about my divorce."
He sat down and met her gaze across the
table. "I do."
No man, she thought, had ever focused on
her so completely, and she could not look
away. She found herself breathing deeply, inhaling
the smell of rain and the rich animal
scent of melted butter. She saw things in his
face she had not noticed before. The streaks of
blond in his hair. The scar on his chin, just a
faint white line below his lip. The chipped
front tooth. I've just met this man, she
thought, but he looks at me as though he's
known me forever. Faintly she heard her cell
phone ringing in the bedroom, but did not
want to answer it. She let it keep ringing until
it fell silent. It was unlike her not to answer her
phone, but tonight, everything felt different.
She felt different. Reckless. A woman who ignored
her phone and ate with her bare hands.
A woman who just might sleep with a man
she scarcely knew.
The phone started ringing again.
This time, the urgency of that sound finally
drew her attention. She could no longer ignore
it. Reluctantly she stood up. "I guess I should
answer that."
By the time she got to the bedroom, the
phone had once again stopped ringing. She dialed
up her voice mail and heard two different
messages, both from Rizzoli.
"Doc, I need to talk to you. Call me back."
The second message, recorded in a more
querulous voice: "It's me again. Why aren't you
answering?"
Maura sat down on the bed. Couldn't help
thinking, as she gazed at the mattress, that it
was just big enough for two. She shook the
thought from her head, took a deep breath,
and dialed Rizzoli's number.
"Where are you?" Rizzoli demanded.
"I'm still in Fox Harbor. I'm sorry, I didn't
get to the phone in time to answer it."
"Have you seen Ballard up there yet?"
"Yes, we just finished dinner. How did you
know he was here?"
"Because he called me yesterday, asking
where you'd gone. He sounded like he might
head up that way."
"He's right in the other room. Do you want
me to get him?"
"No, I want to talk to you." Rizzoli paused.
"I went to see Terence Van Gates today."
Rizzoli's abrupt change in subject gave
Maura a case of mental whiplash. "What?"
she asked, bewildered.
"Van Gates. You told me he was the attorney
who--"
"Yes, I know who he is. What did he tell you?"
"Something interesting. About the adoption."
"He actually talked to you about it?"
"Yeah, it's amazing how some people open
up when you flash a badge. He told me your
sister went to see him months ago. Just like
you, she was trying to find her birth mother.
He gave her the same runaround he gave you.
Records were sealed, the mother wanted confidentiality,
blah, blah, blah. So she returned
with a friend, who finally convinced Van Gates
it was in his best interests to give up the
mother's name."
"And did he?"
"Yes, he did."
Maura had the phone pressed so hard to her
ear that she could hear her own pulse thumping
in the receiver. She said, softly: "You know
who my mother is."
"Yes. But there's something else--"
"Tell me her name, Jane."
A pause. "Lank. Her name is Amalthea
Lank."
Amalthea. My mother's name is Amalthea.
Maura's breath whooshed out on a tide of
gratitude. "Thank you! God, I can't believe I finally
know--"
"Wait. I haven't finished."
The tone of Rizzoli's voice held a warning. Something bad was coming. Something that
Maura would not like.
"What is it?"
"That friend of Anna's, the one who spoke
to Van Gates?"
"AT" }"
Yes?
"It was Rick Ballard."
Maura went very still. From the kitchen
came the clatter of dishes, the hiss of running
water. I have just spent a whole day with him,
and I suddenly learn I don't know what kind of
man he really is.
"Doc?"
"Then why didn't he tell me?"
"I know why he didn't."
"Why?"
"You'd better ask him. Ask him to tell you
the rest of it."


When she returned to the kitchen, she saw that
he had cleared the table and thrown the lobster
shells in a trash bag. He was standing at the
sink washing his hands and did not realize she
was in the doorway, watching him.
"What do you know about Amalthea
Lank?" Maura said.
He went rigid, his back still turned. A long
silence passed. Then he reached for a dish
towel and took his time drying his hands. Buying
time before he answers me, she thought.
But there was no excuse that she would accept,
nothing he could say that could reverse the
sense of distrust she now felt.
At last he turned to face her. "I was hoping
you wouldn't find out. Amalthea Lank is not a
woman you want to know, Maura."
"Is she my mother? Goddamn it, tell me
that much."
A reluctant nod. "Yes. She is."
There, he'd said it. He'd confirmed it. Another
moment passed while she absorbed the
fact he had kept such important information
from her. The whole time he was watching her
with a look of concern.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked.
"I was thinking only of you, Maura. What's
in your best interests--"
"The truth isn't in my best interests?"
"In this case, no. It isn't."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"I made a mistake with your sister--a serious
one. She wanted so badly to find her
mother, and I thought I could do her that
favor. I had no idea it would turn out the way it
did." He took a step toward her. "I was trying
to protect you, Maura. I saw what it did to
Anna. I didn't want the same thing to happen
to you."
"I'm not Anna."
"But you're just like her. You're so much like
her, it scares me. Not just the way you look,
but the way you think."
She gave a sarcastic laugh. "So now you can
read my mind?"
"Not your mind. Your personality. Anna
was tenacious. When she wanted to know
something, she wouldn't let go. And you'll
just keep digging and digging, until you have
an answer. The way you dug out there in the
woods today. That wasn't your job, and it
wasn't your jurisdiction. You had no reason to
be out there at all, except for sheer curiosity.
And stubbornness. You wanted to find those
bones, so you did. That's how Anna was." He
sighed. "I'm just sorry she found what she was
digging for?"
"Who was my mother, Rick?"
"A woman you don't want to meet."
It took a moment for Maura to fully register
the significance of that answer. Present tense.
"My mother is alive."
Reluctantly he nodded.
"And you know where to find her."
He didn't answer.
"Goddamn it, Rick!" she exploded. "Why
don't you just tell me?"
He went to the table and sat down, as
though suddenly too tired to continue the
battle. "Because I know you're going to find
it painful, hearing the facts. Especially
because of who you are. What you do for a
living."
"What does my job have to do with it?"
"You work with law enforcement. You help
bring killers to justice."
"I don't bring anyone to justice. I just provide
the facts. Sometimes the facts aren't what
you cops want to hear."
"But you work on our side."
"No. The victim's side."
"All right, the victim's side. That's why you're
not going to like what I tell you about her."
"You haven't told me a thing so far."
He sighed. "Okay. Maybe I should start off
by telling you where she's living."
"Go on."
"Amalthea Lank--the woman who gave
you up for adoption--is incarcerated at the
Massachusetts Department of Corrections facility
in Framingham."
Her legs suddenly unsteady, Maura sank
into a chair across from him. Felt her arm
smear across spilled butter that had congealed
on the tabletop. Evidence of the cheerful meal
they'd shared less than an hour ago, before her
universe had tilted.
"My mother is in prison?"
"Yes."
Maura stared at him, and could not bring
herself to ask the next obvious question, because
she was afraid of the answer. But she had
already taken the first step down this road, and
even though she didn't know where it might
take her, she couldn't turn back now.
"What did she do?" Maura asked. "Why is
she in prison?"
"She's serving a life term," he said. "For a
double homicide."
"That's what I didn't want you to know," said
Ballard. "I saw what it did to Anna, knowing
what her mother was guilty of. Knowing whose
blood she had in her veins. That's a pedigree no
one wants to have--a killer in the family. Naturally,
she didn't want to believe it. She thought
it had to be a mistake, that maybe her mother
was innocent. And after she saw her--"
"Wait. Anna saw our mother?"
"Yes. She and I drove out together, to
MCI-Framingham. The women's prison. It was another mistake, because that visit only
made her more confused about her mother's
guilt. She just couldn't accept the fact her
mother was a monst--" He stopped.
A monster. My mother is a monster.
The rainfall had slowed to a gentle tap-tap
on the roof. Though the thunderstorm had
passed, she could still hear its fading rumble as
it swept out to sea. But inside the kitchen, all
was silent. They sat facing each other across
the table, Rick watching her with quiet concern,
as though afraid she would shatter. He
doesn't know me, she thought. I'm not Anna. I
won't fall apart. And I don't need a goddamn
keeper.
"Tell me the rest," she said.
"The rest?"
"You said Amalthea Lank was convicted of
double homicide. When was this?"
"It was about five years ago."
"Who were the victims?"
"It's not an easy thing to tell you. Or an easy
thing for you to hear."
"So far you've told me my mother is a murderer.
I think I'm taking it pretty well."
"Better than Anna did," he admitted.
"So tell me who the victims were, and don't
leave a goddamn thing out. It's the one thing I
can't deal with, Rick, when people hide the
truth from me. I was married to a man who
kept too many secrets from me. That's what
ended our marriage. I won't put up with it
again, not from anyone. "
"Okay." He leaned forward, looking her in
the eye. "You want the details, then I'll be brutally
honest about it. Because the details are brutal. The victims were two sisters, Theresa
and Nikki Wells, ages thirty-five and twenty-eight,
from Fitchburg, Massachusetts. They
were stranded at the side of the road with a flat
tire. It was late November, and there was a surprise
snowstorm blowing. They must've felt
pretty lucky when a car pulled over to give
them a lift. Two days later, their bodies were
found about thirty miles away, in a burned-down
shed. A week after that, police in Virginia
stopped Amalthea Lank for a traffic violation.
Found out her car had stolen plates. Then they
noticed smears of blood on the rear bumper.
When police searched the car, they found the
victims' wallets were in the trunk, as well as a
tire iron with Amalthea's fingerprints. Later
tests turned up traces of blood on it. Nikki's
and Theresa's blood. The final piece of evidence
was recorded on a gas station security camera
up in Massachusetts. Amalthea Lank is seen on
that recording filling a plastic container with
gasoline. The gasoline she used to burn the victims'
bodies." His gaze met hers. "There. I've
been brutal. Is that what you wanted?"
"What was the cause of death?" she asked.
Her voice strangely, chillingly calm. "You said
the bodies were burned, but how were the
women killed?"
He stared at her for a moment, as though
not quite accepting her composure. "X-rays of
the burned remains showed that the skulls of
both women were fractured, most likely by
that tire iron. The younger sister, Nikki, was
struck so hard in the face that it caved in the
facial bones, leaving nothing but a crater.
That's how vicious a crime it was."
She thought about the scenario he had just
presented. Thought about a snowy roadside
and two stranded sisters. When a woman stops
to help, they'd have every reason to trust their
good Samaritan, especially if she is older.
Grayer. Women helping women.
She looked at Ballard. "You said Anna didn't
believe she was guilty."
"I just told you what they presented at trial.
The tire iron, the gas station video. The stolen
wallets. Any jury would have convicted her."
"This happened five years ago. How old was
Amalthea?"
"I don't remember. Sixty-something."
"And she managed to subdue and kill two
women who are decades younger than she is?"
"Jesus, you're doing the same thing Anna
did. Doubting the obvious."
"Because the obvious isn't always true. Any
able-bodied person would fight back or run.
Why didn't Theresa and Nikki?"
"They must have been taken by surprise."
"But two of them? Why didn't the other one run?"
"One of them wasn't exactly able-bodied."
"What do you mean?"
"The younger sister, Nikki. She was nine
months pregnant."
FOURTEEN

Mattie Purvis did not know if it was
day or night. She had no watch, so she could
not keep track of the passing hours or days.
That was the hardest part of all, not knowing
how long she had been in this box. How many
heartbeats, how many breaths she had spent all
alone with her fear. She'd tried counting the
seconds, then the minutes, but gave up after
only five. It was a useless exercise, even if it
served as a distraction from despair.
She'd already explored every square inch of
her prison. Had found no weaknesses, no
cracks she could dig into or widen. She had
spread the blanket beneath her, a welcome
padding on that hard wood. Had learned to
use the plastic bedpan without too much
splashing. Even while trapped in a box, life settles
into a routine. Sleep. Sip water. Pee. All she
really had to help her keep track of the passing
time was her supply of food. How many Hershey
bars she'd eaten, and how many were left.
There were still a dozen in the sack.
She slipped a fragment of chocolate into her
mouth, but did not chew it. She let it melt to
musky sweetness on her tongue. She had always
loved chocolate, had never been able to
walk past a candy store without stopping to
admire the truffles displayed like dark jewels in
their paper nests. She thought of bitter cocoa
dust and tart cherry fillings and rum syrup
oozing down her chin--a far cry from this
simple candy bar. But chocolate was chocolate,
and she savored what she had.
It would not last forever.
She looked down at the crumpled wrappings
that littered her prison, dismayed that
she had already consumed so much of the
food. When it was gone, what happened next?
Surely there was more coming. Why would her
kidnapper supply her with food and water,
only to let her starve to death days later?
No, no, no. I'm supposed to live, not die.
She lifted her face toward the air grate and
sucked in deep breaths. I'm meant to live, she
kept repeating to herself. Meant to live.
Why?
She sank back against the wall, that one
word echoing in her head. The only answer she
could come up with was: ransom. Oh, what a
stupid kidnapper. You fell for Dwayne's illusion.
The BMWs, the Breitling watch, the designer
ties. When you drive a machine like
this, you're upholding an image. She began to
laugh hysterically. I've been kidnapped because
of an image built on borrowed money. Dwayne
can't afford to pay any ransom.
She pictured him walking into their house
and finding her gone. He'll see that my car is in
the garage, and the chair's on the floor, she
thought. It won't make sense, until he sees the
ransom note. Until he reads the demand for
money. You'll pay it, won't you?
Won't you?
The flashlight suddenly dimmed. She
snatched it up and banged it against her hand.
It flickered brighter, just for a moment, then
faded again. Oh god, the batteries. Idiot, you
shouldn't have left it on so long! She rummaged
in the grocery sack and ripped open a
fresh package of batteries. They tumbled out,
rolling in every direction.
The light died.
The sound of her own breathing filled the
darkness. Whimpers of mounting panic. Okay,
okay, Mattie, stop it. You know you've got fresh
batteries. You just have to slide them in the
right way.
She felt around on the floor, gathering up
the loose batteries. Took a deep breath and unscrewed
the flashlight, carefully setting the cap
on her folded knee. She slid out the old batteries,
set them off to the side. Every move she
made was in pitch blackness. If she lost a vital
part, she might never find it again without
light. Easy, Mattie. You've changed flashlight
batteries before. Just put them in, positive end
first. One, two. Now screw on the cap . . .
Light suddenly beamed out, bright and
beautiful. She gave a sigh and slumped back,
as exhausted as though she'd just run a mile.
You've got your light back, now save it. Don't
run it down again. She turned off the flashlight
and sat in darkness. This time her
breathing was steady, slow. No panic. She
might be blind, but she had her finger on the
switch and could turn on the light any time. I'm in control.
What she could not control, sitting in the
darkness, were the fears that now assailed her.
By now Dwayne must know I've been kidnapped,
she thought. He's read the note, or
gotten the phone call. Your money or your
wife. He'll pay it, of course he'll pay it. She
imagined him frantically pleading with an
anonymous voice on the phone. Don't hurt
her, please don't hurt her! She imagined him
sobbing at the kitchen table, sorry, very sorry,
for all the mean things he'd said to her. For the
hundred different ways he had made her feel
small and inconsequential. Now he was wishing
he could take it all back, wishing he could
tell her how much she meant to him . . .
You're dreaming, Mattie.
She squeezed her eyes shut against an anguish
so deep it seemed to reach in and grasp
her heart in its cruel fist.
You know he doesn't love you. You've known
it for months.
Wrapping her arms around her abdomen,
she hugged herself and her baby. Curled into a
corner of her prison, she could no longer block
out the truth. She remembered his look of disgust
as she'd stepped out of the shower one
night, and he had stared at her belly. Or the
evenings when she would come up behind him
to kiss his neck, and he'd wave her away. Or the
party at the Everetts' house two months ago,
where she had lost track of him, only to find
him in the backyard gazebo, flirting with Jen
Hockmeister. There'd been clues, so many
clues, and she had ignored them all because
she believed in true love. Had believed it since
the day she'd been introduced to Dwayne
Purvis at a birthday party, and had known that
he was the one, even if there were things about
him that should have bothered her. Like the
way he always split the check when they were
dating, or the way he couldn't pass a mirror
without fussing vainly with his hair. Little
things that didn't matter in the long run because
they had love to keep them together.
That's what she'd told herself, pretty lies that
were part of someone else's romance, maybe a
romance she'd seen in the movies, but not hers.
Not her life.
Her life was this. Sitting trapped in a box,
waiting to be ransomed by a husband who
didn't want her back.
She thought about the real Dwayne, not the
make-believe one, sitting in the kitchen reading
the ransom note. We have your wife. Unless
you pay us a million dollars . . .
No, that was way too much money. No sane
kidnapper would ask that much. What were
kidnappers asking these days for a wife? A hun
dred thousand dollars sounded far more reasonable.
Even so, Dwayne would balk. He'd
weigh all his assets. The Beemers, the house.
What's a wife worth?
If you love me, if you ever loved me, you'll pay it. Please, please pay it.
She slid to the floor, hugging herself, withdrawing
into despair. Her own private box,
deeper and darker than any prison anyone
could shut her into.
"Lady. Lady."
In mid-sob she froze, not certain she'd actually
heard the whisper. Now she was hearing
voices. She was going insane.
"Talk to me, lady."
She turned on the flashlight and aimed it
overhead. That's where the voice had come
from--the air grate.
"Can you hear me?" It was a man's voice.
Low, mellifluous.
"Who are you?" she said.
"Did you find the food?"
"Who are you?"
"Be careful with it. You have to make it last."
"My husband will pay you. I know he will.
Please, just let me out of here!"
"Are you having any pains?"
"What?"
"Any pains?"
"I just want to get out! Let me out!"
"When it's time."
"How long are you going to keep me in
here? When are you going to let me out?"
"Later."
"What does that mean?"
No answer.
"Hello? Mister, hello? Tell my husband I'm
alive. You tell him he has to pay you!"
Footsteps creaked away.
"Don't go!" she screamed. "Let me out!" She
reached up and pounded on the ceiling.
Shrieked: "You have to let me out!"
The footsteps were gone. She stared up at
the grate. He said he'll be back, she thought.
Tomorrow he'll be back. After Dwayne pays
him, he'll let me out.
Then it occurred to her. Dwayne. The
voice in the grate had not once mentioned her
husband.
FIFTEEN

Jane Rizzoli DROVE like the Bostonian she
was, her hand quick to hit the horn, her Subaru
weaving expertly past double-parked cars
as they worked their way to the Turnpike onramp.
Pregnancy had not mellowed her aggression;
if anything, she seemed more impatient
than usual as traffic conspired to hold them up
at every intersection.
"I don't know about this, Doc," she said,
fingers drumming the steering wheel as they
waited for a red light to count down. "This is
just gonna screw around with your head. I
mean, what good's it gonna do you to see her?"
"At least I'll know who my mother is."
"You know her name. You know the crime
she committed. Isn't that enough?"
"No, its not."
Behind them, a horn honked. The light had
turned green.
"Asshole," said Rizzoli, and she roared
through the intersection.
They took the Massachusetts Turnpike west
to Framingham, Rizzoli's Subaru dwarfed by
threatening convoys of big rigs and SUVs.
After only a weekend on the quiet roads of
Maine, it was a shock for Maura to be back
on a busy highway, where one small mistake,
one moment's inattention, was all it took to
close the gap between life and death. Rizzoli's
quick and fearless driving made Maura uneasy;
she, who never took chances, who insisted
on the safest car and double air bags,
who never let her gas gauge fall below a quarter
full, did not easily cede control. Not when
two-ton trucks were roaring only inches from
her window.
It wasn't until they'd exited the Turnpike,
onto Route 126 through downtown Framingam,
that Maura settled back, no longer poised
to clutch the dashboard. But she faced other
fears now, not of big rigs or hurtling steel.
What she feared most was coming face-to-face
with herself
And hating what she saw.
"You can change your mind anytime," said
Rizzoli, as though reading her thoughts. "You
ask, and I'll turn the car around. We can go to
Friendly's instead, have a cup of coffee. Maybe
some apple pie."
"Do pregnant women ever stop thinking
about food?"
"Not this pregnant woman."
"I'm not going to change my mind."
"Okay, okay." Rizzoli drove in silence for a
moment. "Ballard came in to see me this
morning."
Maura looked at her, but Rizzoli's gaze was
fixed on the road ahead. "Why?"
"He wanted to explain why he never told us
about your mother. Look, I know you're pissed
at him, Doc. But I think he really was trying to
protect you."
"Is that what he said?"
"I believe him. Maybe I even agree with
him. I thought about keeping that information
from you, too."
"But you didn't. You called me."
"The point is, I can see why he wouldn't
want to tell you."
"He had no excuse for keeping that information
from me."
"It's just a guy thing, you know? Maybe a
cop thing, too. They want to protect the little
lady--"
"So they hold back the truth?"
"I'm just saying, I understand where he's
coming from."
"Wouldn't you be angry about it?"
"Sure as hell."
"So why are you defending him?"
"Because he's hot?"
"Oh, please."
"I'm just telling you he's really sorry about
it. But I think he tried to tell you that himself."
"I wasn't in the mood for an apology."
"So you're just gonna stay mad at him?"
"Why are we discussing this?"
"I don't know. I guess it's the way he talked
about you. Like something happened between
you two up there. Did it?"
Maura felt Rizzoli watching her with those
bright cop's eyes, and knew that if she lied,
Rizzoli would see it.
"I don't need any complicated relationships
right now."
"What's complicated about it? I mean, besides
the fact you're pissed at him?"
"A daughter. An ex-wife."
"Men his age, they're all retreads. They're all
going to have ex-wives."
Maura stared ahead at the road. "You know,
Jane, not every woman is meant to be married."
"That's what I used to think, and look what
happened to me. One day I can't stand the guy,
the next day I can't stop thinking about him. I
never thought it'd turn out this way."
"Gabriel's one of the good ones."
"Yeah, he's a straight-up guy. But the point
is, he tried to pull the same stunt that Ballard
did, that macho protection thing. And I was
pissed at him. The point is, you can't always
predict when a guy's a keeper."
Maura thought of Victor. Of her disaster of
a marriage. "No, you can't."
"But you can start off by focusing on what's
possible, on what has a chance. And forget the
guys who'll never work out." Though they did
not mention his name, Maura knew they were
both thinking of Daniel Brophy. The impossible,
personified. A seductive mirage who could
lure her through the years, the decades, into
old age. Stranding her there all alone.
"This is the exit," said Rizzoli, turning off
onto Loring Drive.
Maura's heart started to pound as she saw
the sign for MCI-Framingham. It's time to
come face-to-face with who I really am.
"You can still change your mind," said Rizzoli
"We've already gone through this."
"Yeah, I just wanted you to know we can
turn back."
"Would you, Jane? After a lifetime of wondering
who your mother is, what she looks
like, would you leave it at that? When you're so
close to having every question you ever asked
finally answered?"
Rizzoli turned to look at her. Rizzoli, who
seemed always to be in motion, always at the
eye of one storm or another, now regarded
Maura with quiet understanding. "No," she
said. "I wouldn't."

In the administrative wing of the Betty Cole
Smith Building, they both presented their IDs
and signed in. A few minutes later, Superintendent
Barbara Gurley came down to meet them
at the front desk. Maura had expected an imposing
prison commandant, but the woman
she saw looked like a librarian, her short hair
more gray than brown, her slim figure clad in a
tan skirt and pink cotton blouse.
"Good to meet you, Detective Rizzoli," said
Gurley. She turned to Maura. "And you're Dr.
Isles?"
"Yes. Thank you for seeing me." Maura,
too, reached out to shake hands. Found the
other woman's grasp cool and reserved. She
knows who I am, thought Maura. She knows
why I'm here.
"Let's go up to my office. I've pulled her file
for you."
Gurley led the way, moving with crisp efficiency.
No wasted motion, no backward glance
to see if the visitors were keeping up. They
stepped into an elevator.
"This is a level four facility?" asked Rizzoli.
"Yes."
"Isn't that just medium security?" said Maura.
"We're developing a level six trial unit. This
is the only women's correctional unit in the
state of Massachusetts, so for the moment,
we're it. We have to deal with the whole spectrum
of offenders."
"Even mass murderers?" asked Rizzoli.
"If they're female, and they're convicted of a
crime, they come here. We don't have quite the
same security issues that the men's facilities
have to deal with. Also, our approach is a little
different. We emphasize treatment and reha
bilitation. A number of our inmates have mental
health and substance abuse problems. Plus,
there's the complicating fact that many of
them are mothers, so we have to deal with all
the emotional issues of maternal separation as
well. There are a lot of children left crying
when visiting hours end."
"What about Amalthea Lank? You have any
special issues with her?"
"We have ..." Gurley hesitated, her gaze
fixed straight ahead. "A few."
"Like what?"
The elevator door opened and Gurley
stepped out. "This is my office."
They passed through an anteroom. The
two secretaries stared at Maura, then quickly
dropped their gazes back to their computer
screens. Everyone's trying to avoid meeting my
eyes, she thought. What are they afraid I'll see?
Gurley led the visitors into her office and
closed the door. "Please, sit down."
The room was a surprise. Maura had thought
it would reflect Gurley herself, efficient and unadorned.
But everywhere, there were photographs
of smiling faces. Women holding babies,
children posed with neatly parted hair and
pressed shirts. A new bride and groom, surrounded
by a flock of children. His, hers, ours.
"My girls," said Gurley, smiling at the wall
of photos. "These are the ones who made the
transition back to society. The ones who made
the right choices and moved on with their
lives. Unfortunately," she said, her smile fading,
"Amalthea Lank will never be on this
wall." She sat down behind her desk and focused
on Maura. "I'm not sure your visit here
is such a good idea, Dr. Isles."
"I've never met my birth mother."
"That's what concerns me." Gurley leaned
back in her chair and studied Maura for a moment.
"We all want to love our mothers. We
want them to be special women because it
makes us special, as their daughters."
"I don't expect to love her."
"What do you expect, then?"
That question made Maura pause. She
thought of the imaginary mother she'd conjured
up as a child, ever since her cousin had
cruelly blurted out the truth: that Maura was
adopted. That this was the reason why, in a
family of blondes and towheads, she alone
had black hair. She'd built a fairy-tale mother
based on the darkness of her hair. An Italian
heiress, forced to give up a daughter conceived
in scandal. Or a Spanish beauty abandoned
by her lover, tragically dead of a
broken heart. Always, as Gurley had said,
she'd imagined someone special, even extraordinary.
Now she was about to confront not
the fantasy but the real woman, and the
prospect made her mouth go dry.
Rizzoli said to Gurley: "Why don't you
think she should see her?"
"I'm only asking her to approach this visit
with caution."
"Why? Is the inmate dangerous?"
"Not in the sense that she'll spring up and
physically attack anyone. In fact, she's quite
docile on the surface."
"And beneath the surface?"
"Think of what she did, Detective. How
much rage it must take to swing a crowbar with
such force that you shatter a woman's skull?
Now you answer that question: What lies beneath
Amalthea's surface?" Gurley looked at
Maura. "You need to go into this with your
eyes open, and fully aware of whom you're dealing
with."
"She and I may share the same DNA," said
Maura. "But I have no emotional attachment
to this woman."
"So you're just curious."
"I need to put this to rest. I need to
move on."
"That's probably what your sister thought,
too. You do know she came to visit Amalthea?"
"Yes, I've heard."
"I don't think it gave her any peace of mind.
I think it only upset her."
"Why?"
Gurley slid a file across the desk toward
Maura. "Those are Amalthea's psychiatric records.
Everything you need to know about her is
in there. Why don't you just read that instead?
Read it, walk away, and forget about her."
Maura didn't touch the file. It was Rizzoli
who picked up the folder and said: "She's
under a psychiatrist's care?"
"Yes," said Gurley.
"Why?"
"Because Amalthea is a schizophrenic."
Maura stared at the superintendent. "Then
why was she convicted of murder? If she's
schizophrenic, she shouldn't be in prison. She
should be in a hospital. "
"So should a number of our inmates. Tell it
to the courts, Dr. Isles, because I've tried to.
The system itself is insane. Even if you're flat-out
psychotic when you commit murder, the
insanity defense seldom sways a jury."
Rizzoli asked, softly: "Are you sure she is insane?"
Maura turned to Rizzoli. Saw that she was
staring down at the inmate's psychiatric file. "Is
there a question about her diagnosis?"
"I know this psychiatrist who's been seeing
her. Dr. Joyce O'Donnell. She doesn't normally
waste her time treating run-of-the-mill
schizophrenics." She looked at Gurley. "Why
is she involved in this case?"
"You sound disturbed about it," said
Gurley.
"If you knew Dr. O'Donnell, you'd be disturbed
too." Rizzoli clapped the folder shut.
Took a deep breath. "Is there anything else
Dr. Isles needs to know before she sees the
prisoner?"
Gurley looked at Maura. "I guess I haven't
talked you out of it, have I?"
"No. I'm ready to see her."
"Then I'll walk you down to visitor intake."
SIXTEEN


I CAN STILL CHANGE my mind.

That thought kept going through Maura's
head as she walked through visitor processing.
As she removed her watch and placed it, along
with her handbag, in a locker. She could bring
no jewelry or wallet into the visitors' room, and
she felt naked without her purse, stripped of
any proof of identity, of all the little plastic
cards that told the world who she was. She
closed the locker and the clang was a jarring reminder
of the world she was about to enter: a
place where doors slammed shut, where lives
were trapped in boxes.

Maura had hoped this meeting would be
private, but when the guard admitted her into
the visiting room, Maura saw that privacy was
an impossibility. Afternoon visiting hours had
commenced an hour earlier, and the room was
noisy with the voices of children and the chaos
of reunited families. Coins clattered into a
vending machine, which disgorged plastic-wrapped
sandwiches and chips and candy bars.
"Amalthea's on her way down now," the
guard said to Maura. "Why don't you find a seat?"
Maura went to an unoccupied table and sat
down. The plastic tabletop was sticky with
spilled juice; she kept her hands in her lap
and waited, her heart hammering, her throat
dry. The classic fight-or-flight response, she
thought. Why the hell am I so nervous?
She rose and crossed to a sink. Filled a paper
cup with water and gulped it down. Her throat
still felt dry. This kind of thirst couldn't be
quenched by mere water; the thirst, the quickened
pulse, the sweating hands--it was all the
same reflex, the body preparing itself for imminent
threat. Relax, relax. You'll meet her, say a
few words, satisfy your curiosity, and walk out.
How hard can that be? She crushed the paper
cup, turned, and froze.
A door had just opened and a woman entered,
her shoulders squared, her jaw lifted in
regal confidence. Her gaze settled on Maura
and for a moment it locked there. But then,
just as Maura thought: It's her, the woman
turned, smiled, and opened her arms wide to
embrace a child who was running toward her.
Maura halted in confusion, not knowing
whether to sit down or remain standing. Then
the door opened again, and the guard who had
spoken to her earlier reappeared, leading a
woman by the arm. A woman who did not
walk but shuffled, her shoulders slumped forward,
her head bent, as though obsessively
searching the floor for something she'd lost.
The guard brought her to Maura's table, pulled
out a chair, and sat the prisoner down.
"There, now, Amalthea. This lady's come to
see you. Why don't you have a nice talk with
her, hmm?"
Amalthea's head remained bent, her gaze
fixed on the tabletop. Tangled strands of hair
fell across her face in a greasy curtain. Though
heavily streaked with gray, clearly that hair had
once been black. Like mine, thought Maura.
Like Anna's.
The guard shrugged and looked at Maura.
"Well, I'll just let you two visit, okay? When
you're finished, give me a wave and I'll take her
back."
Amalthea did not even glance up as the
guard walked away. Nor did she seem to notice
the visitor who had just sat down across from
her. Her posture remained frozen, her face hidden
behind that veil of dirty hair. The prison
shirt hung loose on her shoulders, as though
she was shrinking inside her clothes. Her
hand, resting on the table, was rocking back
and forth in a ceaseless tremor.
"Hello, Amalthea," said Maura. "Do you
know who I am?"
No response.
"My name is Maura Isles. I ..." Maura
swallowed. "I've been looking for you for a
very long time." For all my life.
The woman's head twitched sideways. Not
in reaction to Maura's words, just an involuntary
tic. A stray impulse sparking through
nerves and muscles.
"Amalthea, I'm your daughter."
Maura watched, waiting for a reaction.
Even longing to see one. In that moment,
everything else in the room seemed to vanish.
She did not hear the cacophony of children's
voices or the quarters dropping into the vending
machine or the scrape of chair legs across
linoleum. All she saw was this tired and broken
woman.
"Can you look at me? Please, look at me."
At last the head came up, moving in little
jerks, like a mechanical doll whose gears have
rusted. The unkempt hair parted, and the eyes
focused on Maura. Fathomless eyes. Maura
saw nothing there, not awareness. Not a soul.
Amalthea's lips moved, but soundlessly. Just another
twitching of muscles, without intent,
without meaning.
A small boy toddled by, trailing the scent of
a wet diaper. At the next table a dishwater
blonde in prison denim was sitting with her
head in her hands and quietly sobbing as her
male visitor watched, expressionless. At that
moment a dozen family dramas like Maura's
were taking place; she was just one more bit
player who couldn't see beyond the circle of
her own crisis.
"My sister Anna came to see you," Maura
said. "She looked just like me. Do you remember
her?"
Amalthea's jaw was moving now, as though
chewing food. An imaginary meal that only
she could taste.
No, of course she doesn't remember, thought
Maura, gazing in frustration at Amalthea's
blank expression. She doesn't register me, or
who I am, or why I'm here. I'm shouting into
an empty cave, and only my own voice is echoing
back.
Determined to dredge up a reaction, any reaction,
Maura said with what was almost
deliberate cruelty: "Anna's dead. Your other
daughter is dead. Did you know that?"
No answer.
Why the hell do I keep trying? There's nobody
home in there. There's no light in
those eyes.
"Well," said Maura. "I'll come back another
time. Maybe you'll talk to me then." With a
sigh, Maura stood and looked around for the
guard. She spotted her at the other end of the
room. Maura had just raised her hand in a
wave when she heard the voice. A whisper so
soft she might have imagined it:
"Go away."
Startled, Maura looked down at Amalthea,
who was sitting in exactly the same position,
lips twitching, gaze still unfocused.
Slowly, Maura sat back down. "What did
you say?"
Amalthea's gaze lifted to hers. And just for
an instant, Maura saw awareness there. A
gleam of intelligence. "Go away. Before he
sees you."
Maura stared. A chill clambered up her
spine, made the hairs on the back of her neck
bristle.
At the next table, the dishwater blonde was
still crying. Her male visitor stood up and said,
"I'm sorry, but you'll just have to accept it.
That's the way it is." He walked away, back to
his life on the outside where women wore
pretty blouses, not blue denim. Where doors
that locked could be unlocked.
"Who?" Maura asked softly. Amalthea didn't answer. "Who's going to see me, Amalthea?"
Maura pressed her. "What do you mean?"
But Amalthea's gaze had clouded over. That
brief flash of awareness was gone, and Maura
was staring, once more, into a void.
"So, are we all done with the visit?" the
guard asked cheerfully.
"Is she always like this?" asked Maura,
watching Amalthea's lips form soundless words.
"Pretty much. She has good days and bad
days."
"She hardly spoke to me at all."
"She will, if she gets to know you better.
Mostly keeps to herself, but sometimes she'll
come out of it. Writes letters, even uses the
phone."
"Whom does she call?"
"I don't know. Her shrink, I guess."
"Dr. O'Donnell?"
"The blond lady. She's been in a few times,
so Amalthea's pretty comfortable with her.
Aren't you, honey?" Reaching for the prisoner's
arm, the guard said: "Come on, upsy daisy.
Let's walk you back."
Obediently Amalthea rose to her feet and allowed
the guard to guide her away from the
table. She moved only a few steps, then stopped.
"Amalthea, let's go."
But the prisoner did not move. She stood as
though her muscles had suddenly solidified.
"Honey, I can't wait all day for you. Let's go."
Slowly Amalthea turned. Her eyes were still
vacant. The words she said next came out in a
voice that was not quite human, but mechanical. A foreign entity, channeled through a machine.
She looked at Maura.
"Now you're going to die, too," she said.
Then she turned and shuffled away, back to
her cell.

"She has tardive dyskinesia," said Maura.
"That's why Superintendent Gurley tried to discourage
me from visiting her. She didn't want
me to see Amalthea's condition. She didn't want
me to find out what they've done to her."
"What exactly did they do to her?" said Rizzoli
She was once again behind the wheel,
guiding them fearlessly past trucks that made
the road shake, that rattled the little Subaru
with turbulence. "Are you saying they turned
her into some kind of zombie?"
"You saw her psychiatric record. Her first
doctors treated her with phenothiazines. That's
a class of antipsychotic drugs. In older women,
those drugs can have devastating side effects.
One of them is called tardive dyskinesia--involuntary
movements of the mouth and the
face. The patient can't stop chewing or puffing
her cheeks or sticking out her tongue. She can't
control any of it. Think about what that's like.
Everyone staring at you as you make weird
faces. You're a freak."
"How do you stop the movements?"
"You can't. They should have discontinued
the drugs immediately, as soon as she had the
first symptoms. But they waited too long.
Then Dr. O'Donnell came on the case. She
was the one who finally stopped the drugs.
Recognized what was happening." Maura gave
an angry sigh. "The tardive dyskinesia is
probably permanent." She looked out the window
at the tightening traffic. This time she felt
no anxiety, seeing tons of steel hurtling past.
She was thinking instead of Amalthea Lank,
her lips ceaselessly moving, as though whispering
secrets.
"Are you saying she didn't need those drugs
in the first place?"
"No. I'm saying they should have been
stopped sooner."
"So is she crazy? Or isn't she?"
"That was their initial diagnosis. Schizophrenia."
"And what's your diagnosis?"
Maura thought about Amalthea's blank
stare, her cryptic words. Words that made no
sense except as a paranoid's delusion. "I would
have to agree," she said. With a sigh, she
leaned back. "I don't see myself in her, Jane. I
don't see any part of me in that woman."
"Well, that's got to be a relief. Considering."
"But it's still there, that link between us. You
can't deny your own DNA."
"You know the old saying, blood is thicker
than water? It's bullshit, Doc. You don't have
anything in common with that woman. She
had you, and she gave you up at birth. That's
that. Relationship over."
"She knows so many answers. Who my father
is. Who I am."
Rizzoli shot her a sharp glance, then turned
back to the road. "I'm going to give you some
advice. I know you'll wonder where I'm coming
from on this. Believe me, I'm not pulling
this out of thin air. But that woman, Amalthea
Lank, is someone you need to stay away from.
Don't see her, don't talk to her. Don't even
think about her. She's dangerous."
"She's nothing but a burned-out schizophrenic."
"I'm not so sure about that."
Maura looked at Rizzoli. "What do you
know about her that I don't?"
For a moment Rizzoli drove without speaking.
It was not the traffic that preoccupied
her; she seemed to be weighing her response,
considering how best to phrase her answer.
"Do you remember Warren Hoyt?" she finally
asked. Though she said the name without discernible
emotion, her jaw had squared, and her
hands had tightened around the steering
wheel.
Warren Hoyt, thought Maura. The Surgeon.
That was what the police had dubbed him.
He had earned that nickname because of the
atrocities he'd inflicted on his victims. His instruments
were duct tape and a scalpel; his
prey were women asleep in their beds, unaware
of the intruder who stood beside them in the
darkness, anticipating the pleasure of making
the first cut. Jane Rizzoli had been his final target,
his opponent in a game of wits he'd never
expected to lose.
But it was Rizzoli who brought him down
with a single shot, her bullet piercing his spinal
cord. Now quadriplegic, his limbs paralyzed
and useless, Warren Hoyt's universe had shrunk
to a hospital room, where the few pleasures left
to him were those of the mind--a mind that
remained as brilliant and dangerous as ever.
"Of course I remember him," said Maura.
She had seen the result of his work, the terrible
mutilation his scalpel had wrought in the flesh
of one of his victims.
"I've been keeping tabs on him," said
Rizzoli. "You know, just to reassure myself
that the monster's still in his cage. He's still
there, all right, on the spinal cord unit. And
every Wednesday afternoon, for the last eight
months, he's been getting a visitor. Dr. Joyce
O'Donnell."
Maura frowned. "Why?"
"She claims it's part of her research in violent
behavior. Her theory is that killers aren't
responsible for their actions. That some bump
on the noggin when they're kids makes them
prone to violence. Naturally, defense attorneys
have her on speed dial. She'd probably tell you
that Jeffrey Dahmer was just misunderstood,
that John Wayne Gacy just got his head
knocked a few too many times. She'll defend
anyone."
"People do what they're paid to do."
"I don't think she does it for the money."
"Then for what?"
"For the chance to get up close and personal
to people who kill. She says it's her field of
study, that she does it for science. Yeah, well,
Josef Mengele did it for science, too. That's just
the excuse, a way to make what she does respectable."
"What does she do?"
"She's a thrill seeker. She gets a kick out of
hearing a killer's fantasies. She likes stepping
into his head, taking a look around, seeing
what he sees. Knowing what it feels like to be a
monster."
"You make it sound like she's one of them."
"Maybe she'd like to be. I've seen letters she
wrote to Hoyt while he was in prison. Urging
him to tell her all the details about his kills. Oh
yeah, she loves the details."
"A lot of people are curious about the
macabre."
"She's beyond curious. She wants to know
what it's like to cut skin and watch a victim
bleed. What it's like to enjoy that ultimate
power. She's hungry for details the way a vampire's
hungry for blood." Rizzoli paused. Gave
a startled laugh. "You know, I just realized
something. That's exactly what she is, a vampire.
She and Hoyt feed off each other. He tells
her his fantasies, she tells him it's okay to enjoy
them. It's okay to get turned on by the thought
of cutting someone's throat."
"And now she's visiting my mother."
"Yeah." Rizzoli looked at her. "I wonder
what fantasies they're sharing."
Maura thought of the crimes Amalthea
Lank had been convicted of. She wondered
what had gone through her mind when she'd
picked up the two sisters at the side of the
road. Did she feel an anticipatory thrill, a
heady shot of power?
"Just the fact O'Donnell finds Amalthea
worth visiting should tell you something," said
Rizzoli.
"What should it tell me?"
"O'Donnell doesn't waste her time on your
everyday murderers. She doesn't care about the
guy who shoots some 7-Eleven clerk during a
robbery. Or the husband who gets pissed at his
wife and shoves her down the stairs. No, she
spends her time with the creeps who kill because
they enjoy it. The ones who give that
knife the extra twist, because they like the way
it feels scraping against bone. She spends her
time with the special ones. The monsters."
My mother, thought Maura. Is she a monster,
too?
SEVENTEEN

Dr. Joyce O'donnell's house in Cambridge
was a large white colonial in a neighborhood
of distinguished homes on Brattle
Street. A wrought-iron fence enclosed a front
yard with a perfect lawn and bark-mulched
flower beds where landscape roses obediently
bloomed. This was a disciplined garden, no
disorder allowed, and as Maura walked up the
path of granite pavers to the front door, she
could already envision the house's occupant.
Well groomed, neatly dressed. A mind as organized
as her garden.
The woman who answered the door was
just as Maura had imagined.
Dr. O'Donnell was an ash blonde with pale,
flawless skin. Her blue Oxford shirt, tucked
into pressed white slacks, was tailored to emphasize
a trim waist. She regarded Maura with
little warmth. Rather, what Maura saw in the
other woman's eyes was the hard-edged gleam
of curiosity. The gaze of a scientist regarding
some new specimen.
"Dr. O'Donnell? I'm Maura Isles."
O'Donnell responded with a crisp handshake.
"Come in."
Maura stepped into a house as coolly elegant
as its owner. The only touches of warmth
were the Oriental carpets covering dark teak
floors. O'Donnell led the way from the foyer,
into a formal sitting room where Maura settled
uneasily on a couch upholstered in white
silk. O'Donnell chose the armchair facing her.
On the rosewood coffee table between them
was a stack of files and a digital recorder.
Though not turned on, the threat of that
recorder was yet another detail that added to
Maura's unease.
"Thank you for seeing me," said Maura.
"I was curious. I wondered what Amalthea's
daughter might be like. I do know of you, Dr.
Isles, but only what I read in the newspapers."
She leaned back in the easy chair, looking per
fectly comfortable. Home advantage. She was
the one with the favors to grant; Maura was
merely a supplicant. "I know nothing about
you personally. But I'd like to."
"Why?"
"I'm well acquainted with Amalthea. I can't
help wondering if. . ."
"Like mother, like daughter?"
O'Donnell lifted one elegant eyebrow. "You
said it, I didn't."
"That's the reason for your curiosity about me. Isn't it?
"And what's the reason for yours? Why are
you here?"
Maura's gaze shifted to a painting over the
fireplace. A starkly modern oil streaked with
black and red. She said: "I want to know who
that woman really is."
"You know who she is. You just don't want
to believe it. Your sister didn't, either."
Maura frowned. "You met Anna?"
"No, actually, I never did. But I got a call
about four months ago, from a woman identifying
herself as Amalthea's daughter. I was
about to leave for a two-week trial in Oklahoma,
so I couldn't meet with her. We simply
talked on the phone. She'd been to visit her
mother at MCI--Framingham, so she knew I
was Amalthea's psychiatrist. She wanted to
know more about her. Amalthea's childhood,
her family."
"And you know all that?"
"Some of it is from her school records.
Some from what she could tell me, when she
was lucid. I know she was born in Lowell.
When she was about nine, her mother died,
and she went to live with her uncle and a
cousin, in Maine."
Maura glanced up. "Maine?"
"Yes. She graduated from high school in a
town called Fox Harbor."
Now I understand why Anna chose that
town. I was following in Anna's footsteps; she
was following our mother's.
"After high school, the records peter out,"
said O'Donnell. "We don't know where she
moved from there, or how she supported herself.
That's most likely when the schizophrenia
set in. It usually manifests itself in early adulthood.
She probably drifted around for years,
and ended up the way you see her today.
Burned out and delusional." O'Donnell looked
at Maura. "It's a pretty grim picture. Your sister
had a hard time accepting that was really her
mother."
"I look at her and I see nothing familiar.
Nothing of myself."
"But I see the resemblance. I see the same
hair color. The same jaw."
"We look nothing alike."
"You really don't see it?" O'Donnell leaned
forward, her gaze intent on Maura. "Tell me
something, Dr. Isles. Why did you choose
pathology?"
Perplexed by the question, Maura only
stared at her.
"You could have gone into any field of
medicine. Obstetrics, pediatrics. You could be
working with live patients, but you chose pathology.
Specifically, forensic pathology."
"What's the point of your question?"
"The point is, you're somehow attracted to
the dead."
"That's absurd."
"Then why did you choose your field?"
"Because I like definitive answers. I don't
like guessing games. I like to see the diagnosis
under my microscope lens."
"You don't like uncertainty."
"Does anyone?"
"Then you could have chosen mathematics
or engineering. So many other fields involve
precision. Definitive answers. But there you are
in the M.E.'s office, communing with corpses."
O'Donnell paused. Asked, quietly: "Do you
ever enjoy it?"
Maura met her gaze head-on. "No."
"You chose an occupation you don't enjoy?"
"I chose the challenge. There's satisfaction
in that. Even if the task itself isn't pleasant."
"But don't you see what I'm getting at? You
tell me you don't see anything familiar about
Amalthea Lank. You look at her, and probably
see someone horrifying. Or at least a woman
who committed horrifying acts. There are people
who look at you, Dr. Isles, and probably
think the same thing."
"You can't possibly compare us."
"Do you know what your mother was convicted
of?"
"Yes, I've been told."
"But have you seen the autopsy reports?"
"XT	"
Not yet.
"I have. During the trial, the defense team
asked me to consult on your mother's mental
status. I've seen the photos, reviewed the evidence.
You do know that the victims were two
sisters? Young women stranded at the side of
the road."
"AT" "
Yes.
"And the younger one was nine months
pregnant."
"I know all this."
"So you know that your mother picked up
those two women on the highway. She drives
them thirty miles away, to a shed in the
woods. Crushes their skulls with a tire iron.
And then she does something surprisingly-- weirdly--logical. She drives to a service station
and fills a can with gas. Returns to the
shed and sets it on fire, with the two bodies inside."
O'Donnell cocked her head. "Don't you
find that interesting?"
"I find it sickening."
"Yes, but on some level, maybe you're feeling
something else, something you don't even
want to acknowledge. That you're intrigued by
these actions, not just as an intellectual puzzle.
There's something about it that fascinates you,
even excites you."
"The way it obviously excites you?"
O'Donnell took no offense at that retort. Instead
she smiled, easily acknowledging Maura's
remark. "My interest is professional. It's my job
to study acts of murder. I'm just wondering
about the reasons for your interest in Amalthea
Lank."
"Two days ago, I didn't know who my
mother was. Now I'm trying to come to grips
with the truth. I'm trying to understand--"
"Who you are?" O'Donnell asked softly.
Maura met her gaze. "I know who I am."
"Are you sure?" O'Donnell leaned closer.
"When you're in that autopsy lab, examining a
victim's wounds, describing a killer's knife
thrusts, don't you ever feel just a whisper of a
thrill?"
"What makes you think I would?"
"You are Amalthea's daughter."
"I'm an accident of biology. She didn't
raise me."
O'Donnell settled back in the chair and
studied her with coldly appraising eyes. "You're
aware there's a genetic component to violence?
That some families carry it in their DNA?"
Maura remembered what Rizzoli had told
her about Dr. O'Donnell: She's beyond curious.
She wants to know what it's like to cut
skin and watch a victim bleed. What it's like
to enjoy that ultimate power. She's hungry for
details, the way a vampire's hungry for blood.
Maura could now see that glint of hunger in
O'Donnell's eyes. This woman enjoys communing
with monsters, thought Maura. And
she's hoping she's found another one.
"I came to talk about Amalthea," said
Maura.
"Isn't that who we've been discussing?"
"According to MCI-Framingham, you've
been to see her at least a dozen times. Why so
often? Surely not for her benefit."
"As a researcher, I'm interested in Amalthea.
I want to understand what drives people to
kill. Why they take pleasure from it."
"You're saying she did it for pleasure?"
"Well, do you know why she killed?"
"She's clearly psychotic."
"The vast majority of psychotics don't kill."
"But you do agree that she is?"
O'Donnell hesitated. "She would appear
to be."
"You don't sound sure. Even after all the visits
you've made?"
"There's more to your mother than just psychosis.
And there's more to her crime than
meets the eye."
"What do you mean?"
"You say you already know what she did. Or
at least, what the prosecution claims she did."
"The evidence was solid enough to convict
her."
"Oh, there was plenty of evidence. Her license
plate caught on camera at the service sta
tion. The women's blood on the tire iron.
Their wallets in the trunk. But you probably
haven't heard about this." O'Donnell reached
for one of the files on the coffee table and
handed it to Maura. "It's from the crime lab in
Virginia, where Amalthea was arrested."
Maura opened the folder and saw a photo of
a white sedan with a Massachusetts license
plate.
"That's the car Amalthea was driving," said
O'Donnell.
Maura turned to the next page. It was a
summary of the fingerprint evidence.
"There were a number of prints found inside
that car," said O'Donnell. "Both victims,
Nikki and Theresa Wells, left their prints on
the rear seat belt buckles, indicating they
climbed into the backseat and strapped themselves
in. There were fingerprints left by
Amalthea, of course, on the steering wheel and
gearshift." O'Donnell paused. "And then,
there's the fourth set of fingerprints."
"A fourth set?"
"It's right there, in that report. They were
found on the glove compartment. On both
doors, and on the steering wheel. Those prints
were never identified."
"It doesn't mean anything. Maybe a me
chanic worked on her car and left behind his
fingerprints."
"A possibility. Now look at the hair and
fiber report."
Maura turned to the next page and saw that
blond hairs had been found on the back seat.
The hairs matched Theresa and Nikki Wells.
"I see nothing surprising about this. We know
the victims were in the car."
"But you'll notice that none of their hairs
appear in the front seat. Think about it. Two
women stranded at the side of the road.
Someone pulls over, offers to give them a
lift. And what do the sisters do? They both
climb into the backseat. It seems a little rude,
doesn't it? Leaving the driver all alone up in
front. Unless ..."
Maura looked up at her. "Unless someone
else was already sitting in that front seat."
O'Donnell sat back, a satisfied smile on her
lips. "That's the tantalizing question. A question
that was never answered at trial. It's the
reason I keep going back, again and again, to
see your mother. I want to learn what the police
never bothered to find out: Who was sitting
in the front seat with Amalthea?"
"She hasn't told you?"
"Not his name."
Maura stared at her. "His?"
"I'm only guessing the sex. But I do believe
that someone was in the car with Amalthea at
the moment she spotted those two women on
the road. Someone helped her control those
victims. Someone who was strong enough to
help her stack those bodies in the shed and
helped her set them on fire." O'Donnell
paused. "He's the one I'm interested in, Dr.
Isles. He's the one I want to find."
"All your visits to Amalthea--they weren't
even about her."
"Insanity doesn't interest me. Evil does."
Maura stared at her, thinking: Yes, it would.
You enjoy getting close enough to brush against
it, sniff it. Amalthea isn't what attracts you.
She's only the go-between, the one who can introduce
you to the real object of your desire.
"A partner," said Maura.
"We don't know who he is, or what he looks
like. But your mother knows."
"Then why won't she say his name?"
"That's the question--why is she hiding
him? Is she afraid of him? Is she protecting
him?"
"You don't know if this person even exists.
All you have are some unidentified fingerprints.
And a theory."
"More than a theory. The Beast is real."
O'Donnell leaned forward and said, quietly,
almost intimately: "That's the name she used
when she was arrested in Virginia. When the
police there interrogated her. She said, quote:
'The Beast told me to do it,' unquote. He told
her to kill those women."
In the silence that followed, Maura heard the
sound of her own heart, like the quickening
beat of a drum. She swallowed. Said, "We're
talking about a schizophrenic. A woman who's
probably having auditory hallucinations."
"Or she's talking about someone real."
"The Beast?" Maura managed a laugh. "A
personal demon, maybe. A monster from her
nightmares."
"Who leaves behind fingerprints."
"That didn't seem to impress the jury."
"They ignored that evidence. I was at that
trial. I watched the prosecution build its case
against a woman so psychotic, even the prosecution
had to know she wasn't responsible for
her actions. But she was the easy target, the
easy conviction."
"Even though she was clearly insane."
"Oh, no one doubted she was psychotic and
hearing voices. Those voices might've screamed
at you to crush a woman's skull, to burn her
body, but the jury still assumes you know right
from wrong. Amalthea was a prosecutor's slam
dunk, so that's what they did. They got it
wrong. They missed him." O'Donnell leaned
back in her chair. "And your mother is the only
one who knows who he is."

It was almost six by the time Maura pulled up
behind the medical examiner's building. Two
cars were still parked in the lot--Yoshima's
blue Honda and Dr. Costas's black Saab. There
must be a late autopsy, she thought, with a
twinge of guilt; today would have been her day
on call, but she had asked her colleagues to
cover for her.
She unlocked the back door, walked into
the building, and headed straight to her office,
meeting no one on the way. On her desk she
found what she'd come in to retrieve: two folders,
with an attached yellow Post-it note, on
which Louise had written: The files you requested.
She sat down at her desk, took a deep
breath, and opened the first folder.
It was the file for Theresa Wells, the older
sister. The cover sheet listed the victim's name
and case number and the date of the postmortem.
She didn't recognize the name of the
pathologist, Dr. James Hobart, but then she
had joined the medical examiner's office only
two years ago, and this autopsy report was five
years old. She turned to Dr. Hobart's typed
dictation.
The deceased is a well-nourished female,
age indeterminate, measuring five foot five
inches in height and weighing one hundred
fifteen pounds. Definitive ID established
through dental X-rays; fingerprints unobtainable.
Noted are extensive burn injuries to the
trunk and extremities, with severe charring of
skin and exposed areas of musculature. Face
and front of torso are somewhat spared.
Clothing remnants are in place, consisting of
size eight Gap blue jeans with closed zipper
and snaps still fastened, as well as charred
white sweater and bra, hooks still fastened as
well. Examination of the airways revealed no
soot deposition, and blood carboxyhemoglobin
saturation was minimal.
At the time her body was set afire, Theresa
Wells was not breathing. The cause of death
was apparent from Dr. Hobart's X-ray interpretation.
Lateral and AP skull films reveal depressed
and comminuted right parietal fracture with
four-centimeter-wide wedge-shaped fragment.
A blow to the head had most likely
killed her.
At the bottom of the typed report, below
Dr. Hobart's signature, Maura saw a familiar
set of initials. Louise had transcribed the dictation.
Pathologists might come and go, but in
this office, Louise was forever.
Maura flipped through the next pages in the
file. There was an autopsy worksheet listing all
the X-rays that had been taken, which blood
and fluid and trace evidence had been collected.
Administrative pages recorded chain of
custody, personal possessions, and the names of
those present at the autopsy. Yoshima had been
Hobart's assistant. She did not recognize the
name of the Fitchburg police officer who'd attended
the procedure, a Detective Swigert.
She flipped to the end of the file, to a photograph.
Here she stopped, recoiling at the
image. The flames had charred Theresa Wells's
limbs, and had laid bare the muscles of her
torso, but her face was strangely intact, and
undeniably a woman's. Only thirty-five years
old, thought Maura. Already I have outlived
Theresa Wells by five years. She would be my
age today, had she lived. Had her tire not gone
flat on that day in November.
She closed Theresa's file and reached for the
next one. Again she paused before opening the
folder, reluctant to view the horrors it contained.
She thought of the burn victim she herself
had autopsied a year ago, and the odors
that had permeated her hair and clothes even
after she'd left the room. For the rest of that
summer, she'd avoided lighting her backyard
grill, unable to tolerate the smell of barbecued
meat. Now, as she opened the file for Nikki
Wells, she could almost smell that odor again,
wafting back through her memory.
While Theresa's face had been largely spared
by the fire, the same could not be said for her
younger sister. The flames that had only partially
consumed Theresa had focused all their
rage instead on the flesh of Nikki Wells.
Subject is severely charred, with portions
of the chest and abdominal wall completely
burned away, revealing exposed viscera. Soft
tissues of the face and scalp are burned away
as well. Areas of cranial vault are visible, as are
crush injuries of the facial bones. No fragments
of clothing remain, but small metallic
densities are visible on X-ray at the level of
the fifth rib which may represent fasteners
from a brassiere, as well as a single metallic
fragment overlying the pubis. X-ray of abdomen
also reveals additional skeletal re
mains representing a fetus, skull diameter
compatible with gestation of about thirty-six
weeks . . .
Nikki Wells's pregnancy would have been
clearly evident to her killer. Yet her condition
had brought her and her unborn child no pity,
no concessions. Only a shared funeral pyre in
the woods.
She turned the page. Paused, frowning, at
the next sentence in the autopsy report:
Notably absent on X-ray are the fetus's
right tibia, fibula, and tarsal bones.
An asterisk had been added in pen, with the
scrawled note: "See addendum." She flipped to
the attached page and read:
*Fetal anomaly was noted in subject's outpatient
obstetric record dated three months
earlier. Ultrasound performed during second
trimester revealed fetus was missing its right
lower limb, most likely due to amniotic band
syndrome.
A fetal malformation. Months before her
death, Nikki Wells had been told that her baby
would be born without its right leg, yet she
had chosen to continue the pregnancy. To keep
her baby.
The final pages in the file, Maura knew,
would be the hardest to confront. She had no
stomach for the photograph, but she forced
herself to turn to it anyway. Saw blackened
limbs and torso. No pretty woman here, no
rosy glow of pregnancy, just a skull's visage,
peering through a charred mask, the facial
bones caved in by the killing blow.
Amalthea Lank did this. My mother. She
crushed their skulls and dragged the bodies
into a shed. As she poured gasoline over the
corpses, as she struck the match, did she feel a
thrill, watching the flames whoosh to life?
Did she linger by the burning shed to inhale
the stench of singed hair and flesh?
Unable to bear the image any longer, she
closed the file. Turned her attention to the two
large X-ray envelopes also lying on her desk.
She carried them to the viewing box and inserted
Theresa Wells's head and neck films
under the clips. The lights flickered on, illuminating
the ghostly shadows of bone. X-rays
were far easier to stomach than photographs.
Stripped of recognizable flesh, corpses lose
their power to horrify. One skeleton looks like
any other. The skull she now saw on the light
box might be any woman's, loved one or
stranger. She stared at the fractured cranial
vault, at the triangle of bone that had been
forced beneath the skull table. This had been
no glancing blow; only a deliberate and savage
swing of the arm could have driven that shard
so deeply into the parietal lobe.
She took down Theresas films, reached into
the second envelope for a new pair of X-rays,
and clipped them onto the light box. Another
skull--this one Nikki's. Like her sister, Nikki
had been struck in the head, but this blow had
landed on the forehead, caving in the frontal
bone, crushing both orbits so severely the eyes
would have ruptured in their sockets. Nikki
Wells must have seen the blow coming.
Maura removed the skull films and clipped
up another pair of X-rays, showing Nikki's
spine and pelvis, startlingly intact beneath the
fire-ravaged flesh. Overlying the pelvis were
the fetal bones. Though the flames had melded
mother and child to a single charred mass, on
X-ray, Maura could see they were separate individuals.
Two sets of bones, two victims.
She saw something else, as well: a bright
speck that stood out, even in the tangle of interlocking
shadows. It was just a needle-thin
sliver over Nikki Wells's pubic bone. A tiny
shard of metal? Perhaps something from her
overlying clothing--a zipper, a fastener--that
had adhered to burned skin?
Maura reached into the envelope and found
a lateral torso view. She clipped it up beside the
frontal view. The metallic sliver was still there
on the lateral shot, but she could now see that
it was not overlying the pubis; it seemed to be
wedged within the bone.
She pulled all the X-rays from Nikki's envelope
and clipped them up, two at a time. She
spotted the densities that Dr. Hobart had seen
on the chest X-ray, metallic loops that represented brassiere hook and eye fasteners. On the
lateral films, those same loops of metal were
clearly in the overlying soft tissue. She put up
the pelvic films again and stared at that metallic
sliver embedded in Nikki Wells's pubic
bone. Although Dr. Hobart had mentioned it
in his report, he had said nothing further
about it in his conclusions. Perhaps he'd
thought it a trivial finding. And why wouldn't
he, in light of all the other horrors inflicted on
this victim?
Yoshima had assisted Hobart at the autopsy;
perhaps he would remember the case.
She left her office, headed down the stairwell,
and pushed through the double doors,
into the autopsy suite. The lab was deserted,
the counters wiped clean for the night.
"Yoshima?" she called.
She pulled on shoe covers and walked
through the lab, past the empty stainless steel
tables, and pushed through yet another set of
double doors, to the delivery bay. Swinging
open the door to the cold locker, she glanced
inside. Saw only the deceased, two white body
pouches on side-by-side gurneys.
She closed the door and stood for a moment
in the deserted bay, listening for voices, footsteps,
anything to tell her that someone else
was still in the building. But she heard only the
rumble of the refrigerator and, faintly, the
whine of an ambulance on the street outside.
Costas and Yoshima must have gone home
for the night.
When she walked out of the building fifteen
minutes later, she saw that the Saab and the
Toyota were indeed gone; except for her black
Lexus, the only other vehicles in the parking
lot were the three morgue vans, stenciled with
the words: OFFICE OF THE MEDICAL EXAMINER,
commonwealth of massachusetts.
Darkness had fallen, and her car sat
isolated under a yellow pool of light cast by the
streetlamp.
The images of Theresa and Nikki Wells still
haunted her. As she walked toward the Lexus,
she was alert to every shadow around her, to
every stray noise, every hint of movement. A
few paces from her car she came to a halt and
stared at the passenger door. The hairs on the
back of her neck suddenly stood up. The bundle
of files she was carrying slid from her numb
hands, papers scattering across the pavement.
Three parallel scratches marred her car's
gleaming finish. A claw mark.
Get away. Get inside.
She spun around and ran back to the building.
Stood at the locked door, fumbling
through her keys. Where was it, where was the
right one? Finally she found it, thrust it into
the lock, and pushed through, slamming the
door behind her. She threw her weight against
it as well, as though to reinforce the barricade.
Inside the empty building, it was so quiet
she could hear her own panicked breaths.
She ran down the hall to her office and
locked herself inside. Only then, surrounded
by all that was familiar, did she feel her pulse
stop galloping, her hands stop shaking. She
went to her desk, picked up the phone, and
called Jane Rizzoli.
EIGHTEEN


"You DID EXACTLY the right thing. Backed
the hell away and moved to a safe place," said
Rizzoli.

Maura sat at her desk and stared at the
creased papers that Rizzoli had retrieved for her
from the parking lot. A now-untidy stack from
Nikki Wells's file, smudged with dirt, trampled
in panic. Even now, sitting safe in Rizzoli's company,
Maura still felt the aftershocks.

"Did you find any fingerprints on my
door?" Maura asked.

"A few. What you'd expect to find on any car
door."

Rizzoli rolled a chair close to Maura's desk
and sat down. Rested her hands on the shelf of
her belly. Mama Rizzoli, pregnant and armed,
thought Maura. Was there any less likely savior
to come to my rescue?
"How long was your car in that parking lot?
You said you arrived around six."
"But the scratches could have been made
before I got here. I don't use the passenger door
every day. Only if I'm loading groceries or
something. I saw it tonight because of the way
the car was parked. And it was right under the
lamp."
"When was the last time you looked at that
door?"
Maura pressed her hands to her temples. "I
know it was fine yesterday morning. When I
left Maine. I put my overnight bag in the front
seat. I would have noticed the scratches then."
"Okay. So you drove home yesterday. Then
what?"
"The car stayed in my garage all night. And
then, this morning, I went to see you at
Schroeder Plaza."
"Where did you park?"
"In that garage near police headquarters.
The one off Columbus Ave."
"So it was in that parking garage all afternoon.
While we were visiting the prison."
"Yes."
"That garage is fully monitored, you know."
"Is it? I didn't notice ..."
"And then where did you go? After we got
back from Framingham?"
Maura hesitated.
"Doc?"
"I went to see Joyce O'Donnell." She met
Rizzoli's gaze. "Don't look at me like that. I
had to see her."
"Were you going to tell me?"
"Of course. Look, I just needed to know
more about my mother."
Rizzoli leaned back, mouth set in a straight
line. She's not happy with me, thought Maura.
She told me to stay away from O'Donnell and
I ignored her advice.
"How long were you at her house?" Rizzoli
asked.
"About an hour. Jane, she told me something
I didn't know. Amalthea grew up in Fox
Harbor. That's why Anna went to Maine."
"And after you left O'Donnell's house?
What happened then?"
Maura sighed. "I came straight here."
"You didn't notice anyone following you?"
"Why would I bother to look? I have too
many things on my mind."
They regarded each other for a moment,
neither one speaking, the tension about her
visit to O'Donnell still hanging between them.
"Did you know your security camera's broken?"
Rizzoli said. "The one here in your parking
lot."
Maura gave a laugh. A shrug. "Do you
know how much our budget's been cut this
year? That camera's been broken for months.
You can almost see the wires hanging out."
"My point is, that camera would have scared
off most vandals."
"Unfortunately, it didn't."
"Who else knows that camera's broken?
Everyone who works in this office, right?"
Maura felt a stab of dismay. "I don't like
what you're implying. A lot of people have noticed
it's broken. Cops. Mortuary drivers. Anyone
who's ever delivered a body here. You just
have to look up and see it."
"You said there were two cars parked here
when you arrived. Dr. Costas's and Yoshima's."
"Yes."
"And when you came out of the building,
around eight, those cars were gone."
"They left before I did."
"Do you get along with both of them?"
Maura gave a disbelieving laugh. "You're
kidding, right? Because these are ridiculous
questions."
"I'm not crazy about having to ask them."
"Then why are you? You know Dr. Costas,
Jane. And you know Yoshima. You can't treat
them like suspects."
"They both walked through that parking
lot. Right past your car. Dr. Costas left first,
around six forty-five. Yoshima left sometime
after that, maybe around seven fifteen."
"You've spoken to them?"
"They both told me they didn't see any
scratches on your car. You'd think they would
have seen it. Certainly Yoshima would, since
he was parked right beside you."
"We've worked together for almost two
years. I know him. So do you."
"We think we do."
Don't, Jane, she thought. Don't make me
afraid of my own colleagues.
"He's worked in this building eighteen
years," said Rizzoli.
"Abe's been here nearly as long. Louise
has, too."
"Did you know Yoshima lives alone?"
"So do I."
"He's forty-eight years old, never married,
and he lives by himself. Comes to work every
day, and here you are, up close and personal.
Both of you working with corpses. Dealing
with some pretty grim stuff. That's got to forge
a bond between you two. All the terrible things
that only you and he have seen."
Maura thought of the hours that she and
Yoshima had shared in that room with its steel
tables and sharp instruments. He always
seemed to anticipate her needs even before she
did. Yes, there was a bond, of course there was,
because they were a team. But after they
stripped off the gowns and peeled off the shoe
covers, they each walked out the door into
their separate lives. They did not socialize;
they'd never even shared a drink together after
work. We're alike that way, she thought. Two
solitary people who only meet over corpses.
"Look," said Rizzoli with a sigh, "I like
Yoshima. I hate even bringing up the possibility.
But it's something I have to consider, or
I wouldn't be doing my job."
"Which is what? To make me paranoid? I'm
scared enough as it is, Jane. Don't make me
afraid of the very people I need to trust."
Maura swept up the papers from her desk.
"Have you finished with my car? I'd like to go
home."
"Yeah, we're done with it. But I'm not so
sure you should go home."
"What am I supposed to do?"
"There are other options. You could go to a
hotel. You can sleep on my couch. I just spoke
to Detective Ballard, and he mentioned he has
a spare room."
"Why are you talking to Ballard?"
"He's been checking in with me every day
about the case. Called about an hour ago, and
I told him what happened to your car. He
came right over to look at it."
"He's in the parking lot now?"
"Got here a little while ago. He's concerned,
Doc. I am, too." Rizzoli paused. "So what do
you want to do?"
"I don't know..."
"Well you've got a few minutes to think
about it." Rizzoli heaved herself to her feet.
"C'mon, I'll walk you out."
Now here was an absurd moment, thought
Maura as they headed down the hallway together.
I'm being protected by a woman who
can barely push herself out of a chair. But Rizzoli
made it clear that she was the one in
charge, the one who'd assumed the role of
guardian. She was the one who opened the
door and stepped out first.
Maura followed her across the parking lot,
to the Lexus, where Frost and Ballard were
standing.
"Are you all right, Maura?" Ballard asked.
The glow of the streetlamp cast his eyes in
shadow; she looked up into a face whose expression
she could not read.
"I'm fine."
"This could have turned out a lot worse."
He looked at Rizzoli. "You told her what we
think?"
"I told her she might not want to go home
tonight."
Maura looked at her car. The three scratches
stood out, even uglier than she'd remembered,
like wounds left by a predator's claws. Anna's
killer is talking to me. And I never knew how
close he came.
Frost said, "CSU noticed a little ding on the
driver's door."
"That's old. Someone bumped me in a
parking lot a few months ago."
"Okay, so it's just the scratches. They pulled
off a few fingerprints. They'll need yours, Doc.
As soon as you can get a set over to the lab."
"Of course." She thought of all the fingers
they'd inked in the morgue, all the cold flesh
that was routinely pressed to cards. They'll be
getting mine ahead of the game. While I'm
still alive. She crossed her arms over her chest,
feeling chilled despite the warm night. She
thought of walking into her empty house,
locking herself into her bedroom. Even with
all those barricades, it was still just a house, not
a fortress. A house with windows that were
easily shattered, screens that could be cut with
only a knife.
"You said it was Charles Cassell who
scratched Annas car." Maura looked at Rizzoli.
"Cassell wouldn't have done this. Not to mine."
"No, he'd have no reason to. This is clearly
meant as a warning to you." Rizzoli said, quietly:
"Maybe Anna was a mistake."
I'm the one. I'm the one who should have
died.
"Where do you want to go, Doc?" asked
Rizzoli.
"I don't know," Maura said. "I don't know
what to do ..."
"Well, may I suggest you not stand around
out here?" said Ballard. "Where everyone can
watch you?"
Maura glanced at the sidewalk. Saw the silhouettes
of people who'd been drawn by the
flashing lights of the police cruiser. People
whose faces she could not see because they
were in shadow, while she stood here, lit like
the star performer beneath the streetlamp's
glare.
Ballard said, "I have a spare bedroom."
She did not look at him, but kept her gaze
focused, instead, on those faceless shadows.
Thinking: This is happening too fast. Too
many decisions are being made on the spur of
the moment. Choices I may come to regret.
"Doc?" said Rizzoli. "What do you think?"
At last Maura looked at Ballard. And she
felt, once again, that disturbing tug of attraction.
"I don't know where else to go," she said.

He drove right behind her, so close that his
headlights glared in her rearview mirror, as
though he was afraid she might pull away,
might try to lose him in the dense tangle of
traffic. He stayed close even as they headed
into the quieter suburb of Newton, even as she
circled his block twice, the way he had instructed,
to confirm no car was following
them. When at last she came to a stop in front
of his house, he was almost immediately standing
at her window, tapping on the glass.
"Pull into my garage," he said.
"I'll be taking your space."
"That's okay. I don't want your car sitting
on the street. I'll open the bay door."
She turned into the driveway and watched
as the door rumbled open to reveal an orderly
garage where tools hung on a pegboard and
built-in shelves held rows of paint cans. Even
the concrete floor seemed to gleam. She eased
into the bay, and the door immediately rolled
shut behind her, closing off any view of her car
from the street. For a moment she sat listening
to the ticks of her cooling engine, and braced
herself for the evening ahead. Only moments
ago, returning to her own house had seemed
unsafe, unwise. Now she wondered if this
choice was any wiser.
Ballard opened her car door. "Come on in.
I'll show you how to arm the security system.
Just in case I'm not here to do it."
He led her into the house and up a short
hallway to the foyer. Pointed to a keypad
mounted near the front door.
"I had this updated only a few months ago.
First you punch in the security code, then you
press ARM. Once you've armed it, if anyone
opens a door or a window, it'll trigger an
alarm so loud it'll make your ears ring. It also
automatically notifies the security company,
and they'll call the house. To disarm it, you
punch in the same code, then hit OFF. Is that
clear so far?"
"Yes. Do you want to tell me the code?"
"I was just getting to that." He glanced at
her. "You realize, of course, that I'm about to
hand you the numerical key to my house."
"Are you wondering if you can trust me?"
"Just promise not to pass it along to your
unsavory friends."
"Lord knows I have plenty of those."
"Yeah." He laughed. "And they probably all
carry badges. Okay, the code is twelve seventeen.
My daughter's birthday. Think you can
remember that, or do you want to write it
down?"
"I'll remember it."
"Good. Now go ahead and arm it, since I
think we're in for the night."
As she punched in the numbers, he stood so
close beside her she could feel his breath in her
hair. She pressed ARM and heard a soft beep.
The digital readout now said: SYSTEM ARMED.
"Fortress secure," he said.
"That was simple enough." She turned and
found him watching her so intently, she had
the urge to step back, if only to reestablish a
safe distance between them.
"Did you get any dinner?" he asked.
"I never got around to it. So much was happening
tonight."
"Come on, then. I can't let you go hungry."
His kitchen looked exactly the way she expected
it would, with sturdy maple cabinets
and butcher-block countertops. Pots and pans
hung in orderly array from a ceiling rack. No
extravagant touches, just the workspace of a
practical man.
"I don't want you to go to any trouble," she
said. "Eggs and toast would be fine."
He opened the refrigerator and took out a
carton of eggs. "Scrambled?"
"I can do it, Rick."
"How about you make us some toast? The
bread's right over there. I'd like one, too."
She took two bread slices from the package
and dropped them into the toaster. Turned to
watch as he stood by the stove, scrambling eggs
in a bowl, and remembered their last meal together,
both of them barefoot, laughing. Enjoying
each other's company. Before Jane's
phone call had made her wary of him. And if
Jane hadn't called that night, what would have
happened between them? She watched him
pour the eggs into a pan and turn up the
burner. Felt her face flush, as though he'd lit
another flame inside her as well.
She turned and looked instead at the refrigerator
door, where photos of Ballard and his
daughter were displayed. Katie as an infant in
her mother's arms. As a toddler, sitting in a
high chair. A progression of images, leading to
a photo of a blond teenager with a grudging
smile.
"She's changing so fast," he said. "I can't
believe those photos are all the same kid." She
glanced over her shoulder at him. "What did
you decide to do about that joint in her
locker?"
"Oh, that." He sighed. "Carmen grounded
her. Even worse, she's said no TV for a month.
Now I'm going to have to lock up my own set,
just to make sure Katie doesn't sneak over here
and watch it while I'm not at home."
"You and Carmen are good about keeping a
united front."
"There's not much choice, really. No matter
how bitter the divorce is, you have to stand together,
for the kid's sake." He turned off the
stove and slid steaming eggs onto two plates.
"You never had children?"
"No, fortunately."
"Fortunately?"
"Victor and I wouldn't have managed to
stay as civil as you two."
"It's not as easy as it looks. Especially
since ..."
"We manage to keep up appearances.
That's all."
They set the table, laid out plates of eggs
and toast and butter, and sat down facing each
other. The subject of their failed marriages had
left them subdued. We are both still recovering
from emotional wounds, she thought. No
matter how attracted we are to each other, this
is the wrong time to get involved.
But later, as he walked her upstairs, she
knew the same possibilities were surely dancing
in both their heads.
"Here's your room," he said, opening the
door to Katie's bedroom. She walked in and
confronted Britney Spears's come-hither eyes,
gazing down from a giant poster on the wall.
Britney dolls and CDs lined the bookshelves.
This room is going to give me nightmares,
thought Maura.
"You have your own bathroom, through
that door," he said. "There should be a spare
toothbrush or two in the cabinet. And you can
use Katie's bathrobe."
"She won't mind?"
"She's with Carmen this week. She won't
even know you're here."
"Thank you, Rick."
He paused, as though waiting for her to say
something more. Waiting for words that
would change everything.
"Maura," he said.
"Yes?"
"I'll take care of you. I just want you to
know that. What happened to Anna--I won't
let it happen to you." He turned to leave. Said,
softly: "Good night," and closed the door behind
him.
I'll take care of you.
Isn't that what we all want? she thought.
Someone to keep us safe. She'd forgotten what
it felt like, to be watched over. Even when she'd
been married to Victor, she had never felt protected
by him; he'd been too self-absorbed to
watch over anyone but himself.
Lying in bed, she listened to the clock ticking
on the nightstand. To Ballard's footsteps
creaking in the room next door. Slowly the
house settled into silence. She watched the
hours advance on the clock. Midnight. One
A.M. And still she couldn't sleep. Tomorrow
she would be exhausted.
Is he lying awake, too?
She hardly knew this man, just as she'd
hardly known Victor when she'd married him.
And what a mess that had turned out to be,
three years of her life thrown away, all because
of chemistry. Sparks. She did not trust her own
judgment when it came to men. The one man
you most want to sleep with may be the worst
choice of all.
Two A.M.
The beams of a car's headlights slid past the
window. An engine purred on the street. She
tensed, thinking: It's nothing, probably just a
neighbor coming home late. Then she heard
the creak of footsteps on the porch. She held
her breath. Suddenly the darkness was shrieking.
She shot up in bed.
The security alarm. Someone is in the
house.
Ballard pounded on her door. "Maura? Maura?" he yelled.
"I'm okay!"
"Lock your door! Don't come out."
"Rick?"
"Just stay in the room!"
She scrambled out of bed and locked the
door. Crouched there, hands covering her ears
against the alarm's shriek, unable to hear any
thing else. She thought of Ballard, moving
down the staircase. Imagined a house full of
shadows. Someone waiting below. Where are
you, Rick? She could hear nothing except that
piercing alarm. Here in the darkness she was
both blind and deaf to whatever might be
moving toward her door.
The shrieks suddenly ceased. In the silence
that followed, she could finally hear her own
panicked breaths, the pounding of her heart.
And voices.
"Jesus Christ!" Rick was yelling. "I could
have shot you! What the hell were you thinking?"
Now a girl's voice. Hurt, angry. "You
chained the door! I couldn't get in to shut off
the alarm!"
"Don't you yell at me."
Maura opened her door and stepped out
into the hallway. The voices were louder now,
both raised in fury. Looking over the banister,
she saw Rick standing below, shirtless in blue
jeans, the gun he'd carried downstairs now
tucked in his waistband. His daughter was
glaring at him.
"It's two in the morning, Katie. How did
you get over here?"
"My friend drove me."
"In the middle of the night?"
"I came to get my backpack, okay? I forgot
I needed it tomorrow. I didn't want to wake
up Mom."
"Tell me who this friend is. Who drove you?"
"Well, he's gone now! The alarm probably
freaked him out."
"It's a boy? Who?"
"I'm not going to get him in trouble, too!"
"Who is this boy?"
"Don't, Dad. Just don't."
"You stay down here and talk to me. Katie,
don't go up there--"
Footsteps thumped up the steps and suddenly
halted. Katie stood frozen on the stairway,
staring at Maura.
"Get back down here!" Rick yelled.
"Yeah, Dad," Katie murmured, her gaze still
on Maura. "Now I know why you chained the
door on me."
"Katie!" Rick paused, suddenly cut off by
the ringing telephone. He turned to answer it.
"Hello? Yeah, this is Rick Ballard. Everything's
okay here. No, you don't need to send a man
out. My daughter came home and didn't shut
off the alarm system in time ..."
The girl was still staring at Maura with open
hostility. "So you're his new girlfriend."
"Please, you don't need to get upset about
this," Maura said quietly. "I'm not his girlfriend.
I just needed a place to sleep for the
night."
"Oh, right. So why not with my dad?"
"Katie, it's the truth--"
"Nobody in this family ever tells the truth."
Downstairs, the phone rang again. Again
Rick answered it. "Carmen. Carmen, calm
down! Katie's right here. Yeah, she's fine. Some
boy drove her over to pick up her backpack..."
The girl shot a last poisonous glance at
Maura, and went back down the stairs.
"It's your mother calling," Rick said.
"Are you going to tell her about your new
girlfriend? How can you do this to her, Dad?"
"We need to have a talk about this. You need
to accept the fact your mother and I aren't together
anymore. Things have changed."
Maura went back into the bedroom and
shut the door. While she got dressed, she could
hear them continue to argue downstairs. Rick's
voice, steady and firm, the girl's sharp with
rage. It took Maura only moments to change
clothes. When she came downstairs, she found
Ballard and his daughter sitting in the living
room. Katie was curled up on the couch like an
angry porcupine.
A
"Rick, I'm going to leave now," Maura said.
He rose to his feet. "You can't."
"No, it's okay. You need time alone with
your family."
"It's not safe for you to go home."
"I won't go home. I'll check into a hotel.
Really, I'll be perfectly fine."
"Maura, wait--"
"She wants to leave, okay?" Katie snapped.
"So just let her go."
"I'll call you when I get to the hotel," said
Maura.
As she backed out of his garage, Rick came
out and stood by the driveway, watching her.
Their gazes met through her car window, and
he stepped forward, as though to try once
again to persuade her to stay, to return to the
safety of his house.
Another pair of headlights swung into view.
Carmen's car pulled over to the curb, and she
stepped out, blond hair in disarray, her nightgown
peeking out from beneath a bathrobe.
Another parent roused from bed by this errant
teenager. Carmen shot a look in Maura's direction,
then said a few words to Ballard and
walked into the house. Through the living
room window, Maura saw mother and daughter
embrace.
Ballard lingered in the driveway. Looked
toward the house, then back at Maura, as
though pulled in two directions.
She made the decision for him. She put the
car into gear, stepped on the gas, and drove
away. The last glimpse she had of him was in
her rearview mirror, as he turned and walked
into the house. Back to his family. Even divorce,
she thought, cannot erase all the bonds
forged by years of marriage. Long after the papers
are signed, decrees notarized, the ties still
remain. And the most powerful tie of all is
written in a child's flesh and blood.
She released a deep breath. Felt, suddenly,
cleansed of temptation. Free.
As she'd promised Ballard, she did not go
home. Instead she headed west, toward Route
95, which traced a wide arc along the outskirts
of Boston. She stopped at the first roadside
motel she came to. The room she checked into
smelled of cigarettes and Ivory soap. The toilet
had a "sanitized" paper band across the lid,
and the wrapped cups in the bathroom were
plastic. Traffic noise from the nearby highway
filtered in through thin walls. She could not
remember the last time she had stayed in a
motel so cheap, so run-down. She called Rick,
just a curt thirty-second phone call to let him
know where she was. Then she shut off her
cell phone and climbed in between fraying
sheets.
That night she slept more soundly than she
had in a week.
NINETEEN


NOBODY likes ME, everybody hates me, think
I'll go eat worms.
Worms, worms, worms.

Stop thinking about that!

Mattie closed her eyes and gritted her teeth,
but she could not block out the melody of that
insipid children's song. It played again and
again in her head, and always it came back to
those worms.

Except I won't be eating them; they'll be
eating me.

Oh, think about something else. Nice
things, pretty things. Flowers, dresses. White
dresses with chiffon and beads. Her wedding
day. Yes, think about that.
She remembered sitting in the bride's room
at St. John's Methodist Church, staring at herself
in the mirror and thinking: Today is the
best day of my life. I'm marrying the man I
love. She remembered her mother coming into
the room to help her with the veil. How her
mother had bent close and said, with a relieved
sigh: "I never thought I'd see this day." The day
a man would finally marry her daughter.
Now, these seven months later, Mattie
thought about her mother's words and how
they had not been particularly kind. But on
that day, nothing had dampened her joy. Not
the nausea of morning sickness, or her killer
high heels, or the fact that Dwayne drank so
much champagne on their wedding night that
he fell asleep in their hotel bed before she'd
even come out of the bathroom. Nothing mattered,
except that she was Mrs. Purvis, and her
life, her real life, was finally about to begin.
And now it's going to end here, in this box,
unless Dwayne saves me.
He will, won't he? He does want me back?
Oh, this was worse than thinking about
worms eating her. Change of subject, Mattie!
What if he doesn't want me back? What if
he was hoping all along that I'd just go away,
so he can be with that woman? What if he's
the one who . . .
No, not Dwayne. If he wanted her dead,
why keep her in a box? Why keep her alive?
She took a deep breath, and her eyes filled
with tears. She wanted to live. She'd do anything
to live, but she didn't know how to get
herself out of this box. She'd spent hours thinking
about how to do it. She had pounded on
the walls, kicked again and again against the
top. She'd thought about taking apart the flashlight,
maybe using its parts to build--what?
A bomb.
She could almost hear Dwayne laughing at
her, ridiculing her. Oh right, Mattie, you're a
real MacGyver.
Well, what am I supposed to do?
Worms . . .
They squirmed back into her thoughts. Into
her future, slithering under her skin, devouring
her flesh. They were out there waiting in
the soil right outside this box, she thought.
Waiting for her to die. Then they would crawl
in, to feast.
She turned on her side and trembled.
There has to be a way out.
TWENTY


YOSHIMA STOOD OVER the corpse, his gloved
hand wielding a syringe with a sixteen-gauge
needle. The body was a young female, so gaunt
that her belly drooped like a sagging tent
across the hip bones. Yoshima spread the skin
taut over her groin and angled the needle into
the femoral vein. He drew back on the plunger
and blood, so dark it was almost black, began
to fill the syringe.

He did not look up as Maura came into the
room, but stayed focused on his task. She
watched in silence as he withdrew the needle
and transferred the blood into various glass
tubes, working with the calm efficiency of
someone who had handled countless tubes of
blood from countless corpses. If I'm the queen
of the dead, she thought, then Yoshima is
surely the king. He has undressed them,
weighed them, probed their groins and necks
for veins, deposited their organs in jars of formalin.
And when the autopsy is done, when I
am finished cutting, he is the one who picks up
the needle and thread and sews their incised
flesh back together again.
Yoshima cut the needle and deposited the
used syringe in the contaminated trash. Then
he paused, gazing down at the woman whose
blood he had just collected. "She came in this
morning," he said. "Boyfriend found her dead
on the couch when he woke up."
Maura saw the needle tracks on the corpse's
arms. "What a waste."
"It always is."
"Who's doing this one?"
"Dr. Costas. Dr. Bristol's in court today."
He wheeled a tray to the table and began laying
out instruments. In the awkward silence,
the clang of metal seemed painfully loud.
Their exchange had been businesslike as
usual, but today Yoshima was not looking at
her. He seemed to be avoiding her gaze, shying
away from even a glance in her direction.
Shying, too, from any mention of what had
happened in the parking lot last night. But the
issue was there, hanging between them, impossible
to ignore.
"I understand Detective Rizzoli called you
at home last night," she said.
He paused, his profile to her, his hands motionless
on the tray.
"Yoshima," she said, "I'm sorry if she implied
in any way--"
"Do you know how long I've worked in the
medical examiner's office, Dr. Isles?" he cut in.
"I know you've been here longer than any
of us."
"Eighteen years. Dr. Tierney hired me right
after I got out of the army. I served in their
mortuary unit. It was hard, you know, working
on so many young people. Most of them were
accidents or suicides, but that goes with the
territory. Young men, they take chances. They
get into fights, they drive too fast. Or their
wives leave them, so they reach for their
weapon and shoot themselves. I thought, at
least I can do something for them, I can treat
them with the respect due a soldier. And some
of them were just kids, barely old enough to
grow beards. That was the upsetting part, how
young they were, but I managed to deal with
it. The way I deal with it here, because it's my
job. I can't remember the last time I called in
sick." He paused. "But today, I thought about
not coming in."
"Why?"
He turned and looked at her. "Do you know
what it's like, after eighteen years working
here, to suddenly feel like I'm a suspect?"
"I'm sorry that's how she made you feel. I
know she can be brusque--"
"No, actually, she wasn't. She was very polite,
very friendly. It was the nature of her
questions that made me realize what was going
on. What's it like working with Dr. Isles? Do
you two get along?" Yoshima laughed. "Now,
why do you suppose she asked me that?"
"She was doing her job, that's all. It wasn't
an accusation."
"It felt like one." He went to the countertop
and began lining up jars of formalin for tissue
samples. "We've worked together almost two
years, Dr. Isles."
"Yes."
"There's never been a time, at least that I'm
aware of, that you've been unhappy with my
performance."
"Never. There's no one I'd rather work with
than you."
He turned and faced her. Under the harsh
fluorescent lights, she saw how much gray peppered
his black hair. She had once thought him
to be in his thirties. With that placidly seamless
face and slender build, he'd seemed somehow
ageless. Now, seeing the troubled lines
around his eyes, she recognized him for what
he was: a man quietly slipping into middle age.
As I am.
"There wasn't a moment," she said, "not an instant, when I thought you might have--"
"But now you do have to think about it,
don't you? Since Detective Rizzoli's brought it
up, you have to consider the possibility that
I vandalized your car. That I'm the one stalking
you."
"No, Yoshima. I don't. I refuse to."
His gaze held hers. "Then you're not being
honest with yourself, or with me. Because the
thought's got to be there. And as long as the
smallest ounce of mistrust is there, you're
going to be uneasy with me. I can feel it, you
can feel it." He stripped off his gloves, turned,
and began writing the deceased's name on labels.
She could see the tension in his shoulders,
in the rigid muscles of his neck.
"We'll get past this," she said.
"Maybe."
"Not maybe. We will. We have to work together."
"Well, I guess that's up to you."
She watched him for a moment, wondering
how to recapture the cordial relationship they
had once enjoyed. Perhaps it wasn't so cordial
after all, she thought. I just assumed it was,
while all this time, he's hidden his emotions
from me, just as I hide mine. What a pair we
are, the poker-faced duo. Every week tragedy
passes across our autopsy table, but I have
never seen him cry, nor has he seen me cry. We
just go about the business of death like two
workers on the factory floor.
He finished labeling the specimen jars and
turned back to see she was still standing behind
him. "Did you need anything, Dr. Isles?" he
asked, and his voice, like his expression, revealed
no hint of what had just passed between them.
This was the Yoshima she had always known,
quietly efficient, poised to offer his assistance.
She responded in kind. She removed X-rays
from the envelope she'd carried into the room
and mounted Nikki Wells's films on the light
box. "I'm hoping you remember this case," she
said, and flipped on the switch. "It's from five
years ago. A case out in Fitchburg."
"What's the name?"
"Nikki Wells."
He frowned at the X-ray. Focused, immediately,
on the collection of fetal bones overlying
the maternal pelvis. "This was that pregnant woman? Killed with her sister?"
"You do remember it, then."
"Both the bodies were burned?"
"That's right."
"I remember, it was Dr. Hobart's case."
"I've never met Dr. Hobart."
"No, you wouldn't have. He left about two
years before you joined us."
"Where is he working now? I'd like to talk
to him."
"Well, that would be hard. He's dead."
She frowned at him. "What?"
Sadly, Yoshima shook his head. "It was so
hard on Dr. Tierney. He felt responsible, even
though he had no choice."
"What happened?"
"There were some . . . problems with Dr.
Hobart. First he lost track of a few slides. Then
he misplaced some organs, and the family
found out. They sued our office. It was a big
mess, a lot of bad publicity, but Dr. Tierney
stood by him. Then some drugs went missing
from a bag of personal effects, and he had no
choice. He asked Dr. Hobart to resign."
"What happened then?"
"Dr. Hobart went home and swallowed a
handful of Oxycontin. They didn't find him
for three days." Yoshima paused. "That was the
autopsy no one here wanted to do."
"Were there questions about his competence?"
"He may have made some mistakes."
"Serious ones?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"I'm wondering if he missed this." She
pointed to the X-ray. To the bright sliver embedded
in the pubic bone. "His report on
Nikki Wells doesn't explain this metallic density
here."
"There are other metallic shadows on that
film," noted Yoshima. "I can see a bra hook
here. And this looks like a snap."
"Yes, but look at the lateral view. This sliver
of metal is in the bone. Not overlying it. Did
Dr. Hobart say anything about it to you?"
"Not that I recall. It's not in his report?"
"XT "
No.
"Then he must not have thought it was significant."
Which meant it had probably not been
brought up during Amalthea's trial, she
thought. Yoshima returned to his tasks, positioning
basins and buckets, assembling paperwork
on his clipboard. Though a young woman
lay dead only a few feet away, Maura's attention
was not on the fresh corpse, but on the X-ray of
Nikki Wells and her fetus, their bones melded
together by fire into a single charred mass.
Why did you burn them? What was the
point? Had Amalthea felt pleasure, watching
the flames consume them? Or was she hoping
those flames would consume something else,
some trace of herself that she did not want to
be found?
Her focus moved from the arc of fetal skull
to the bright shard embedded in Nikki's pubis.
A shard as thin as ...
A knife's edge. A broken-off fragment from
a blade.
But Nikki had been killed with a blow to
the head. Why use a knife on a victim whose
face you have just crushed with a crowbar? She
stared at that metallic sliver, and its significance
suddenly struck her--a significance that
sent a chill streaking up her spine.
She crossed to the phone and hit the intercom
button. "Louise?"
"Yes, Dr. Isles?"
"Can you connect me with Dr. Daljeet
Singh? The medical examiner's office in Augusta,
Maine."
"Hold on." Then, a moment later: "I've got
Dr. Singh on the line."
"Daljeet?" said Maura.
"No, I haven't forgotten about that dinner I
owe you!" he answered.
"I may owe you a dinner, if you can answer
this question for me."
"What's that?"
"Those skeletal remains we dug up in Fox
Harbor. Have you identified them yet?"
"No. It may take a while. There are no missing
persons reports on file in either Waldo or
Hancock County that would match these remains.
Either these bones are very old, or these
people were not from the area."
"Have you requested an NCIC search yet?"
she asked. The National Crime Information
Center, administered through the FBI, maintained
a searchable database of missing persons
cases from across the country.
"Yes, but since I can't narrow it down to any
particular decade, I got back pages of names.
Everything on record for the New England
area."
"Maybe I can help you narrow down your
search parameters."
"How?"
"Specify just the missing persons cases from
1955 to 1965."
"Can I ask how you came up with that particular
decade?"
Because that's when my mother was living
in Fox Harbor, she thought. My mother, who
has killed others.
But all she said was: "An educated guess."
"You're being very mysterious."
"I'll explain it all when I see you."

For once, Rizzoli was letting Maura drive, but
only because they were in Maura's Lexus, heading
north toward the Maine Turnpike. During
the night, a storm front had blown in from the
west, and Maura had awakened to the sound of
rain drumming her roof. She'd made coffee,
read the newspaper, all the usual things she did
on a typical morning. How quickly old routines
reasserted themselves, even in the face of fear.
Last night she had not stayed in a motel, but
had returned home. Had locked all her doors
and left the porch light burning, a meager de
fense against the threats of the night, yet she had
slept through the storm's bluster, and had awakened
feeling back in control of her own life.
I've had enough of being afraid, she thought.
I won't let it drive me again from my own
house.
Now, as she and Rizzoli headed toward
Maine, where even darker rain clouds loomed,
she was ready to fight back, ready to turn the
tables. Whoever you are, I'm going to track
you down and find you. I can be a hunter, too.

It was two in the afternoon when they arrived
at the Maine medical examiner's building in
Augusta. Dr. Daljeet Singh met them in reception
and walked them downstairs to the autopsy
lab, where the two boxes of bones were
waiting on a countertop.
"This hasn't been my highest priority," he
admitted as he shook out a plastic sheet. It settled
with a soft whish on the steel table, like
parachute silk. "They've probably been buried
for decades; a few more days won't make much
difference."
"Did you get back the new search results
from NCIC?" asked Maura.
"This morning. I printed up the list of
names. It's on that desk there."
"Dental X-rays?"
"I've downloaded the files they emailed me.
Haven't had a chance yet to review them. I
thought I'd wait till you two got here." He
opened the first cardboard box and began removing
bones, gently setting them on the plastic
sheet. Out came a skull, its cranium caved
in. A dirt-stained pelvis and long bones and
chunky spine. A bundle of ribs, which clattered
together like a bamboo wind chime. It was
otherwise silent in Daljeet's lab, as stark and
bright as Maura's autopsy suite in Boston.
Good pathologists are by nature perfectionists,
and he now revealed that aspect of his personality.
He seemed to dance around the table,
moving with almost feminine grace as he
arranged the bones in their anatomic positions.
"Which one is this?" asked Rizzoli.
"This is the male," he said. "Femoral length
indicates he was somewhere in the range of five
foot ten to six feet tall. Obvious crush fracture
of the right temporal bone. Also, there's an old
Colles fracture, well healed." He glanced at
Rizzoli, who looked perplexed. "That's a broken
wrist."
"Why do you doctors do that, anyway?"
"What?"
"Call it some fancy name. Why don't you
just call it a broken wrist?"
Daljeet smiled. "Some questions have no
easy answers, Detective Rizzoli."
Rizzoli looked at the bones. "What else do
we know about him?"
"There are no apparent osteoporotic or
arthritic changes of the spine. This was a
young adult male, Caucasian. Some dental
work here--silver amalgam fillings numbers
eighteen and nineteen."
Rizzoli pointed to the cratered temporal
bone. "Is that the cause of death?"
"That would certainly qualify as a fatal
blow." He turned and looked at the second
box. "Now, to the female. She was found about
twenty yards away."
On the second autopsy table, he again spread out a plastic sheet. Together, he and
Maura laid out the next collection of remains
in their anatomical positions, like two fussy
waiters arranging a place setting for dinner.
Bones clattered against the table. The dirt-encrusted
pelvis. Another skull, smaller, the
supraorbital ridges more delicate than the
man's. Leg bones, arm bones, sternum. A bundle
of ribs, and two paper sacks containing
loose carpal and tarsal bones.
"So here's our Jane Doe," said Daljeet, surveying
the finished arrangement. "I can't tell
you the cause of death here, because there's
nothing to go on. She appears to be young,
also Caucasian. Twenty to thirty-five years old.
Height around five foot three, no old fractures.
Dentition's very good. A little chip here, on the
canine, and a gold crown on number four."
Maura glanced at the X-ray viewing box,
where two films were mounted. "Are those
their dental films?"
"Male's on the left, female on the right."
Daljeet went to the sink to wash the dirt from
his hands and yanked out a paper towel. "So
there you have it, John and Jane Doe."
Rizzoli picked up the printout of names
that NCIC had emailed to Daljeet that morning.
"Jesus. There are dozens of entries here. So
many people missing."
"And that's only for the New England region.
Caucasians between the ages of twenty
and forty-five."
"All these reports are from the 1950s
and '60s."
"That's the time frame Maura specified."
Daljeet crossed to his laptop computer. "Okay,
let's take a look at some of the X-rays they
sent." He opened the file that had been
emailed to him from NCIC. A row of icons
appeared, each labeled with a case number. He
clicked on the first icon, and an X-ray filled the
screen. A crooked line of teeth, like tumbling
white dominoes.
"Well, this certainly isn't one of ours," he
said. "Look at the teeth on this one! It's an orthodontist's
nightmare."
"Or an orthodontist's gold mine," said
Rizzoli.
Daljeet closed that image, and clicked on
the next icon. Another X-ray, this one with a
gaping space between incisors. "I don't think
so," he said.
Maura's attention drifted back to the table.
To the bones of the unnamed woman. She
stared down at the skull with its gracile brow
line and delicate zygomatic arch. A face of gentle
proportions.
"Well, hello," she heard Daljeet say. "I think
I recognize these teeth."
She turned to look at the computer screen.
Saw an X-ray of lower molars and the bright
glow of dental fillings.
Daljeet rose from his chair and crossed to
the table where the male skeleton was laid out.
He picked up the mandible and carried it back
to the computer to compare.
"Amalgam filling numbers eighteen and
nineteen," he noted. "Yes. Yes, that matches ..."
"What's the name on that X-ray?" Rizzoli
asked.
"Robert Sadler."
"Sadler . . . Sadler . . ." Rizzoli flipped
through the pages of computer printouts.
"Okay, I found the entry. Sadler, Robert. Caucasian
male, age twenty-nine. Five foot eleven,
brown hair, brown eyes." She looked at Daleet,
who nodded.
"That's compatible with our remains."
Rizzoli continued reading. "He was a building
contractor. Last seen in his hometown
of Kennebunkport, Maine. Reported missing
July third, 1960, along with his . . ." She
paused. Turned to look at the table where the
female's bones had been laid out. "Along with
his wife."
"What was her name?" asked Maura.
"Karen. Karen Sadler. I have the case number
for you."
"Give it to me," said Daljeet, turning back
to the computer. "Let's see if her X-rays are
here." Maura stood close behind him, staring
over his shoulder as he clicked on the correct
icon, and an image appeared on the screen. It
was an X-ray taken when Karen Sadler was
alive and sitting in her dentist's chair. Anxious,
perhaps, about the prospect of a cavity and the
inevitable drilling that would result. She could
not have imagined, as she'd clamped down on
the cardboard wing to hold the unexposed film
in place, that this same image her dentist captured
that day would be glowing, years later,
on a pathologist's computer screen.
Maura saw a row of molars, and the bright
metallic glow of a crown. She crossed to the
X-ray light box, where Daljeet had clipped up
the panograph he'd taken of the unidentified
woman's teeth. She said, softly, "It's her. These
bones are Karen Sadler's."
"So we have a double match," said Daljeet.
"Both husband and wife."
Behind them, Rizzoli flipped through the
printouts, looking for Karen Sadler's missing
persons report. "Okay, here she is. Caucasian
female, age twenty-five. Blond hair, blue eyes
..." She suddenly stopped. "There's something
wrong here. You'd better check those
X-rays again."
"Why?" said Maura.
"Just check them again."
Maura studied the panograph, then turned
to look at the computer screen. "They are a
match, Jane. What's the problem?"
"You're missing another set of bones."
"Whose bones?"
"A fetus." Rizzoli looked at her, a stunned
expression on her face. "Karen Sadler was eight
months pregnant."
There was a long silence.
"We found no other remains," Daljeet said.
"You could have missed them," said Rizzoli.
"We sifted the soil. Thoroughly excavated
that grave site."
"Scavengers might have dragged them away."
"Yes, that's always possible. But this is Karen
Sadler."
Maura went to the table and stared down at
the woman's pelvis, thinking about another
woman's bones, glowing on an X-ray light box.
Nikki Wells was pregnant, too.
She swung the magnifying lens over the
table and switched on the light. Focused the
lens over the pubic ramus. Reddish dirt had
crusted over the symphysis, where the two
rami met, joined by leathery cartilage. "Daljeet,
could I have a wet Q-tip or gauze? Something
to wipe this dirt away."
He filled a basin of water and tore open a
packet of Q-tips. He set them on the tray beside
her. "What are you looking for?"
She didn't answer him. Her attention was
focused on dabbing away that coating of dirt,
on revealing what lay beneath. As the crust
melted, her pulse quickened. The last fleck of
dirt suddenly fell away. She stared at what was
now revealed beneath the magnifier. Straightening,
she looked at Daljeet.
"What is it?" he said.
"Take a look. It's right at the edge, where the
bones articulate."
He bent to look through the lens. "You
mean that little nick? Is that what you're talking
about?"
"Yes."
"It's pretty subtle."
"But it's there." She took a deep breath. "I
brought an X-ray. It's in my car. I think you
should look at it."
Rain battered her umbrella as she walked out
to the parking lot. As she pressed the UNLOCK
button on her key ring, she couldn't avoid glancing
at the scratches on her passenger door. A
claw mark meant to scare her. All it did is make
me angry. Ready to fight back. She took the envelope
out of the backseat and sheltered it under
her coat as she carried it into the building.
Daljeet looked bewildered as he watched
her clip Nikki Wells's films onto the light box.
"What is this case you're showing me?"
"A five-year-old homicide in Fitchburg,
Massachusetts. The victim's skull was crushed
and her body later burned."
Daljeet frowned at the X-ray. "Pregnant female.
The fetus looks close to term."
"But this is what caught my eye." She
pointed to the bright sliver embedded in Nikki
Wells's pubic symphysis. "I think it's the broken
edge of a knife blade."
"But Nikki Wells was killed with a tire iron,"
said Rizzoli. "Her skull was smashed in."
"That's right," said Maura.
"Then why use a knife as well?"
Maura pointed to the X-ray. To the fetal
bones curled over Nikki Wells's pelvis. "That's
why. That's what the killer really wanted."
For a moment Daljeet didn't speak. But she
knew, without his saying a word, that he
understood what she was thinking. He turned
back to the remains of Karen Sadler. He picked
up the pelvis. "A midline incision, straight
down the abdomen," he said. "The blade
would hit bone, right where this nick is . . ."
Maura thought of Amalthea's knife, slicing
down a young woman's abdomen with a stroke
so decisive the blade stops only when it collides
with bone. She thought of her own profession,
where knives played such a large part, and of
the days she spent in the autopsy lab, slicing
skin and organs. We are both cutters, my
mother and I. But I cut dead flesh, and she
cut the living.
"That's why you didn't find fetal bones in
Karen Sadler's grave," said Maura.
"But your other case--" He gestured
toward the X-ray of Nikki Wells. "That fetus
wasn't taken. It was burned with the mother.
Why make an incision to extract it, and then
kill it anyway?"
"Because Nikki Wells's baby had a congenital
defect. An amniotic band."
"What's that?" asked Rizzoli.
"It's a membranous strand that sometimes
stretches across the amniotic sac," said Maura.
"If it wraps around a fetus's limb, it can constrict
blood flow, even amputate the limb. The
defect was diagnosed during Nikki's second
trimester." She pointed to the X-ray. "You can
see the fetus is missing its right leg beneath the
knee."
"That's not a fatal defect?"
"No, it would have survived. But the killer
would have seen the defect immediately. She
would have seen it wasn't a perfect baby. I
think that's why she didn't take it." Maura
turned and looked at Rizzoli. Could not avoid
confronting the fact of Rizzoli's pregnancy.
The swollen belly, the estrogenic flush of her
cheeks. "She wanted a perfect baby."
"But Karen Sadler's wouldn't have been perfect
either," Rizzoli pointed out. "She was only
eight months pregnant. The lungs wouldn't be
mature, right? It would need an incubator to
survive."
Maura looked down at Karen Sadler's
bones. She thought of the site from which they
had been recovered. Thought, too, of the husband's
bones, buried twenty yards away. But
not in the same grave--a separate spot. Why
dig two different holes? Why not bury husband
and wife together?
Her mouth suddenly went dry. The answer
left her stunned.
They were not buried at the same time.
TWENTY-ONE


the COTTAGE HUDDLED beneath rain-heavy
tree branches, as though cringing from their
touch. When Maura had first seen it the week
before, she had thought the house merely depressing,
a dark little box slowly being strangled
by encroaching woods. Now, as she gazed
at it from her car, the windows seemed to stare
back like malevolent eyes.

"This is the house where Amalthea grew
up," said Maura. "It wouldn't have been hard
for Anna to track down that information. All
she had to do was check Amalthea's high
school records. Or search an old phone book
for the name Lank." She looked at Rizzoli.
"The landlady, Miss Clausen, told me Anna
asked specifically about renting this house."
"So Anna must have known Amalthea once
lived here."
And like me, she was hungry to know more
about our mother, thought Maura. To understand
the woman who gave us life, and then
abandoned us.
Rain pounded on the car roof and slid in silvery
sheets down the windshield.
Rizzoli zipped up her slicker and pulled the
hood over her head. "Well, let's go in and take
a look, then."
They dashed through the rain and scrambled
up the steps to the porch, where they
shook water from their raincoats. Maura produced
the key she'd just picked up at Miss
Clausen's real estate office and thrust it into the
lock. At first it would not turn, as though the
house was fighting back, determined not to let
her enter. When at last she managed to open
the door, it gave a warning creak as it swung
open, resisting her to the end.
Inside it was even gloomier and more claustrophobic
than she had remembered. The air
was sour with the smell of mildew, as though
the dampness outside had seeped through the
walls into the curtains, the furniture. The light
through the window cast the living room in
sullen shades of gray. This house does not want
us here, she thought. It does not want us to
learn its secrets.
She touched Rizzoli's arm. "Look," she said,
pointing to the two bolts and the brass chains.
"Brand-new locks."
"Anna had them installed. It makes you
wonder, doesn't it? Who she was trying to
lock out."
"If it wasn't Charles Cassell." Rizzoli crossed
to the living room window and gazed out at a
curtain of leaves dripping with rain. "Well, this
place is awfully isolated. No neighbors. Nothing
but trees. I'd want a few extra locks, too."
She gave an uneasy laugh. "You know, I never
did like it, out in the woods. Bunch of us went
camping once, in high school. Drove up to
New Hampshire and laid our sleeping bags out
around the campfire. I didn't sleep a wink. I
kept thinking: How do I know what's out
there, watching me? Up in the trees, hiding in
the bushes."
"Come on," said Maura. "I want to show
you the rest of the house." She led the way to
the kitchen, and flipped the wall switch. Fluorescent
lights flickered on with an ominous
hum. The harsh glare brought out every crack,
every buckle in the ancient linoleum. She
looked down at the black and white checkerboard
pattern, yellowed with wear, and thought
about all the spilled milk and tracked-in mud
that, over the years, had surely left their microscopic
traces on this floor. What else had seeped
into these cracks and seams? What terrible
events had left their residue?
"These are brand-new dead bolts, too," said
Rizzoli, standing at the back door.
Maura crossed to the cellar door. "This is
what I wanted you to see."
"Another bolt?"
"But see how tarnished this one is? It isn't
new. This bolt's been here a long time. Miss
Clausen said it was already on the door when
she bought the property at auction twenty-eight
years ago. And here's the strange part."
"What?"
"The only place this door leads is down
to the cellar." She looked at Rizzoli. "It's a
dead end."
"Why would anyone need to lock this
door?"
"That's what I wondered."
Rizzoli opened the door, and the smell of
damp earth rose from the darkness. "Oh man,"
she muttered. "I hate going down into cellars."
"There's a light chain, right over your head."
Rizzoli reached up and gave the chain a tug.
The bulb came on, its anemic glow spilling
down a narrow stairway. Below were only
shadows. "You sure there's no other way into
this cellar?" she asked, peering down into
shadow. "A coal hatch or something?"
"I walked all around the outside of this
house. I didn't see any outside doors leading
into the cellar."
"Have you been down there?"
"I didn't see any reason to." Until today.
"Okay." Rizzoli pulled a mini Maglite from
her pocket and took a deep breath. "I guess we
should take a look."
The lightbulb swayed above them, tilting
shadows back and forth as they descended
creaky stairs. Rizzoli moved slowly, as though
testing each step before she trusted her weight
to it. Never before had Maura known Rizzoli
to be so tentative, so cautious, and that apprehension
was fueling her own. By the time they
reached the bottom of the stairs, the door to
the kitchen seemed far above them, in another
dimension.
The bulb at the bottom of the stairs had
burned out. Rizzoli swept her Maglite across a
floor of packed earth, damp from seeping rain
water. The beam revealed a stack of paint cans
and a rolled-up carpet, moldering against one
wall. In a corner sat a crate filled with bundles
of kindling for the living room fireplace. Nothing
here seemed out of the ordinary, nothing
justified the sense of threat that Maura had felt
at the top of the stairs.
"Well, you're right," said Rizzoli. "There
doesn't seem to be another way out of here."
"Just that door up there, to the kitchen."
"Which means the bolt doesn't make any
sense. Unless ..." Rizzoli's beam suddenly
came to a halt on the far wall.
"What is it?"
Rizzoli crossed the cellar and stood staring.
"Why is this thing here? What would anyone
use it for?"
Maura moved closer. Felt a chill clamber up
her spine when she saw what Rizzoli's Maglite
was shining on. It was an iron ring, lodged in
one of the massive cellar stones. What would
anyone use this for? Rizzoli had asked. The
answer made Maura step away, repelled by the
visions it conjured up.
This is not a cellar; it's a dungeon.
Rizzoli's flashlight jerked upward. "Someone's
inside the house," she whispered.
Through the pounding of her own heart,
Maura heard the floor creaking above them.
Heard heavy footsteps move through the
house. Approach the kitchen. A silhouette suddenly
loomed in the doorway, and the flashlight
beam that flooded down was so bright,
Maura had to turn away, blinded.
"Dr. Isles?" a man called.
Maura squinted up into the light. "I can't
see you."
"Detective Yates. CSU just got here, too.
You want to take us through the house before
we start?"
Maura released a sharp breath. "We're coming
up."
By the time Maura and Rizzoli emerged
from the cellar, there were four men standing
in the kitchen. Maura had met Maine state
detectives Corso and Yates the week before, at
the clearing in the woods. Two CSU techs,
who introduced themselves merely as Pete and
Gary, had joined them, and they all paused for
a round of handshakes.
Yates said, "So is this some kind of treasure
hunt?"
"No guarantees we'll find anything," said
Maura.
Both CSU techs were looking around the
kitchen, scanning the floor. "This linoleum
looks pretty beat up," said Pete. "What period
of time are we looking at?"
"The Sadlers vanished forty-five years ago.
The suspect would still have been living here,
with her cousin. After they left, the house went
empty for years, before it got sold at auction."
"Forty-five years ago? Yeah, this linoleum
could be that old."
"I know the carpet in the living room's more
recent, only about twenty years old," Maura
said. "We'd have to pull it up to check that
floor."
"We haven't tried this on anything older
than fifteen years. This would be a new record
for us." Pete glanced at the kitchen window.
"Won't be dark for at least another two hours."
"Then let's start in the cellar," said Maura.
"It's dark enough down there."
They all pitched in to haul various equipment
from the van: video and still cameras and
tripods, boxes with protective gear and aerosol
sprayers and distilled water, an Igloo cooler
containing bottles of chemicals, and electrical
cords and flashlights. All these they carried
down the narrow steps into the cellar, which
suddenly felt cramped as six people and camera
gear crowded in. Only half an hour earlier,
Maura had regarded this same gloomy space
with uneasiness. Now, as she watched the men
matter-of-factly set up tripods and uncoil electrical
cords, the room lost its power to frighten
her. This is only damp stone and packed earth,
she thought. There are no ghosts down here.
"I don't know about this," said Pete, turning
the bill of his Sea Dogs baseball cap backward.
"You've got a dirt floor here. It's going to have a
high iron content. Could light up everywhere.
That's gonna be hard to interpret."
"I'm more interested in the walls," said
Maura. "Smears, spatter patterns." She pointed
to the block of granite with the iron ring. "Let's
start with that wall."
"We'll need a baseline photo first. Let me
set up the tripod. Detective Corso, can you
mount the ruler up on that wall right there? It's
luminescent. It'll give us a frame of reference."
Maura looked at Rizzoli. "You should go
upstairs, Jane. They're going to start mixing
the Luminol. I don't think you should be exposed
to it."
"I didn't think it was that toxic."
"Still, you shouldn't take the chance. Not
with the baby."
Rizzoli sighed. "Yeah, okay." Slowly she
headed up the steps. "But I hate missing a light
show." The cellar door swung shut behind her.
4
"Man, shouldn't she be on maternity leave
already?" Yates said.
"She has another six weeks to go," said
Maura.
One of the techs laughed. "Like that
woman cop in Fargo, huh? How do you chase
down a perp when you're that knocked up?"
Through the closed cellar door, Rizzoli
yelled: "Hey, I may be knocked up, but I'm not
deaf!"
"She's also armed," said Maura.
Detective Corso said, "Can we get started
here?"
"There are masks and goggles in that box,"
said Pete. "You all might want to pass those
around."
Corso handed a respirator and a pair of goggles
to Maura. She slipped them on and
watched as Gary began measuring chemicals.
"We're going with a Weber prep," he said.
"It's a little more sensitive, and I think it's safer
to use. This stuff is irritating enough on the
skin and eyes."
"Are those stock solutions you're mixing?"
asked Maura, her voice muffled through the
mask.
"Yeah, we keep 'em stored in the lab refrigerator.
Mix all three together in the field, along
with distilled water." He capped the jar and
gave it a vigorous shake. "Anyone here wear
contact lenses?"
"I do," said Yates.
"Then you might want to step out, Detective.
You're gonna be more sensitive, even
wearing those goggles."
"No, I wanna watch."
"Then stay back when we start spraying."
He gave the bottle one more swirl, then decanted
the contents into a spray bottle. "Okay,
we're ready to rock. Let me snap a photo first.
Detective, can you move away from that wall?"
Corso stepped to the side and Pete pressed
the shutter release cable. The flash went off as
the camera captured a baseline image of the
wall they were about to spray with Luminol.
"You want the lights off now?" said Maura.
"Let Gary get in position first. Once it's
dark, we're gonna be stumbling around here.
So everyone just pick a spot and stay there,
okay? Only Gary moves."
Gary crossed to the wall and held up the
spray bottle containing Luminol. With his
goggles and mask, he looked like a pest exterminator,
about to squirt some offending roach.
"Hit the lights, Dr. Isles."
Maura reached out to the flood lamp beside
her and switched it off, plunging the cellar into
pitch blackness.
"Go ahead, Gary."
They could hear the hiss of the spray bottle.
Flecks of greenish-blue suddenly glowed in the
darkness, like stars in the night sky. Now a
ghostly circle appeared, seeming to float in the
darkness, unattached. The iron ring.
"It may not be blood at all," said Pete. "Luminol
reacts with a lot of things. Rust, metals.
Bleach solutions. That iron ring would probably
glow anyway, whether there's blood on it or
not. Gary, can you move aside while I get this
shot? This is going to be a forty-second exposure,
so just stand tight." When the shutter finally
clicked, he said: "Lights, Dr. Isles."
Maura fumbled in the darkness for the
flood lamp switch. When the light came on,
she was staring at the stone wall.
"What do you think?" asked Corso.
Pete shrugged. "Not too impressive. There's
going to be a lot of false positives down here.
You've got soil staining all those rocks. We'll try
the other walls, but unless you see a handprint
or a major splatter, it's not going to be easy to
pick up blood against this background."
Maura noticed Corso glancing at his watch.
It had been a long drive for both Maine state
detectives, and she could see he was starting to
wonder if this was a waste of time.
"Let's keep going," she said.
Pete moved the tripod and positioned his
camera lens to focus on the next wall. He
clicked off a flash photo, then said, "Lights."
Again, the room went pitch black.
The spray bottle hissed. More blue-green
flecks magically appeared like fireflies twinkling
in the darkness as the Luminol reacted
with oxidized metals in the stone, producing
pinpoints of luminescence. Gary sprayed a
fresh arc across the wall, and a new swath of
stars appeared, eclipsed by his shadowy outline
as he moved past. There was a loud thump,
and the silhouette suddenly lurched forward.
"Shit."
"You okay, Gary?" said Yates.
"Hit my shin against something. The stairs,
I think. Can't see a goddamn thing in this ..."
He stopped. Then murmured: "Hey, guys.
Look at this."
As he moved aside, a patch of blue-green
floated into view, like a ghostly pool of ectoplasm.
"What the hell is that?" said Corso.
"Light!" called Pete.
Maura turned on the lamp. The blue-green
pool vanished. In its place she saw only the
wooden staircase leading up to the kitchen.
"It was on that step there," said Gary.
"When I tripped, it caught some of the spray."
"Let me reposition this camera. Then I want
you to move up to the top of those stairs.
Think you can feel your way down if we turn
off the lights?"
"I don't know. If I go slowly enough--"
"Spray the steps as you come down."
"No. No, I think I'm gonna start from the
bottom and go up. I don't like the idea of backing
down the stairs in the dark."
"Whatever you're comfortable with." The
camera flash went off. "Okay, Gary. I've got
my baseline. Whenever you're ready."
"Yeah. You can hit the light, Doc."
Maura turned off the lamp.
Once again, they heard the hiss of the spray
bottle dispersing its fine mist of Luminol. Near
the ground, a splash of blue-green appeared,
then above it another splash, like ghostly pools
of water. They could hear Gary's heavy breathing
through his mask, and the creak of the
steps as he backed up the stairs, spraying the
whole time. Step after step lit up, forming an
intensely luminous cascade.
A waterfall of blood.
There was nothing else that this could be,
she thought. It was smeared across every step,
trickles of it streaking down the sides of the
staircase.
"Jesus," murmured Gary. "It's even brighter
up here, on the top step. Looks like it came
from the kitchen. Seeped under the door and
dripped down the stairs."
"Everyone stay right where you are. I'm taking
the shot. Forty-five seconds."
"It might be dark enough outside now," said
Corso. "We can start on the rest of the house."
Rizzoli was waiting for them in the kitchen
as they came up the stairs, hauling their equipment.
"Sounds like it was quite a light show,"
she said.
"I think we're about to see even more," said
Maura.
"Where do you want to start spraying
now?" Pete asked Corso.
"Right here. The floor nearest the cellar
door."
This time, Rizzoli did not leave the room
when the lights went off. She backed off and
watched from a distance as the mist of Luminol
was sprayed across the floor. A geometric
pattern suddenly glowed at their feet, a blue-green
checkerboard of old blood trapped in the
linoleum's repeating pattern. The checkerboard grew like blue fire spreading across a
landscape. Now it streaked up one vertical surface, into broad swipes and smears, into arcs of
bright droplets.
"Turn on the lights," said Yates, and Corso
flipped the switch.
The smears vanished. They stared at the
kitchen wall, which no longer glowed blue. At
worn linoleum with its repeating pattern of
black and white squares. They saw no horror
here, just a room with yellowed flooring and
tired appliances. Yet everywhere they had
looked, only a moment ago, they had seen
blood screaming at them.
Maura stared at the wall, the image of what
she'd seen there still burned in her memory.
"That was arterial spray," she said softly. "This
is the room where it happened. This is where
they died."
"But you saw blood in the cellar as well,"
said Rizzoli.
"On the steps."
"Okay. So we know at least one victim is
killed in this room, since there's arterial spray
on that wall there." Rizzoli paced across the
kitchen, unruly curls hiding her eyes as she focused
on the floor. She stopped. "How do we
know there aren't other victims? How do we
know this blood is from the Sadlers?"
"We don't."
Rizzoli crossed to the cellar and opened the
door. There she stood for a moment, gazing
down the dark stairway. She turned and looked
at Maura. "That cellar has a dirt floor."
A moment passed in silence.
Gary said, "We have GPR gear in the van.
We used it two days ago, on a farm out in
Machias."
"Bring it into the house," said Rizzoli. "Let's
take a look at what's under that dirt."
TWENTY-TWO


GPR, OR GROUND-PENETRATING RADAR,
uses electromagnetic waves to probe beneath
the ground's surface. The SIR System-2 machine
that the techs unloaded from the van
had two antennae, one to send out a pulse of
high frequency electromagnetic energy into
the ground, the other to measure the echoing
waves bounced back by subsurface features. A
computer screen would display the data, showing
the various strata as a series of horizontal
layers. As the techs carried the equipment
down the steps, Yates and Corso marked off
one-meter intervals on the cellar floor to form
a search grid.
"With all this rain," said Pete, unrolling
electrical cable, "the soil's going to be pretty
damp."
"Does that make a difference?" asked Maura.
"GPR response varies depending on the
subsurface water content. You need to adjust
the EM frequency to account for it."
"Two hundred megahertz?" asked Gary.
"It's where I'd start. You don't want to go
any higher, or we'll get too much detail." Pete
connected cables to the backpack console and
powered up the laptop. "That's going to be
something of a problem out here, especially
with all these woods around us."
"What do the trees have to do with it?" Rizzoli
asked.
"This house is built on a wood lot. There's
probably a number of cavities under here, left
over from decayed roots. That's going to confuse
the picture."
Gary said, "Help me get on this backpack."
"How's that? You need to adjust the straps?"
"No, they feel fine." Gary took a breath and
looked around the cellar. "I'll start at that end."
As Gary moved the GPR across the earthen
floor, the subsurface profile appeared on the
laptop screen in undulating stripes. Maura's
medical training had made her familiar with
ultrasounds and CT scans of the human body,
but she had no idea how to interpret these ripples
on the screen.
"What are you seeing?" she asked Gary.
"These dark areas here are positive radar
echoes. Negative echoes show up as white.
We're looking for anything anomalous. A hyperbolic
reflection, for example."
"What's that?" said Rizzoli.
"It'll look like a bulge, pushing up these
various layers. Caused by something buried
underground, scattering the radar waves in all
directions." He stopped, studying the screen.
"Okay, here, see this? We've got something
about three meters deep that's giving off a hyperbolic
reflection."
"What do you think?" asked Yates.
"Could be just a tree root. Let's mark it and
keep going."
Pete tapped a stake into the ground to mark
the spot.
Gary moved on, following the grid lines back
and forth, as radar echoes rippled across the laptop
screen. Every so often he'd stop, call out for
another stake to be planted, marking another
spot they would recheck on the second walkthrough.
He had turned and was coming back
along the middle of the grid when he suddenly
halted.
"Now this is interesting," he said.
"What do you see?" asked Yates.
"Hold on. Let me try this section again."
Gary backed up, moving the GPR across the
section he had just probed. Inched forward
again, his gaze fixed on the laptop. Again he
stopped. "We've got a major anomaly here."
Yates moved in close. "Show me."
"It's less than a meter's depth. A big pocket
right here. See it?" Gary pointed to the screen,
where a bulge distorted the radar echoes. Staring
down at the ground, he said: "There's
something right here. And it's not very deep."
He looked at Yates. "What do you want to do?"
"You got shovels in the van?"
"Yeah, we've got one. Plus a couple of
trowels."
Yates nodded. "Okay. Let's bring them
down here. And we're going to need some
more lights."
"There's another flood lamp in the van. Plus
more extension cords."
Corso started up the stairs. "I'll get them."
"I'll help," said Maura, and she followed
him up the steps to the kitchen.
Outside, the heavy rain had lightened to a
drizzle. They rooted through the CSU van,
found the spade and extra lighting gear, which
Corso carried into the house. Maura closed the
van door and was about to follow him with the
box of excavation hand tools when she saw
headlights glimmering through the trees. She
stood in the driveway, watching as a familiar
pickup truck came down the road and pulled
up next to the van.
Miss Clausen stepped out, an oversize
slicker dragging behind her like a cape. "Thought you'd be finished by now. I was
wondering why you didn't bring back my key."
"We're going to be here for a while."
Miss Clausen eyed the vehicles in the driveway.
"I thought you just wanted to take another
look around. What's the crime lab doing
here?"
"This is going to take us a little longer than
I thought. We may be here all night."
"Why? Your sister's clothes aren't even here
anymore. I boxed 'em up for you so you can
take them home."
"This isn't just about my sister, Miss Clausen.
The police are here about something else.
Something that happened a long time ago."
"How long ago?"
"It would have been about forty-five years
ago. Before you even bought the house."
"Forty-five years? That'd be back when ..."
The woman paused.
"When what?"
Miss Clausen's gaze suddenly fell on the box
of excavation tools that Maura was holding.
"What are the trowels for? What are you doing
in my house?"
"The police are searching the cellar."
"Searching? You mean they're digging down
there?"
"They may have to."
"I didn't give you permission to do that." She
turned and thumped up the porch, her slicker
dragging behind her on the steps.
Maura followed her inside, trailing after her
into the kitchen. She set the box of tools on the
counter. "Wait. You don't understand--"
"I don't want anyone tearing up my cellar!"
Miss Clausen yanked open the cellar door and
glared down at Detective Yates, who was holding a shovel. Already he had dug into the
earthen floor, and a mound of dirt was piled
up near his feet.
"Miss Clausen, let them do their jobs," said
Maura.
"I own this house," the woman yelled down
the steps. "You can't dig down there unless I
give my permission!"
"Ma'am, we promise we'll fill in the hole
when we're done," said Corso. "We're just
going to take a little look here."
"Why?"
"Our radar shows a major bounce-back."
"What do mean, bounce-back? What's down
there?"
"That's what we're trying to find out. If
you'd just let us continue."
Maura tugged the woman away from the
cellar and closed the door. "Please let them
work. If you refuse, they'll just be forced to get
a warrant."
"What the hell got them digging down
there in the first place?"
"Blood."
"What blood?"
"There's blood all over this kitchen."
The woman's gaze dropped to the floor,
scanning the linoleum. "I don't see any."
"You can't see it. It takes a chemical spray to
make it visible. But believe me, it's here. Microscopic
traces of it on the floor, splattered on
that wall. Running under the cellar door and
down the steps. Someone tried to wash it away
by mopping the floor, wiping down the walls.
Maybe they thought they got rid of it all, because
they couldn't see it anymore. But the
blood is still here. It seeps into crevices, into
cracks in the wood. It remains for years and
years and you can't erase it. It's trapped in this
house. In the walls themselves."
Miss Clausen turned and stared at her.
"Whose blood?" she asked softly.
"That's what the police would like to know."
"You don't think I had anything to do
with--"
"No. We think the blood is very old. It was
probably here when you bought the house."
The woman looked dazed as she sank into a
chair at the kitchen table. The hood of her
slicker had slipped off her head, revealing a
porcupine's ruff of gray hair. Slouching in that
oversize raincoat, she seemed even smaller,
older. A woman already shrinking into her
grave.
"No one will want to buy this house from
me now," she murmured. "Not when they hear
about this. I won't be able to give the damn
thing away."
Maura sat down across from her. "Why
did my sister ask to rent this house? Did she
tell you?"
No reply. Miss Clausen was still shaking her
head, looking stunned.
"You said she saw that FOR SALE sign out
on the road. And she called you at the realty

office."
At last a nod. "Out of the blue."
"What did she say to you?"
"She wanted to know more about the property.
Who'd lived here, who'd owned it before
me. Said she was looking around at real estate in the area."
"Did you tell her about the Lanks?
Miss Clausen stiffened. "You know about

them?"
"I know they used to own this house. There
was a father and son. And the man's niece, a
girl named Amalthea. Did my sister ask about them, too?"
The woman took a breath. "She wanted to
know. I understood that. If you're thinking of
buying a house, you'd want to know who built
it. Who lived here." She looked at Maura.
"This is about them, isn't it? The Lanks."
"You grew up in this town?"
"Yeah."
"So you must have known the Lank family.
Miss Clausen did not immediately respond.
Instead she rose and pulled off her raincoat.
Took her time hanging it up on one of the
hooks near the kitchen door. "He was in my
class," she said, her back still turned to Maura.
"Who was?"
"Elijah Lank. I didn't know his cousin
Amalthea very well, because she was five years
behind us in school--just a kid. But we all
knew Elijah." Her voice had dropped to nearly
a whisper, as though she was reluctant to say
the name aloud.
"How well did you know him?"
"As well as I needed to."
"It doesn't sound as if you liked him very
much."
Miss Clausen turned and looked at her.
"It's hard to like people who scare the hell out
of you."
Through the cellar door, they could hear the
thud of the shovel hitting soil. Digging deeper
into the house's secrets. A house that, even
years later, still bore silent witness to something
terrible.
"This was a small town, Dr. Isles. Not like it
is now, with all these new folks coming in from
away, buying up summer places. Back then, it
was just locals, and you got to know people.
Which families are good, and which ones you
should stay away from. I figured that out about
Elijah Lank when I was fourteen years old. He
was one of the boys you stayed the hell away
from." She moved back to the table and sank
into a chair, as though exhausted. Stared at the
Formica surface, as though looking into a pool
at her own reflection. A reflection of a fourteen-year-old
girl, afraid of the boy who lived
on this mountain.
Maura waited, her gaze on that bowed head
with its stiff brush of gray hair. "Why did he
scare you?"
"I wasn't the only one. We were all afraid of
Elijah. After..."
"After what?"
Miss Clausen looked up. "After he buried
that girl alive."

In the silence that followed, Maura could hear
the murmur of men's voices as they dug
deeper into the cellar floor. She could feel her
own heart throbbing against her ribs. Jesus,
she thought. What are they going to find
down there?
"She was one of the new kids in town," said
Miss Clausen. "Alice Rose. The other girls'd sit
behind her and make comments. Tell jokes
about her. You could say all kinds of mean
things about Alice and get away with it, because
she couldn't hear you. She never knew
we were making fun of her. I know we were
being cruel, but that's the sort of thing kids do
when they're fourteen. Before they learn to put
themselves in someone else's shoes. Before they
get a taste of it themselves." She sighed, a
sound of regret for childhood transgressions,
for all the lessons learned too late.
"What happened to Alice?"
"Elijah said it was just a joke. He said he always
planned to pull her out after a few hours.
But can you imagine what it was like, being
trapped inside a hole? So terrified that you wet
yourself? And no one can hear you screaming.
No one knows where you are except the boy
who put you in there."
Maura waited, silent. Afraid to hear the
story's ending.
Miss Clausen saw the apprehension in her
eyes and shook her head. "Oh, Alice didn't die.
It was the dog saved her. He knew where she
was. Kept barking his fool head off, led people
right to the spot."
"Then she survived."
The woman nodded. "They found her late
that night. By then, she'd been in the hole for
hours. When they pulled her out, she was
barely speaking. Like a zombie. A few weeks
later, her family moved away. I don't know
where they went."
"What happened to Elijah?"
Miss Clausen gave a shrug. "What do you
think happened? He kept insisting it was just a
prank. The sort of thing the rest of us kids were
doing to Alice every day in school. And it's
true, we all tormented her. We all made her
miserable. But Elijah, he took it to the next
level."
"He wasn't punished?"
"When you're only fourteen, you get a second
chance. Especially when people need you at
home. When your dad's drunk half the day, and
there's a nine-year-old cousin living in the same
house."
"Amalthea," said Maura softly.
Miss Clausen nodded. "Imagine being a little
girl in this house. Growing up in a family of
beasts."
Beasts.
The air suddenly felt charged. Maura's
hands had gone cold. She thought of Amalthea
Lank's ravings. Go away, before he sees you.
And she thought of the scratch mark clawed
into her car door. The sign of the Beast.
The cellar door creaked open, startling
Maura. She turned and saw Rizzoli standing in
the doorway.
"They've hit something," Rizzoli said.
"What is it?"
"Wood. Some kind of panel, about two feet
down. They're trying to clear away the dirt
now." She pointed to the box of trowels on the
counter. "We'll need those."
Maura carried the box down the cellar steps.
She saw that piles of excavated earth now
ringed the perimeter of their trench, extending
almost six feet long.
The size of a coffin.
Detective Corso, who now wielded the
shovel, glanced up at Maura. "Panel feels
pretty thick. But listen." He banged the shovel against the wood. "It's not solid. There's an air
space underneath."
Yates said, "You want me to take over now?"
"Yeah, my back's about to give out." Corso
handed over the shovel.
Yates dropped into the trench, his shoes
thudding onto the wood. A hollow sound. He
attacked the dirt with grim determination,
flinging it onto a rapidly growing mound. No
one spoke as more and more of the panel
emerged. The two flood lamps slanted their
harsh light across the trench, and Yates's shadow
bounced like a marionette on the cellar walls.
The others watched, silent as grave robbers eagerly
awaiting their first glimpse into a tomb.
"I've cleared one edge here," said Yates,
breathing hard, his shovel scraping across
wood. "Looks like some kind of crate. I've already
dinged it with the shovel. I don't want to
damage the wood."
"I've got the trowels and brushes," said
Maura.
Yates straightened, panting, and clambered
out of the hole. "Okay. Maybe you can clear
off that dirt on top. We'll get some photos before
we pry it open."
Maura and Gary dropped into the trench,
and she felt the panel shudder under their
weight. She wondered what horrors lay beneath
the stained planks, and had a terrible
vision of the wood suddenly giving way, of
plunging into decayed flesh. Ignoring her
pounding heart, she knelt down and began to
sweep dirt away from the panel.
"Hand me one of those brushes, too," said
Rizzoli, about to jump into the trench as well.
"Not you," said Yates. "Why don't you just
take it easy?"
"I'm not handicapped. I hate standing
around doing nothing."
Yates gave an anxious laugh. "Yeah, well,
we'd hate seeing you go into labor down there.
And I wouldn't want to have to explain it to
your husband, either."
Maura said, "There's not much maneuvering
room down here, Jane."
"Well, let me reposition these lamps for
you. So you can see what you're doing."
Rizzoli moved a flood lamp, and suddenly
light beamed down on the corner where
Maura was working. Crouched on her knees,
Maura used the brush to clear soil from the
planks, uncovering pinpoints of rust. "I'm seeing
old nail heads here," she said.
"I've got a crowbar in the car," said Corso.
"I'll get it."
Maura kept brushing away dirt, uncovering
the rusted heads of more nails. The space was
cramped, and her neck and shoulders began to
ache. She straightened her back. Heard a clank
behind her.
"Hey," said Gary. "Look at this."
Maura turned and saw that Gary's trowel
had scraped up against an inch of broken pipe.
"Seems to come straight up through the
edge of this panel," said Gary. With bare fingers,
he gingerly probed the rusted protrusion
and broke through a clot of dirt crusting the
top. "Why would you stick a pipe into a . . ."
He stopped. Looked at Maura.
"It's an air hole," she said.
Gary stared down at the planks under his
knees. Said, softly: "What the hell's inside this
thing?"
"Come out of the hole, you two," said Pete.
"We're going to take photos."
Yates reached down to help Maura out and
she stepped back from the trench, feeling suddenly
light-headed from rising too quickly to
her feet. She blinked, dazed by the flashes of
the camera. By the surreal glare of floodlights
and the shadows dancing on the walls. She
went to the cellar steps and sat down. Only
then remembered that the step she was now
resting on was impregnated with ghostly traces
of blood.
"Okay," said Pete. "Let's open it."
Corso knelt beside the trench and worked
the tip of the crowbar under one corner of the
lid. He strained to pry up the panel, eliciting a
squeal of rusty nail heads.
"It's not budging," said Rizzoli.
Corso paused and wiped his sleeve across his
face, leaving a streak of dirt on his forehead.
"Man, my back's gonna pay for this tomorrow."
Again he positioned the tip of the crow
bar under the lid. This time he was able to jam
it farther in. He sucked in a deep breath and
threw his weight against the fulcrum.
The nails screeched free.
Corso tossed aside the crowbar. He and
Yates both reached into the trench, grasped
the edge of the lid, and lifted. For a moment,
no one said a word. They all stared into the
hole, now fully revealed under the glare of
flood lamps.
"I don't get it," said Yates.
The crate was empty.

They drove home that night, down a highway
glistening with rain. Maura's windshield
wipers swept a slow, hypnotic beat across
misted glass.
"All that blood in the kitchen," said Rizzoli.
"You know what it means. Amalthea's killed
before. Nikki and Theresa Wells weren't her
first victims."
"She wasn't alone in that house, Jane. Her
cousin Elijah lived there, too. It could have
been him."
"She was nineteen years old when the Sadlers
vanished. She had to know what was happening
in her own kitchen."
"It doesn't mean she's the one who did it."
Rizzoli looked at her. "You believe O'Donell's
theory? About the Beast?"
"Amalthea is schizophrenic. Tell me how
someone with a mind that disordered manages
to kill two women, and then goes through the
very logical step of burning their bodies, destroying
the evidence?"
"She didn't do that good a job of covering
her tracks. She got caught, remember?"
"The police in Virginia got lucky. Catching
her on a routine traffic stop wasn't an example
of brilliant detective work." Maura stared
ahead at fingers of mist curling across the
empty highway. "She didn't kill those women
all by herself. There had to be someone else
helping her, someone who left fingerprints in
her car. Someone who's been with her from the
very beginning."
"Her cousin."
"Elijah was only fourteen when he buried
that girl alive. What kind of boy would do
something like that? What kind of man does
he grow into?"
"I hate to imagine."
"I think we both know," said Maura. "We
both saw the blood in that kitchen."
The Lexus hummed down the road. The
rain had ceased, but the air still steamed, misting
over the windshield.
"If they did kill the Sadlers," said Rizzoli,
"then you've got to wonder ..." She looked at
Maura. "What did they do with Karen Sadler's
baby?"
Maura said nothing. She kept her gaze on
the highway, driving straight down that road.
No detours, no side trips. Just keep driving.
"You know what I'm getting at?" said Rizzoli.
"Forty-five years ago, the Lank cousins
killed a pregnant woman. The baby's remains
are missing. Five years later, Amalthea Lank
shows up in Van Gates's office in Boston, with
two newborn daughters to sell."
Maura's fingers had gone numb on the
steering wheel.
"What if those babies weren't hers?" Rizzoli
said. "What if Amalthea isn't really your
mother?"
TWENTY-THREE


MATTIE PURVIS SAT in the dark, wondering
how long it took a person to starve to death.
She was going through her food too fast. Only
six Hershey bars, half a packet of saltines, and a
few strips of beef jerky were left in the grocery
sack. I have to ration it, she thought. I have to
make it last long enough to ...

To what? Die of thirst instead?
She bit off a precious chunk of chocolate,
and was sorely tempted to take a second bite,
but managed to hold on to her willpower.
Carefully, she rewrapped the rest of the bar for
later. If I get truly desperate, there's always the
paper to eat, she thought. Paper was edible,
wasn't it? It's made of wood, and hungry deer
eat the bark off trees, so there must be some
nutritional value to it. Yes, save the paper.
Keep it clean. Reluctantly, she returned the
partially eaten chocolate bar to the sack. Closing
her eyes, she thought of hamburgers and
fried chicken and all the forbidden foods she
had denied herself ever since Dwayne had said
that pregnant women reminded him of cows.
Meaning she reminded him of a cow. For two
weeks afterwards, she'd eaten nothing but
salads, until one day she'd felt dizzy and had
sat right down on the floor in the middle
of Macy's. Dwayne had turned red-faced as
worried ladies gathered around them, asking
again and again if his wife was all right. He
kept waving them away while he'd hissed at
Mattie to get up. Image was everything, he always
liked to say, and there was Mr. BMW
with his cow of a wife in her maternity stretch
pants, wallowing on the floor. Yes, I am a cow,
Dwayne. A big, beautiful cow carrying your
baby. Now come and save us, goddamn it.
Save us, save us.
A footstep creaked overhead.
She looked up as her captor approached.
She had come to recognize his tread, light and
cautious as a stalking cat's. Each time he'd visited,
she'd pleaded with him to release her.
Each time, he had just walked away, leaving
her in this box. Now her food was running
low, and the water, too.
"Lady."
She didn't answer. Let him wonder, she
thought. He'll worry whether I'm okay and
he'll have to open the box. He has to keep me
alive or he won't get his precious ransom.
"Talk to me, lady."
She stayed silent. Nothing else has worked,
she thought. Maybe this will scare him. Maybe
now he'll let me out.
A thump on the dirt. "Are you there?"
Where else would I be, you asshole?
A long pause. "Well. If you're already dead,
there's no point digging you up. Is there?" The
footsteps moved away.
"Wait! Wait!" She turned on the flashlight.
Began pounding on the ceiling. "Come back,
goddamn it! Come back!" She listened, heart
thudding. Almost laughed with relief when she
heard the creak of his approach. How pitiful
was this? She was reduced to begging for his attention,
like an ignored lover.
"You're awake," he said.
"Have you talked to my husband? When is
he going to pay you?"
"How are you feeling?"
"Why don't you ever answer my questions?"
"Answer mine first."
"Oh, I'm feeling just dandy!"
"What about the baby?"
"I'm running out of food. I need more
food."
"You have enough."
"Excuse me, but I'm the one down here, not
you! I'm starving. How are you going to get
your money if I'm dead?"
"Stay calm, lady. Rest. Everything's going to
be all right."
"Everything is so not right!"
No answer.
"Hello? Hello?" she yelled.
The footsteps were moving away now.
"Wait!" She pounded on the ceiling. "Come
back!" She beat on the wood with both fists.
Rage suddenly consumed her, a rage like nothing
she had ever known before. She screamed,
"You can't do this to me! I'm not an animal!"
She collapsed against the wall, hands bruised
and throbbing, body wracked with sobs. Sobs
of fury, not defeat. "Fuck you," she said. "Fuck
you. And fuck Dwayne. And fuck all the other
assholes in this world!"
Exhausted, she collapsed onto her back.
Drew her arm across her eyes, wiping away
tears. What does he want from us? By now,
Dwayne must have paid him. So why am I still
down here? What is he waiting for?
The baby gave a kick. She pressed her hand
against her belly, a calming touch transmitted
through the skin that separated them. She felt
her womb tighten, the first quiver of a contraction.
Poor thing. Poor . . .
Baby.
She went very still, thinking. Remembering
all the conversations through the air grate.
Never about Dwayne. Never about money.
That made no sense. If the asshole wanted
money, Dwayne is the person he has to go to.
But he doesn't ask about my husband. He
doesn't talk about Dwayne. What if he hasn't
even called him? What if he hasn't asked for
any ransom at all?
Then what does he want?
The flashlight dimmed. The second set of
batteries was dying. Two more fresh sets to go,
and then she'd be in permanent darkness. This
time she did not panic as she reached into the
grocery sack and tore open a new package. I've
done this before; I can do it again. She unscrewed
the back, calmly slid out the old batteries,
and inserted the new. Bright light beamed
out, a temporary reprieve from the long goodnight
she feared was coming.
Everybody dies. But I don't want to die
buried in this box, where no one will ever find
my bones.
Save the light, save the light as long as you
can. She flicked off the switch and lay in the
darkness as fear closed in and wrapped its tentacles
tighter. No one knows, she thought. No
one knows I'm here.
Stop it, Mattie. Keep it together. You're the
only one who can save yourself.
She turned onto her side and hugged herself.
Heard something roll across the floor.
One of the spent batteries, useless now.
What if no one knows I've been kidnapped?
What if no one knows I'm still alive?
She wrapped her arms around her belly and
thought about every conversation she'd had
with her captor. How are you feeling? That's
what he always asked, how was she feeling? As
if he cared. As if anyone who stuck a pregnant
woman in a box gave a damn how she was feeling.
But he always asked the question, and she
always pleaded with him to let her out.
He's waiting for a different answer.
She drew her knees closer and her foot hit
something that went rolling away. She sat up
and turned on the flashlight. Began scrambling
around for all the loose batteries. She
had four old ones, plus two fresh ones still in
the package. Plus the two in the flashlight. She
flicked off the switch again. Save the light,
save the light.
In darkness, she began to untie her shoe.
TWENTY-FOUR

dr. joyce P. o'donnell walked into the
homicide unit's conference room looking as
though she owned the place. Her sleek St.
John's suit had probably cost more than Rizzoli's
entire clothing budget for a year. Three-inch
heels emphasized her already statuesque
height. Although three cops were watching her
as she sat down at the table, she revealed not a
flicker of discomfort. She knew how to take
control of a room, a skill that Rizzoli could not
help envying, even though she despised the
woman.
The dislike was clearly mutual. O'Donnell
cast one icy glance at Rizzoli, then her gaze
moved on past Barry Frost, before she finally
turned her full attention on Lieutenant Maruette,
the homicide unit's ranking officer. Of
course she would focus on Marquette; O'Donell
didn't waste her time with underlings.
"This is an unexpected invitation, Lieutenant,"
she said. "I don't often get asked to
Schroeder Plaza."
"Detective Rizzoli was the one who suggested
it."
"Even more unexpected, then. Considering."
Considering we play for opposite teams,
thought Rizzoli. I catch the monsters; you defend
them.
"But as I told Detective Rizzoli on the
phone," O'Donnell continued, "I can't help you
unless you help me. If you want me to help you
find the Beast, you have to share what information
you have."
In answer, Rizzoli slid a folder to O'Donnell.
"That's what we know about Elijah Lank
so far." She saw the eager gleam in the psychiatrist's
eyes as she reached for the folder. This
was what O'Donnell lived for: a glimpse of a
monster. A chance to get close to the beating
heart of evil.
O'Donnell opened the file. "His high school
record."
"From Fox Harbor."
"An IQ of 136. But only average grades."
"Your classic underachiever." Capable of
great things if he applies himself, one teacher
had written, not realizing where Elijah Lank's
achievements would take him. "After his
mother died, he was raised by his father,
Hugo. The father never held down a job for
long. Apparently spent most of his days with a
bottle, and died of pancreatitis when Elijah
was eighteen."
"And this is the same household Amalthea
grew up in."
"Yeah. She came to live with her uncle when
she was nine, after her mother died. No one
even knows who her father was. So there you
have the Lank family of Fox Harbor. A drunk
uncle, a sociopathic cousin, and a girl who
grows up schizophrenic. Just your nice wholesome
American family."
"You called Elijah sociopathic."
"What else would you call a boy who buries
his classmate alive, just for the fun of it?"
O'Donnell turned to the next page. Anyone
else reading that file would wear an expression
of horror, but the look on her face was one of
fascination.
"The girl he buried was only fourteen,"
said Rizzoli. "Alice Rose was the new kid in
*
school. She was also hearing impaired, which
is why the other kids tormented her. And
probably why Elijah chose her. She was vulnerable,
easy prey. He invited her up to his
house, then led her through the woods to a
pit he'd dug. He threw her inside, covered the
hole with boards, and piled rocks on top.
When questioned about it later, he said the
whole thing was a prank. But I think he honestly
meant to kill her."
"According to this report, the girl came out
of it unharmed."
"Unharmed? Not exactly."
O'Donnell looked up. ""But she did survive it?".
"Alice Rose spent the next five years of her
life being treated for severe depression and
anxiety attacks. When she was nineteen, she
climbed into a bathtub and slit her wrists. As
far as I'm concerned, Elijah Lank is responsible
for her death. She was his first victim."
"Can you prove there are others?"
"Forty-five years ago, a married couple
named Karen and Robert Sadler vanished
from Kennebunkport. Karen Sadler was eight
months pregnant at the time. Their remains
were found just last week, in that same plot of
land where Elijah buried Alice Rose alive. I
think the Sadlers were Elijah's kills. His and
Amalthea's."
O'Donnell had gone very still, as though
she was holding her breath.
"You're the one who first suggested it, Dr.
O'Donnell," said Lieutenant Marquette. "You
said Amalthea had a partner, someone she'd
called the Beast. Someone who helped her kill
Nikki and Theresa Wells. That's what you told
Dr. Isles, isn't it?"
"No one else believed my theory."
"Well, now we do," said Rizzoli. "We think
the Beast is her cousin, Elijah."
O'Donnell's eyebrow lifted in amusement.
"A case of killing cousins?"
"It wouldn't be the first time that cousins
have killed together," pointed out Marquette.
"True," O'Donnell said. "Kenneth Bianchi
and Angelo Buono--the Hillside Stranglers-- they were cousins."
"So there's a precedent," said Marquette.
"Cousins as killing partners."
"You didn't need me to tell you that."
"You knew about the Beast before anyone
else did," said Rizzoli. "You've been trying to
find him, to contact him through Amalthea."
"But I haven't succeeded. So I don't see how
I can help you find him. I don't even know
why you asked me here, Detective, since you
have so little regard for my research."
"I know Amalthea talks to you. She wouldn't
say a word to me when I saw her yesterday. But
the guards told me she does talk to you."
"Our sessions are confidential. She's my
patient."
"Her cousin isn't. He's the one we want to
find."
"Well, where was his last known location?
You must have some information you can start
with."
"We have almost none. Nothing on his
whereabouts in decades."
"Do you even know that he's alive?"
Rizzoli sighed. Admitted: "No."
"He'd be nearly seventy years old now,
wouldn't he? That's getting a little geriatric for
a serial killer."
"Amalthea is sixty-five," said Rizzoli. "Yet
no one ever doubted that she killed Theresa
and Nikki Wells. That she crushed their skulls,
soaked their bodies in gasoline, and lit them
on fire."
O'Donnell leaned back in her chair and regarded
Rizzoli for a moment. "Tell me why
Boston PD is even pursuing Elijah Lank. These
are old murders--not even your jurisdiction.
What's your interest in this?"
"Anna Leoni's murder may be tied in."
"How?"
"Just before she was murdered, Anna was
asking a lot of questions about Amalthea.
Maybe she learned too much." Rizzoli slid another
file to O'Donnell.
"What's this?"
"You're familiar with the FBI's National
Crime Information Center? It maintains a
searchable database of missing persons from
across the country."
"Yes, I'm aware of NCIC."
"We submitted a search request using the
key words female and pregnant. That's what
we got back from the FBI. Every case they have
in their database, back to the 1960s. Every
pregnant woman who's vanished in the continental
U.S."
"Why did you specify pregnant women?"
"Because Nikki Wells was nine months
pregnant. Karen Sadler was eight months
pregnant. Don't you find that awfully coincidental?"
O'Donnell opened the folder and confronted
pages of computer printouts. She
looked up in surprise. "There are dozens of
names in here."
"Consider the fact that thousands of people
go missing every year in this country. If a pregnant
woman vanishes every so often, it's only a
blip against that bigger background; it won't
raise any red flags. But when one woman a
month vanishes, over a forty-year span, then
the total numbers start to add up."
"Can you link any of these missing persons
cases to Amalthea Lank or her cousin?"
"That's why we called you. You've had over a
dozen sessions with her. Is there anything she's
told you about her travels? Where she's lived,
where she's worked?"
O'Donnell closed the folder. "You're asking
me to breach patient-doctor confidentiality.
Why would I?"
"Because the killing isn't over. It hasn't
stopped."
"My patient can't kill anyone. She's in
prison."
"Her partner isn't." Rizzoli leaned forward,
closer to the woman she so thoroughly despised.
But she needed O'Donnell now, and
she managed to quell her revulsion. "The Beast
fascinates you, doesn't he? You want to know
more about him. You want to get inside his
head, know what makes him tick. You like
hearing all the details. That's why you should
help us. So you can add one more monster to
your collection."
"What if we're both wrong? Maybe the
Beast is just a figment of our imaginations."
Rizzoli looked at Frost. "Why don't you
turn on that overhead projector?"
Frost rolled the projector into position and
flipped on the power switch. In this age of
computers and PowerPoint slide shows, an
overhead projector felt like Stone Age technology.
But she and Frost had opted for the
quickest, most straightforward way to make
their case. Frost now opened a folder and took
out multiple transparencies on which they'd
recorded data points in various colors of
marker ink.
Frost slid a sheet onto the overhead projector.
A map of the U.S. appeared on the screen.
Now he overlaid the map with the first transparency.
Six black dots were added to the
image.
"What do the dots signify?" O'Donnell
asked.
"Those are NCIC case reports from the first
six months of 1984," said Frost. "We chose
that year because it's the first full year the FBI's
computerized database went active. So the
data should be pretty complete. Each one of
those dots represents a report of a missing
pregnant woman." He aimed a laser pointer at
the screen. "There's a certain amount of geographical
scatter there, one case up there in
Oregon, one in Atlanta. But notice this little
cluster down here in the southwest." Frost circled
the relevant corner of the map. "One
woman missing in Arizona, one in New
Mexico. Two in Southern California."
"What am I supposed to make of that?"
"Well, let's take a look at the next six-month
period. July through December, 1984. Maybe
it'll become clearer."
Frost laid the next transparency over the
map. A new set of dots was added, these
marked in red.
"Again," he said, "You'll see some scatter
around the country. But notice we have another
cluster." He sketched a circle around a
group of three red dots. "San Jose, Sacramento,
and Eugene, Oregon."
O'Donnell said, softly: "This is getting interesting."
"Wait until you see the next six months,"
said Rizzoli.
With the third transparency, yet another set
of dots was added, these in green. By now the
pattern was unmistakable. A pattern that
O'Donnell stared at with disbelieving eyes.
"My god," she said. "The cluster keeps
moving."
Rizzoli nodded. Grimly she faced the
screen. "From Oregon, it heads northeast.
During the next six months, two pregnant
women vanish from Washington state, then a
third one disappears one state over, in Montana."
She turned and looked at O'Donnell.
"It doesn't stop there."
O'Donnell rocked forward in her chair, her
face alert as a cat about to pounce. "Where
does the cluster move next?"
Rizzoli looked at the map. "Through that
summer and fall, it moves straight east to Illinois
and Michigan, New York and Massachusetts.
Then it makes an abrupt drop to the
south."
"Which month?"
Rizzoli glanced at Frost, who shuffled
through the printouts. "The next case shows up
in Virginia, on December fourteenth," he said.
O'Donnell said, "It's moving with the
weather."
Rizzoli looked at her. "What?"
"The weather. See how it moved across the
upper Midwest during the summer months?
By fall, it's in New England. And then, in December,
it suddenly goes south. Just as the
weather turns cold."
Rizzoli frowned at the map. Jesus, she
thought. The woman's right. Why didn't we
see that?
"What happens next?" asked O'Donnell.
"It makes a complete circle," said Frost.
"Moves across the south, Florida to Texas.
Eventually heads back to Arizona."
O'Donnell rose from her chair and crossed
to the screen. She stood there for a moment,
studying the map. "What was the time cycle
again? How long did it take to complete that
circuit?"
"That time, it took three and a half years to
circle the country," said Rizzoli.
"A leisurely pace."
"Yeah. But notice how it never stays in one
state for long, never harvests too many victims
in a single area. It just keeps moving, so the authorities
never see the pattern, never realize it's
been going on for years and years."
"What?" O'Donnell turned. "The cycle
repeats?"
Rizzoli nodded. "It starts all over again, re
tracing the same route. The way old nomadic
tribes used to follow the buffalo herds."
"Authorities never noticed the pattern?"
"Because these hunters never stop moving.
Different states, different jurisdictions. A few
months in one region and then they're gone.
Onto the next hunting ground. Places they return
to again and again."
"Familiar territory."
"Where we go depends upon where we
know. And where we know depends upon
where we go," Rizzoli said, quoting one of the
principles of geographic criminal profiling.
"Have any bodies turned up?"
"None of these have. These are the cases
that remain open."
"So they must have burial caches. Places to
conceal victims, dispose of bodies."
"We're assuming they'd be out-of-the-way
places," said Frost. "Rural areas, or bodies of
water. Since none of these women have been
found."
"But they found Nikki and Theresa Wells,"
said O'Donnell. "Those bodies weren't buried,
but burned."
"The sisters were found November twenty-fifth.
We went back and checked the weather
records. There was an unexpected snowstorm
that week--eighteen inches fell in a single day.
It took Massachusetts by surprise, closing
down a number of roads. Maybe they couldn't
get to their usual burial spot."
"And that's why they burned the bodies?"
"As you pointed out, the vanishings seem to
move with the weather," said Rizzoli. "As it
turns cold, they head south. But that November,
New England was caught by surprise. No
one expected such an early snowfall." She
turned to O'Donnell. "There's your Beast.
Those are his footprints on that map. I think
Amalthea was with him every step of the way."
"What are you asking me to do, a psychological
profile? Explain why they killed?"
"We know why they did it. They weren't
killing for pleasure, or for thrills. These are not
your usual serial killers."
"Then what was their motive?"
"Absolutely mundane, Dr. O'Donnell. In
fact, their motive is probably boring to a monster
hunter like you."
"I don't find murder boring in the least.
Why do you think they killed?"
"Did you know there are no employment
records for either Amalthea or Elijah? We can't find evidence that either of them held
down a job or paid into Social Security, or filed
an income tax report. They owned no credit
cards, had no bank accounts. For decades, they
were invisible people, living on the outermost
fringes of society. So how did they eat? How
did they pay for food and gas and lodging?"
"Cash, I assume."
"But where does the cash come from?" Rizzoli
turned to the map. "That's how they made
their living."
"I don't follow you."
"Some people catch fish, some people pick
apples. Amalthea and her partner were harvesters,
too." She looked at O'Donnell. "Forty
years ago, Amalthea sold two newborn daughters
to adoptive parents. She was paid forty
thousand dollars for those babies. I don't think
they were hers to give."
O'Donnell frowned. "Are you talking about
Dr. Isles and her sister?"
"Yes." Rizzoli felt a twinge of satisfaction
when she saw O'Donnell's stunned expression.
This woman had no idea what she was dealing
with, thought Rizzoli. The psychiatrist who so
regularly consorts with monsters has been
taken by surprise.
"I examined Amalthea," said O'Donnell. "I
concurred with the other psychiatrists--"
"That she was psychotic?"
"Yes." O'Donnell released a sharp breath.
"What you're showing me here--this is a different
creature entirely."
"Not insane."
"I don't know. I don't know what she is."
"She and her cousin killed for money. For
cold hard cash. That sounds a lot like sanity
to me."
"Possibly..."
"You get along with murderers, Dr. O'Donnell.
You talk to them, spend hours with people
like Warren Hoyt." Rizzoli paused. "You
understand them."
"I try to."
"So what kind of killer is Amalthea? Is she a
monster? Or just a businesswoman?"
"She's my patient. That's all I care to say."
"But you're questioning your diagnosis right
now, aren't you?" Rizzoli pointed to the screen.
"That's logical behavior, what you see there.
Nomadic hunters, following their prey. Do
you still think she's insane?"
"I repeat, she's my patient. I need to protect
her interests."
"We're not interested in Amalthea It's the
other one we want. Elijah." Rizzoli moved
closer to O'Donnell, until they were almost
face-to-face. "He hasn't stopped hunting, you
know."
"What?"
"Amalthea has been in custody for almost
five years, now." Rizzoli looked at Frost. "Show
the data points since Amalthea Lank was arrested."
Frost removed the earlier transparencies and
placed a new one on the map. "The month of
January," he said. "A pregnant woman vanishes
in South Carolina. In February, it's a woman in
Georgia. In March, it's Daytona Beach." He
laid down another sheet. "Six months later, it's
happening in Texas."
"Amalthea Lank was in prison all those
months," said Rizzoli. "But the abductions
continued. The Beast didn't stop."
O'Donnell stared at the relentless march of
data points. One dot, one woman. One life.
"Where are we now in the cycle?" she asked
softly.
"A year ago," said Frost, "it reached California
and began heading north again."
"And now? Where is it now?"
"The last reported abduction was a month
ago. In Albany, New York."
"Albany?" O'Donnell looked at Rizzoli.
"That means ..."
"By now, he's in Massachusetts," said Rizzoli
"The Beast is coming to town."
Frost turned off the overhead projector and
the sudden shut-off of the fan left the room
eerily silent. Though the screen was now
blank, the image of the map seemed to linger,
burned into everyone's memories. The ringing
of Frost's cell phone seemed all the more startling
in that quiet room.
Frost said, "Excuse me," and left the room.
Rizzoli said to O'Donnell: "Tell us about
the Beast. How do we find him?"
"The same way you'd find any other flesh-and-blood
man. Isn't that what you police do?
You already have a name. Go from there."
"He has no credit card, no bank account.
He's hard to track."
"I'm not a bloodhound."
"You've been talking to the one person closest
to him. The one person who might know
how to find him."
"Our sessions were confidential."
"Does she ever refer to him by name? Does
she give any hint at all that it's her cousin,
Elijah?"
"I'm not at liberty to share any private conversations
I had with my patient."
"Elijah Lank isn't your patient."
"But Amalthea is, and you're trying to build
a case against her as well. Multiple charges of
homicide."
"We're not interested in Amalthea. He's the
one I want."
"It's not my job to help you catch your
man."
"What about your goddamn civic responsibility?"
"Detective Rizzoli," said Marquette.
Rizzoli's gaze stayed on O'Donnell. "Think
about that map. All those dots, all those
women. He's here, now. Hunting for the
next one."
O'Donnell's gaze dropped to Rizzoli's
bulging abdomen. "Then I guess you'd better
be careful, Detective. Shouldn't you?"
Rizzoli watched in rigid silence as O'Donnell
reached for her briefcase. "I doubt I could
add much, anyway," she said. "As you said, this
killer is driven by logic and practicality, not
lust. Not enjoyment. He needs to make a living,
plain and simple. His chosen occupation
just happens to be a little out of the ordinary.
Criminal profiling won't help you catch him.
Because he's not a monster."
"And I'm sure you'd recognize one."
"I've learned to. But then, so have you."
O'Donnell turned to the door. Stopped and
glanced back with a bland smile. "Speaking
of monsters, Detective, your old friend asks
about you, you know. Every time I visit him."
O'Donnell didn't need to say his name; they
both knew she was talking about Warren
Hoyt. The man who continued to surface in
Rizzoli's nightmares, whose scalpel had carved
the scars in her palms nearly two years ago.
"He still thinks about you," said O'Donnell.
Another smile, quiet and sly. "I just
thought you'd like to know that you're remembered."
She walked out the door.
Rizzoli felt Marquette's gaze, watching for
her reaction. Waiting to see if she'd lose it,
right there and then. She was relieved when he
too walked out of the room, leaving her alone
to pack up the overhead projector. She gathered
up the transparencies, unplugged the machine,
and wound up the cord into tight coils,
all her anger directed at that cord as she
wrapped it around her hand. She wheeled the
projector out into the hallway and almost collided
with Frost, who was just snapping his cell
phone shut.
"Let's go," he said.
"Where?"
"Natick. They've got a missing woman."
Rizzoli frowned at him. "Is she ..."
He nodded. "She's nine months pregnant."
TWENTY-FIVE


"YOU ASK ME," said Natick Detective Sariento,
"this is just another Laci Peterson case.
Marriage off the rails, husband's got a mistress
in the wings."

"He admits he's got a girlfriend?" asked
Rizzoli.

"Not yet, but I can smell it, you know?"
Sarmiento tapped his nose and laughed.
"Scent of the other woman."

Yeah, he probably could smell it, thought
Rizzoli as Sarmiento led her and Frost past
desks with glowing computer screens. He
looked like a man familiar with the scent of the
ladies. He had the walk, the confident strut of
the cool guy, right arm swinging out from
years of wearing a gun on his hip, that telltale
arc that shouted cop. Barry Frost had never
picked up that swagger. Next to the strapping,
dark-haired Sarmiento, Frost looked like a pale
clerk with his trusty pen and notebook.
"Missing woman's name is Matilda Purvis,"
said Sarmiento, pausing at his desk to pick up
a folder, which he handed to Rizzoli. "Thirty-one
years old, Caucasian. Married seven
months to Dwayne Purvis. He owns the
BMW dealership here in town. Saw his wife
last Friday, when she dropped in to see him at
work. Apparently they had an argument, because
witnesses said the wife left crying."
"So when did he report her missing?" asked
Frost.
"On Sunday."
"It took him two days to get around to it?"
"After the fight, he said he wanted to let
things cool down between them, so he stayed
in a hotel. Didn't return home till Sunday.
Found the wife's car in the garage, Saturday's
mail still in the box. Figured something was
wrong. We took his report Sunday night. Then
this morning, we saw that alert you sent out,
about pregnant women going missing. I'm not
sure this one fits your pattern. Looks more to
me like your classic domestic blowup."
"You checked out that hotel he stayed in?"
asked Rizzoli.
Sarmiento responded with a smirk. "Last
time I spoke to him, he was having trouble remembering
which one it was."
Rizzoli opened the folder and saw a photo
of Matilda Purvis and her husband, taken on
their wedding day. If they'd been married only
seven months, then she was already two
months pregnant when this photo had been
taken. The bride was sweet-faced, with brown
hair, brown eyes, and girlishly round cheeks.
Her smile reflected pure happiness. It was the
look of a woman who had just fulfilled her lifelong
dream. Standing beside her, Dwayne
Purvis looked weary, almost bored. The photo
could have been captioned: Trouble ahead.
Sarmiento led the way down a corridor, and
into a darkened room. Through a one-way
window, they could see into the adjoining interview
room, unoccupied at the moment. It
had stark white walls, a table and three chairs,
a video camera mounted high in one corner. A
room designed to sweat out the truth.
Through the window they saw the door
swing open, and two men entered. One of
them was a cop, barrel-chested and balding, a
face with no expression, just a blank. The kind
of face that made you anxious for a glimpse of
emotion.
"Detective Ligett's going to handle it this
time," murmured Sarmiento. "See if we get
anything new out of him."
"Have a seat," they heard Ligett say.
Dwayne sat down, facing the window. From
his point of view it was just a mirror. Did he
realize there were eyes watching him through
the glass? His gaze seemed to focus, for an instant,
directly on Rizzoli. She suppressed the
urge to step back, to recede deeper into the
darkness. Not that Dwayne Purvis looked particularly
threatening. He was in his early thirties,
dressed casually in a button-down white
shirt, no tie, and tan chinos. On his wrist was a
Breitling watch--a bad move on his part, to
walk in for police questioning flashing a piece
of jewelry that a cop couldn't afford. Dwayne
had the bland good looks and cocky self-assurance
that some women might find attractive-- if they liked men who flaunted pricey watches.
"Must sell a lot of BMWs," she said.
"Mortgaged up to his ears," said Sarmiento.
"Bank owns the house."
"Policy on the wife?"
"Two hundred fifty thousand."
"Not enough to make it worth killing her."
"Still, it's two hundred fifty G's. But without
a body, he'll have a hard time collecting. So
far, we don't have one."
In the next room, Detective Ligett said:
"Okay, Dwayne, I just want to go back over a
few details." Ligett's voice was as flat as his
expression.
"I've already talked to that other policeman,"
said Dwayne. "I forgot his name. The
guy who looks like that actor. You know, Benjamin
Bratt."
"Detective Sarmiento?"
"Yeah."
Rizzoli heard Sarmiento, standing beside her, give a pleased little grunt. Always nice to
hear you look like Benjamin Bratt.
"I don't know why you're wasting your time
here," said Dwayne. "You should be out there,
looking for my wife."
"We are, Dwayne."
"How is this helping?"
"You never know. You never know what little
detail you might remember that will make a
difference in the search." Ligett paused. "For
instance."
"What?"
"That hotel you checked into. You remember
the name of it yet?"
"It was just some hotel."
"How'd you pay for it?"
"This is irrelevant!"
"You use a credit card?"
"I guess,"
"You guess?"
Dwayne huffed out a sound of exasperation.
"Yeah, okay. It was my credit card."
"So the name of the hotel should be on your
statement. All we have to do is check."
A silence. "Okay, I remember, now. It was
the Crowne Plaza."
"The one in Natick?"
"No. It was out in Wellesley."
Sarmiento, standing beside Rizzoli, suddenly
reached for the telephone on the wall.
He murmured into it: "This is Detective
Sarmiento. I need the Crowne Plaza Hotel, in
Wellesley..."
In the interrogation room, Ligett said,
"Wellesley's kind of far from home, isn't it?"
Dwayne sighed. "I needed some breathing
room, that's all. A little time to myself. You
know, Mattie's been so clingy lately. Then I
have to go to work, and everyone there wants a
piece of me, too."
"Rough life, huh?" Ligett said it straight,
without a hint of the sarcasm he had to be
feeling.
"Everyone wants a deal. I've gotta smile
through my teeth at customers who've asking
me for the moon. I can't give them the moon.
A fine machine like a BMW, they have to expect
to pay for it. And they all have the
money, that's what kills me. They have the
money, and they still want to suck every last
cent out of my hide."
His wife is missing, possibly dead, thought
Rizzoli. And he's pissed off about Beemer bargain
hunters?
"That's why I lost my temper. That's what
the argument was all about."
"With your wife?"
"Yeah. It wasn't about us. It's the business.
Money's been tight, you know? That's all it
was. Things are just tight."
"The employees who saw that argument--"
"Which employees? Who did you talk to?"
"There was a salesman and a mechanic.
They both said your wife looked pretty upset
when she left."
"Well, she's pregnant. She gets upset at the
craziest things. All those hormones, it sends
'em out of control. Pregnant women, you just
can't reason with them."
Rizzoli felt her cheeks flush. Wondered if
Frost thought the same thing about her.
"Plus, she's tired all the time," Dwayne said.
"Cries at the drop of a hat. Her back hurts, her
feet hurt. Has to run to the bathroom every
ten minutes." He shrugged. "I think I deal
with it pretty well. Considering."
"Sympathetic guy," said Frost.
Sarmiento suddenly hung up the phone and
stepped out. Then, through the window, they
saw him stick his head into the interrogation
room and motion to Ligett. Both detectives
left the room. Dwayne, now left alone at the
table, looked at his watch, shifted in his chair.
Gazed at the mirror and frowned. He pulled
out a pocket comb and fussed with his hair
until every strand was perfect. The grieving
husband, getting camera-ready for the five o'clock
news.
Sarmiento slipped back into the room with
Rizzoli and Frost, and gave them a knowing
wink. "Gotcha," he whispered.
"What do you have?"
"Watch."
Through the window, they saw Ligett reen
ter the interrogation room. He closed the door
and just stood gazing at Dwayne. Dwayne
went very still, but the pulse in his neck was
visibly bounding above his shirt collar.
"So," said Ligett. "You wanna tell me the
truth now?"
"About what?"
"Those two nights in the Crowne Plaza
Hotel?"
Dwayne gave a laugh--an inappropriate response,
under the circumstances. "I don't
know what you mean."
"Detective Sarmiento just spoke to the
Crowne Plaza. They confirm you were a guest
those two nights."
"Well, you see? I told you--"
"Who was the woman who checked in with
you, Dwayne? Blond, pretty. Had breakfast
with you both mornings in the dining room?"
Dwayne fell silent. He swallowed.
"Your wife know about the blonde? Is that
what you and Mattie were arguing about?"
"No--"
"So she didn't know about her?"
"No! I mean, that's not why we argued."
"Sure it is."
"You're trying to put the worst possible spin
on this!"
"What, the girlfriend doesn't exist?" Ligett
moved closer, getting right up in Dwayne's
face. "She's not going to be hard to find. She'll
probably call us. She'll see your face on the
news and realize she's better off stepping right
up to the plate with the truth."
"This has got nothing to do with--I mean,
I know it looks bad, but--"
"Sure does."
"Okay." Dwayne sighed. "Okay, I kind of
strayed, all right? Lot of guys do, in my position.
It's hard when your wife's so huge you
can't do it with her anymore. There's that big
belly sticking out. And she's just not interested."
Rizzoli stared rigidly ahead, wondering if
Frost and Sarmiento were glancing her way.
Yeah, here I am. Another one with a big belly.
And a husband who's out of town. She stared
at Dwayne and imagined Gabriel sitting in
that chair, saying those words. Jesus, don't do
this to yourself, she thought, don't screw
around with your own head. It's not Gabriel,
but a loser named Dwayne Purvis who got
caught with a girlfriend and couldn't deal with
the consequences. Your wife finds out about
the chickie on the side, and you're thinking:
bye bye to Breitling watches and half the
house and eighteen years of child support.
This asshole is definitely guilty.
She looked at Frost. He shook his head.
Both of them could see this was just a replay
of an old tragedy they'd seen a dozen times
before.
"So did she threaten divorce?" asked Ligett.
"No. Mattie didn't know anything about
her."
"She just shows up at work and picks a
fight?"
"It was stupid. I told Sarmiento all about it."
"Why did you get mad, Dwayne?"
"Because she drives around with a goddamn
flat tire and doesn't even notice it! I
mean, how dense can you be not to notice
that you're scraping your rim? The other salesman
saw it. Brand-new tire, and it's shredded,
just ripped to hell. I see that and I guess I
yelled at her. And she gets all teary-eyed, and
that just irritates me more, because it makes
me feel like a jerk."
You are a jerk, thought Rizzoli. She looked
at Sarmiento. "I think we've heard enough."
"What'd I tell you?"
"You'll let us know if anything new
develops?"
"Yeah, yeah." Sarmiento's gaze was back on
Dwayne. "It's easy when they're this dumb."
Rizzoli and Frost turned to leave.
"Who knows how many miles she was driving
around with it like that?" Dwayne was saying.
"Hell, it might already have been flat
when she got to the doctor's office."
Rizzoli suddenly halted. Turning back to
the window, she frowned at Dwayne. Felt her
pulse suddenly pounding in her temple. Jesus.
I almost missed it.
"Which doctor is he talking about?" she
asked Sarmiento.
"A Dr. Fishman. I spoke to her yesterday."
"Why did Mrs. Purvis see her?"
"Just a routine OH appointment, nothing
unusual about it."
Rizzoli looked at Sarmiento. "Dr. Fishman
is an obstetrician?"
He nodded. "She has an office in the Women's
Clinic. Over on Bacon Street."

Dr. Susan Fishman had been up most of the
night at the hospital, and her face was a map of
exhaustion. Her unwashed brown hair was
pulled back in a ponytail, and the white lab
coat she wore over the rumpled scrub suit had
pockets so loaded down with various examination
tools that the fabric seemed to be dragging
her shoulders toward the floor.
"Larry from security brought over the surveillance
tapes," she said as she escorted Rizzoli
and Frost from the clinic reception desk into a
rear hallway. Her tennis shoes squeaked across
the linoleum. "He's getting the video equipment
set up in the back room. Thank god no
one expects me to do it. I don't even have a
VCR at home."
"Your clinic still has the recordings from a
week ago?" asked Frost.
"We have a contract with Minute Man Security.
They keep the tapes for at least a week.
We asked them to, given all the threats."
"What threats?"
"This is a pro-choice clinic, you know. We
don't perform any abortions on site, but just the
fact we call ourselves a women's clinic seems to
tick off the right-wing crowd. We like to keep
an eye on who comes into the building."
"So you've had problems before?"
"What you'd expect. Threatening letters.
Envelopes with fake anthrax. Assholes hanging
around, taking photos of our patients. That's
why we keep that video camera in the parking
lot. We want to keep an eye on everyone who
comes near our front door." She led them
down another hallway, decorated with the
same cheerfully generic posters that seemed to
adorn every obstetrician's office. Diagrams on
breast-feeding, on maternal nutrition, on the
"five danger signs that you have an abusive
partner." An anatomical illustration of a pregnant
woman, the contents of her abdomen revealed
in cross section. It made Rizzoli
uncomfortable walking beside Frost, with that
poster looming on the wall, as though her own
anatomy was up there on display. Bowel, bladder,
uterus. Fetus curled up in a tangle of
limbs. Only last week, Matilda Purvis had
walked past this very poster.
"We're all heartsick about Mattie," said Dr.
Fishman. "She's just the sweetest person. And
she's so thrilled about the baby."
"At her last appointment, everything was
fine?" asked Rizzoli.
"Oh, yes. Strong fetal heart tones, good position.
Everything looked great." Fishman
glanced back at Rizzoli. Asked, grimly: "You
think it's the husband?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Well, isn't it usually the husband? He only
came in with her once, way at the beginning.
Acted bored the whole visit. After that, Mattie
would show up alone for her appointments.
That's the tip-off for me. If you make a baby
together, you damn well ought to show up together.
But that's just my opinion." She
opened a door. "This is our conference room."
Larry from Minute Man Security Systems
was waiting in the room for them. "I've got
that video ready to show you," he said. "I narrowed
it down to the time frame you're interested
in. Dr. Fishman, you'll need to watch the
footage. Tell us when you spot your patient on
the video."
Fishman sighed and settled into a chair in
front of the monitor. "I've never had to look at
one of these before."
"Lucky you," said Larry. "Most of the time
they're pretty boring."
Rizzoli and Frost sat down on either side of
Fishman. "Okay," said Rizzoli. "Let's see what
you've got."
Larry hit PLAY.
On the monitor, a long view of the clinic's
main entrance appeared. A bright day, sunlight
glinting off a row of cars parked in front of the
building.
"This camera's mounted on top of a lamppost
in the parking lot," said Larry. "You can
see the time there, at the bottom. Two oh
five P.M."
A Saab swung into view and pulled into a
stall. The driver's door opened and a tall
brunette climbed out. She strolled toward the
clinic and vanished inside.
"Matties appointment was at one thirty,"
said Dr. Fishman. "Maybe you should back up
the film a little."
"Just keep watching," said Larry. "There.
Two thirty P.M. Is that her?"
A woman had just stepped out of the building.
She paused for a moment in the sunshine,
and ran her hand across her eyes, as though she
was dazzled by the light.
"That's her," said Fishman. "That's Mattie."
Mattie started walking away from the building
now, moving in that duck waddle so characteristic
of heavily pregnant women. She took
her time, digging through her purse for her car
keys as she walked, distracted, not paying attention.
Suddenly she stopped and glanced
around with a bewildered look, as though she'd
forgotten where she left her car. Yes, this was a
woman who might not notice that her tire was
flat, thought Rizzoli. Now Mattie turned and
walked in a completely different direction,
vanishing from the camera's view.
"Is that all you have?" asked Rizzoli.
"That's what you wanted, isn't it?" said
Larry. "Confirmation of the time she left the
building?"
"But where's her car? We don't see her getting
into her car."
"Is there some question that she didn't?"
"I just want to see her leave the parking lot."
Larry rose and went to the video system.
"There's one other angle I can show you,
from a camera that's way on the other side of
the lot," he said, changing the tape. "But I
don't think it helps much, because it's so far
away." He picked up the remote and again
pressed PLAY.
Another view appeared. This time only one
corner of the clinic building was visible; most
of the screen was filled with parked cars.
"This parking lot's shared with the medical-surgery
clinic across the way," said Larry.
"That's why you see so many cars here. Okay,
look. Isn't that her?"
In the distance, Matties head was visible as
she moved along a row of cars. Now she
ducked out of sight. A moment later, a blue car
backed out of its stall and rolled out of the
frame.
"That's all we've got," said Larry. "She comes
out of the building, gets in her car, drives away.
Whatever happened to her, it didn't happen in
our lot." He reached for the remote.
"Wait," said Rizzoli.
"What?"
"Go back."
"How far?"
"About thirty seconds."
Larry pressed REWIND and digital pixels
briefly scrambled on the monitor, then reformed
into an image of parked cars. There
was Mattie, ducking into her car. Rizzoli rose
from her chair, crossed to the monitor, and
stared as Mattie drove away. As a flash of white
appeared, gliding across one corner of the
frame, in the same direction as Matties BMW.
"Stop," said Rizzoli. The image froze, and
Rizzoli touched the screen. "There. That
white van."
Frost said, "It's moving parallel to the vic's
car." The victim. Already assuming the worst
about Matties fate.
"So what?" said Larry.
Rizzoli looked at Fishman. "Do you recognize
that vehicle?"
The doctor shrugged. "It's not as if I pay attention
to cars at all. I'm clueless about makes
and models."
"But have you seen this white van before?"
"I don't know. To me it looks like every
other white van."
"Why are you interested in that van?" said
Larry. "I mean, you can see her get safely into
her car and drive away."
"Rewind it," said Rizzoli.
"You want to play this part again?"
"No. I want to go back further." She looked
at Fishman. "You said her appointment was for
one thirty?"
"Yes."
"Go back to one o'clock."
Larry pressed the remote. On the monitor,
pixels scrambled, then rearranged themselves.
The time at the bottom said 1:02.
"Close enough," said Rizzoli. "Let's play it."
As the seconds ticked forward, they watched
cars roll in and out of view. Saw a woman pull
two toddlers from their car seats and walk across
the lot, little hands grasped firmly in hers.
At 1:08, the white van appeared. It cruised
slowly down the row of cars, then vanished out
of camera range.
At 1:25, Mattie Purvis's blue BMW drove
into the lot. She was partially hidden by the
row of cars between her and the camera, and
they saw only the top of her head as she
emerged from her car, as she walked down the
row toward the building.
"Is that enough?" said Larry.
"Keep running."
"What are we looking for?"
Rizzoli felt her pulse quicken. "That," she
said softly.
The white van was back on the screen. It
cruised slowly up the row of cars. Stopped between
the camera and the blue BMW.
"Shit," said Rizzoli. "It's blocking our view!
We can't see what the drivers doing."
Seconds later, the van moved on. They had
not caught even a glimpse of the driver's face;
nor had they seen the license plate.
"What was that all about?" said Dr. Fishman.
Rizzoli turned and looked at Frost. She didn't
have to say a word; they both understood
what had happened in that parking lot. The
flat tire. Theresa and Nikki Wells had a flat
tire as well.
This is how he finds them, she thought. A
clinic parking lot. Pregnant women walking in
to visit their doctors. A quick slash of the tire,
and then it's just a waiting game. Follow your
prey as she drives out of the lot. When she
pulls over, there you are, right behind her.
Ready to offer your assistance.
As Frost drove, Rizzoli sat thinking about the
life nestled inside her. About how thin was the
wall of skin and muscle that cradled her baby.
A blade would not have to cut very deep. A
quick incision, straight down the abdomen,
from breast bone to pubis, without concern
about scars, because there would be no healing,
no worries about the mother's health. She
is just a disposable husk, peeled open for the
treasure she contains. She pressed her hands to
her belly and felt suddenly sickened by the
thought of what Mattie Purvis might, at that
moment, be enduring. Surely Mattie had not
entertained such grotesque images while she'd
stared at her own reflection. Perhaps she'd
looked at the stretch marks spidering across
her abdomen and felt a sense of bereavement
about losing her attractiveness. A sense of grief
that when her husband looked at her, it was
now with disinterest, not lust. Not love.
Did you know Dwayne was having an
affair?
She looked at Frost. "He'll need a broker."
"What?"
"When he gets his hands on a new baby,
what does he do with it? He must bring it to a
go-between. Someone who seals the adoption,
draws up the papers. And pays him the cash."
"Van Gates."
"We know he did it for her at least once
before."
"That was forty years ago."
"How many other adoptions has he arranged
since then? How many other babies has he
placed with paying families? There's got to be
money in it." Money to keep the trophy wife in
pink spandex.
"Van Gates is not going to cooperate."
"Not a chance in hell. But we know what to
watch for, now."
"The white van."
Frost drove for a moment in silence. "You
know," he said, "if that van does show up at
his house, it probably means ..." His voice
trailed off.
That Mattie Purvis is already dead, thought
Rizzoli.
TWENTY-SIX


mattie braced her back against one wall,
placed her feet against the other wall, and
pushed. Counted the seconds until her legs
were quivering and sweat beaded her face.
Come on, five more seconds. Ten. She went
limp, panting, her calves and thighs tingling
with a pleasant burn. She had scarcely used
them in this box, had spent too many hours
curled up and wallowing in self-pity as her
muscles degenerated to mush. She remembered
the time she'd caught the flu, a bad flu
that had laid her flat on her back, feverish and
shaking. A few days later she had climbed out
of bed and felt so weak she had to crawl to the
bathroom. That's what lying around too long
did to you: It robbed you of your strength.
Soon she'd need those muscles; she had to be
ready when he came back.
Because he would come back.
That's enough rest. Feet against the wall
again. Push!
She grunted, sweat blooming on her forehead.
She thought of the movie GI Jane, and
how sleek and toned Demi Moore had looked
as she'd lifted weights. Mattie held that image
in her head as she pushed against her prison
walls. Visualize muscles. And fighting back.
And beating the bastard.
With a gasp, she once again relaxed against
the wall and rested there, breathing deep as the
ache in her legs subsided. She was about to repeat
the exercise when she felt the tightening
in her belly.
Another contraction.
She waited, holding her breath, hoping it
would pass quickly. Already it was easing off.
Just the womb trying out its muscles, as she
was trying out hers. It wasn't painful, but it was
a sign that her time was coming.
Wait, baby. You have to wait a little longer.
TWENTY-SEVEN


once again, maura was shedding all

the proof of her own identity. She placed her
purse in the locker, added to it her watch, her
belt, and her car keys. But even with my credit
card and driver's license and Social Security
number, she thought, I still don't know who I
really am. The only person who knows that answer
is waiting for me on the other side of the
barrier.

She entered the visitor trap, took off her
shoes and placed them on the counter for
inspection, then passed through the metal
detector.

A female guard was waiting for her. "Dr.
Isles?"
"Yes."
"You requested an interview room?"
"I need to speak to the prisoner alone."
"You'll still be monitored visually. You
understand that?"
"As long as our conversation is private."
"It's the same room where prisoners meet
with their attorneys. So you'll have privacy."
The guard led Maura through the public day
room and down a corridor. There she unlocked
a door and waved her through. "We'll
bring her to the room. Have a seat."
Maura stepped into the interview room and
confronted a table and two chairs. She sat
down in the chair facing the door. A Plexiglas
window looked into the hallway, and two surveillance
cameras peered from opposite corners
of the room. She waited, her hands sweating
despite the air-conditioning. Glanced up, startled,
to see Amalthea's dark, flat eyes staring at
her through the window.
The guard escorted Amalthea into the room
and sat her in a chair. "She's not talking much
today. I don't know that she's going to say a
thing to you, but here she is." The guard bent
down, fastened a steel cuff around Amalthea's
ankle, and attached it to the table leg.
"Is that really necessary?" asked Maura.
"It's just regulation, for your safety." The
guard straightened. "When you're done, press
that button there, on the wall intercom. We'll
come get her." She gave Amalthea's shoulder a
pat. "Now, you talk to the lady, okay, honey?
She's come all this way just to see you." She
gave Maura a silent glance of good luck, and
left, locking the door behind her.
A moment passed.
"I was here last week to visit you," said
Maura. "Do you remember?"
Amalthea hunched in her chair, eyes cast
down at the table.
"You said something to me as I was about to
leave. You said, now you're going to die, too.
What did you mean by that?"
Silence.
"You were warning me off, weren't you?
Telling me to leave you alone. You didn't want
me digging into your past."
Again, silence.
"No one is listening to us, Amalthea. It's just
you and me in this room." Maura placed her
hands on the table, to show she had no tape
recorder, no notepad. "I'm not a policeman.
I'm not a prosecutor. You can say whatever you
want to me, and we're the only ones who'll
hear it." She leaned closer, said quietly: "I
know you can understand every word I'm saying.
So look at me, goddamn it. I've had
enough of this game."
Though Amalthea did not lift her head,
there was no missing the sudden tension in her
arms, the twitch of her muscles. She's listening,
all right. She's waiting to hear what I
have to say next.
"That was a threat, wasn't it? When you told
me I was going to die, you were telling me to
stay away, or I'd end up like Anna. I thought it
was just psychotic babbling, but you meant it.
You're protecting him, aren't you? You're protecting
the Beast."
Slowly, Amalthea's head lifted. Dark eyes
met hers in a gaze so cold, so empty, that
Maura drew back, skin prickling.
"We know about him," said Maura. "We
know about you both."
"What do you know?"
Maura had not expected her to speak. That
question was whispered so softly she wondered
if she'd actually heard it. She swallowed. Drew
in a deep breath, shaken by the black void of
those eyes. No insanity there, just emptiness.
"You're as sane as I am," said Maura. "But
you don't dare let anyone know that. It's so
much easier to hide behind a schizophrenic's
mask. Easier to play the psychotic, because
people always leave the crazy ones alone.
They don't bother to interrogate you. They
don't dig any deeper, because they think it's
all delusion anyway. And now they don't even
medicate you, because you're so good at faking
the side effects." Maura forced herself to
stare deeper into that void. "They don't know
the Beast is real. But you do. And you know
where he is."
Amalthea sat perfectly still, but tautness had
crept into her face. The muscles had tightened
around her mouth, and stood out in cords
down her throat.
"It was your only option, wasn't it? Pleading
insanity. You couldn't argue away the evidence
--the blood on your tire iron, the stolen
wallets. But convince them you're psychotic,
and maybe you'd avoid any further scrutiny.
Maybe they wouldn't find out about all your
other victims. The women you killed in Florida
and Virginia. Texas and Arkansas. States with
the death penalty." Maura leaned even closer.
"Why don't you just give him up, Amalthea?
After all, he let you take the blame. And he's still
out there killing. He's going on without you,
visiting all the same places, the same hunting
grounds. He's just abducted another woman,
in Natick. You could stop him, Amalthea. You
could put an end to it."
Amalthea seemed to be holding her breath,
waiting.
"Look at you, sitting here in prison." Maura
laughed. "What a loser you are. Why should
you be in here when Elijah's free?"
Amalthea blinked. In an instant, all rigidity
seemed to melt from her muscles.
"Talk to me," pressed Maura. "There's no
one else in this room. Just you and me."
The other woman's gaze lifted to one of the
video cameras mounted in the corner.
"Yes, they can see us," said Maura. "But
they can't hear us."
"Everyone can hear us," whispered Amalthea.
She focused on Maura. The fathomless gaze had
turned cold, collected. And frighteningly sane,
as though some new creature had suddenly
emerged, staring out through those eyes. "Why
are you here?"
"I want to know. Did Elijah kill my sister?"
A long pause. And, strangely, a gleam of
amusement in those eyes. "Why would he?"
"You know why Anna was murdered. Don't

}"
you:
"Why don't you ask me a question I know
the answer to? The question you really came to
ask me." Amalthea's voice was low, intimate.
"This is about you, Maura, isn't it? What is it
you want to know?"
Maura stared at her, heart pounding. A single
question swelled like an ache in her throat.
"I want you to tell me . . ."
"Yes?" Just a murmur, soft as a voice in
Maura's head.
"Who was really my mother?"
A smile twitched on Amalthea's lips. "You
mean you don't see the resemblance?"
"Just tell me the truth."
"Look at me. And look in the mirror.
There's your truth."
"I don't recognize any part of you in me."
"But I recognize myself in you."
Maura gave a laugh, surprising herself that
she could even manage it. "I don't know why I
came. This visit is a waste of my time." She
shoved back her chair and started to rise.
"Do you like working with the dead,
Maura?"
Startled by the question, Maura paused, half
out of her chair.
"It's what you do, isn't it?" said Amalthea.
"You cut them open. Take out their organs.
Slice their hearts. Why do you do it?"
"Why did you choose that job?"
"I'm not here to talk about myself."
"Yes you are. This is all about you. About
who you really are."
Slowly Maura sat back down. "Why don't
you just tell me?"
"You slit open bellies. Dip your hands in
their blood. Why do you think we're any different?"
The woman had been moving forward so
imperceptibly that Maura was startled to suddenly
realize how close Amalthea was to her.
"Look in the mirror. You'll see me."
"We're not even the same species."
"If that's what you want to believe, who am
I to change your mind?" Amalthea stared, unflinching,
at Maura. "There's always DNA."
The breath went out of Maura. A bluff, she
thought. Amalthea's waiting to see if I'll call her
on it. If I really want to know the truth. DNA
doesn't lie. With a swab of her mouth, I could
have my answer. I could have my worst fears
confirmed.
"You know where to find me," said Amalthea.
"Come back when you're ready for the
truth." She stood, her ankle cuff clanking
against the table leg, and stared up at the video
camera. A signal to the guard that she wanted
to leave.
"If you're my mother," said Maura, "then
tell me who my father is."
Amalthea glanced back at her, the smile
once again on her lips. "Haven't you guessed?"
The door opened, and the guard poked her
head in. "Everything okay in here?"
The transformation was stunning. Just an
instant before, Amalthea had looked at Maura
with cold calculation. Now that creature vanished,
replaced by a dazed husk of a woman
who tugged on her ankle manacle, as though
bewildered why she could not free herself.
"Go," she mumbled. "Wanna--wanna go."
"Yes, honey, of course we'll go." The guard
looked at Maura. "I guess you're all done with
her?"
"For now," said Maura.

Rizzoli had not expected a visit from Charles
Cassell, so she was surprised when the desk
sergeant called to inform her that Dr. Cassell
was waiting for her in the lobby. When she
stepped out of the elevator and saw him, she
was shocked by the change in his appearance.
In just a week, he seemed to have aged ten
years. Clearly he had lost weight, and his face
was now gaunt and colorless. His suit jacket,
though no doubt expensively tailored, seemed
to hang, shapeless, on his drooping shoulders.
"I need to talk to you," he said. "I need to
know what's going on."
She nodded to the desk officer. "I'll take
him upstairs."
As she and Cassell stepped inside the elevator,
he said: "No one is telling me anything."
"You realize, of course, that that's standard
during an active investigation."
"Are you going to charge me? Detective Ballard
says it's just a matter of time."
She looked at him. "When did he tell you
that?"
"Every goddamn time I hear from him. Is
that the strategy, Detective? Scare me, bully me
into cutting a deal?"
She said nothing. She had not known about
Ballard's continuing phone calls to Cassell.
They stepped off the elevator and she
brought him to the interview room, where they
sat at a corner of the table, facing each other.
"Did you have something new to tell me?"
she asked. "Because if not, there's really no reason
for this meeting."
"I didn't kill her."
"You've said that before."
"I don't think you heard me the first time."
"Is there something else you want to tell me?"
"You checked my airline travel, didn't you? I
gave you that info."
"Northwest Airlines confirms you were on
that flight. But that still leaves you without an
alibi for the night of Anna's murder."
"And that incident with the dead bird in her
mailbox--did you even bother to confirm
where I was when that happened? I know I
wasn't in town. My secretary can tell you that."
"Still, you understand it doesn't prove your
innocence. You could have hired someone else
to wring a bird's neck and deliver it to Anna's
mailbox."
"I'll freely admit the things I did do. Yes, I
followed her. I drove by her house maybe half
a dozen times. And yes, I did hit her that
night--I'm not proud of that. But I never sent
any death threats. I never killed any bird."
"Is that all you came to say? Because if that's
it--" She started to rise.
To her shock, he reached out and grasped
her arm, his grip so hard she instantly reacted
in self-defense. She grabbed his hand and
twisted it away.
He gave a grunt of pain and sat back, looking
stunned.
"You want me to break your arm?" she said.
"Just try that little trick again."
"I'm sorry," he murmured, staring at her
with stricken eyes. Whatever anger he'd managed
to summon up during this exchange suddenly
seemed to drain right out of him. "God,
I'm sorry..."
She watched him huddle in his chair and
she thought: This grief is real.
"I just need to know what's going on," he
said. "I need to know you're doing something."
"I'm doing my job, Dr. Cassell."
"All you're doing is investigating me."
"That's not true. This is a broad-based investigation."
"Ballard said--"
"Detective Ballard is not in charge--I am.
And trust me, I'm looking at every possible
angle."
He nodded. Took a deep breath and
straightened. "That's really what I wanted to
hear, that everything's being done. That you're
not overlooking anything. No matter what you
think of me, the honest-to-god truth is, I did
love her." He ran his hand through his hair.
"It's terrible, when people leave you."
"Yes, it is."
"When you love someone, it's only natural
to want to hold on to them. You do crazy
things, desperate things--"
"Even murder?"
"I didn't kill her." He met Rizzoli's gaze.
"But yes. I would have killed for her."
Her cell phone rang. She rose from the
chair. "Excuse me," she said and left the room.
It was Frost on the phone. "Surveillance just
spotted a white van at the Van Gates residence,"
he said. "It cruised by the house about
fifteen minutes ago, but didn't stop. There's a
chance the driver spotted our boys, so they've
moved down the street a ways."
"Why do you think it's the right van?"
"The plates were stolen."
"What?"
"They got a look at the license number. The
plates were pulled off a Dodge Caravan three
weeks ago, out in Pittsfield."
Pittsfield, she thought, right across the state
border from Albany.
Where a woman vanished just last month.
She stood with the receiver pressed to her
ear, her pulse starting to hammer. "Where's
that van now?"
"Our team sat tight and didn't follow it. By
the time they heard back about the plates, it
was gone. It hasn't come back."
"Let's change out that car and move it to a
parallel street. Bring in a second team to watch
the house. If the van comes by again, we can
do a leapfrog tail. Two cars, taking turns."
"Right, I'm headed over there now."
She hung up. Turned to look into the interview
room where Charles Cassell was still sitting
at the table, his head bowed. Is that love or
obsession I'm looking at? she wondered.
Sometimes, you couldn't tell the difference.
TWENTY-EIGHT


daylight was fading when Rizzoli cruised
up Dedham Parkway. She spotted Frost's car
and pulled up behind him. Climbed out of her
car and slid into his passenger seat.

"And?" she said. "What's going on?"

"Not a damn thing."

"Shit. It's been over an hour. Did we scare
him off?"

"There's still a chance it wasn't Lank."

"White van, stolen plates from Pittsfield?"

"Well, it didn't hang around. And it hasn't
been back."

"When's the last time Van Gates left the
house?"
"He and the wife went grocery shopping
around noon. They've been home ever since."
"Let's cruise by I want to take a look."
Frost drove past the house, moving slowly
enough for her to get a good long gander at
Tara-on-Sprague-Street. They passed the surveillance
team, parked at the other end of the
block, then turned the corner and pulled over.
Rizzoli said: "Are you sure they're home?"
"Team hasn't seen either one of them leave
since noon."
"That house looked awfully dark to me."
They sat there for a few minutes, as dusk
deepened. As Rizzoli's uneasiness grew. She'd
seen no lights on. Were both husband and wife
asleep? Had they slipped out without the surveillance
team seeing them?
What was that van doing in this neighborhood?
She looked at Frost. "That's it. I'm not
going to wait any longer. Let's pay a visit."
Frost circled back to the house and parked.
They rang the bell, knocked on the door. No
one answered. Rizzoli stepped off the porch,
backed up the walkway, and gazed up at the
southern plantation facade with its priapic
white columns. No lights were on upstairs, ei
ther. The van, she thought. It was here for a
reason.
Frost said, "What do you think?"
Rizzoli could feel her heart starting to
punch, could feel prickles of unease. She
cocked her head, and Frost got the message:
We're going around back.
She circled to the side yard and swung open
a gate. Saw just a narrow brick walkway,
abutted by a fence. No room for a garden, and
barely room for the two trash cans sitting
there. She stepped through the gate. They had
no warrant, but something was wrong here,
something that was making her hands tingle,
the same hands that had been scarred by Warren
Hoyt's blade. A monster leaves his mark on
your flesh, on your instincts. Forever after, you
can feel it when another one passes by.
With Frost right behind her, she moved past
dark windows and a central air-conditioning
unit that blew warm air against her chilled
flesh. Quiet, quiet. They were trespassing now,
but all she wanted was a peek in the windows,
a look in the back door.
She rounded the corner and found a small
backyard, enclosed by a fence. The rear gate
was open. She crossed the yard to that gate and
looked into the alley beyond it. No one there.
She started toward the house and was almost at
the back door when she noticed it was ajar.
She and Frost exchanged a look. Both their
weapons came out. It had happened so quickly,
so automatically, that she did not even remember
having drawn hers. Frost gave the back
door a push, and it swung open, revealing an
arc of kitchen tiles.
And blood.
He stepped in and flipped the wall switch.
The kitchen lights came on. More blood
shrieked at them from the walls, the countertops,
the cacophony so powerful that Rizzoli
reeled back as though shoved. The baby in her
womb gave a sudden kick of alarm.
Frost stepped out of the kitchen, into the
hallway. But she stood frozen, staring down at
Terence Van Gates, who lay like a glassy-eyed
swimmer floating in a pool of red. The blood's
not even dry yet.
"Rizzoli!" she heard Frost yell. "The wife--
she's still alive!"
She almost slipped as she ran, big-bellied
and clumsy, from the kitchen. The hallway was
a continuous scroll of terror. A trail of arterial
spray and cast-off droplets pulsed across the
wall. She followed the trail into the living room, where Frost knelt, barking into his radio
for an ambulance while he pressed one hand
against Bonnie Van Gates's neck. Blood seeped
out between his fingers.
Rizzoli dropped to her knees beside the
fallen woman. Bonnie's eyes were open wide,
rolled back in terror, as though she could see
Death himself, hovering right above, waiting to
welcome her.
"I can't stop it!" said Frost as blood continued
to dribble past his fingers.
Rizzoli grabbed a slipcover from the couch
armrest and wadded it up in her fist. She
leaned forward to press the makeshift dressing
to Bonnie's neck. Frost withdrew his hand, releasing
a pulse of blood just before Rizzoli
clamped down on the wound. The bunched
fabric was immediately saturated.
"Her hand's bleeding, too!" said Frost.
Glancing down, Rizzoli saw a steady dribble
of red coursing from Bonnie's slashed palm.
We can't stop it all...
"Ambulance?" she asked.
"On its way."
Bonnie's hand shot up and grabbed at Rizzoli's
arm.
"Lie still! Don't move!"
Bonnie jerked, both hands in the air now,
like a panicked animal clawing at her attacker.
"Hold her down, Frost!"
"Jesus, she's strong."
"Bonnie, stop it! We're trying to help you!"
Another thrash, and Rizzoli lost her grip.
Warmth sprayed across her face, and she tasted
blood. Gagged on its coppery heat. Bonnie
twisted onto her side, legs jerking like pistons.
"She's seizing!" said Frost.
Rizzoli forced Bonnie's cheek against the
carpet and clamped the dressing back on the
wound. Blood was everywhere now, sprayed
across Frost's shirt, soaking into Rizzoli's jacket
as she fought to maintain pressure on the slippery
skin. So much blood. Jesus, how much
could a person lose?
Footsteps thudded into the house. It was the
surveillance team, who'd been parked up the
street. Rizzoli did not even look up as the two
men barreled into the room. Frost yelled at
them to hold down Bonnie. But there was little
need now; the seizures had faded to agonal
shudders.
"She's not breathing," said Rizzoli.
"Roll her on her back! Come on, come on."
Frost put his mouth against Bonnie's and
blew. Came up, his lips rimmed in blood.
"No pulse!"
One of the cops planted his hands on the
chest and began compressions. One-one-thousand,
two-one-thousand, palms buried in Bonnie's
Hollywood cleavage. With each thrust,
only a trickle leaked from the wound. There
was so little blood left in her veins to circulate,
to nourish vital organs. They were pumping a
dry well.
The ambulance team arrived with their
tubes and monitors and bottles of IV fluid.
Rizzoli moved back to give them room, and
suddenly felt so dizzy she had to sit down. She
sank into an armchair and lowered her head.
Realized she was sitting on white fabric, probably
smearing it with blood from her clothes.
When she raised her head again, she saw that
Bonnie had been intubated. Her blouse was
torn open and her brassiere cut away. EKG
wires crisscrossed her chest. Only a week ago,
Rizzoli had thought of that woman as a Barbie
doll, dumb and plastic in her tight pink blouse
and spike-heeled sandals. Plastic was exactly
what she looked like now, her flesh waxy, her
eyes without a glimmer of a soul. Rizzoli spotted
one of Bonnie's sandals, lying a few feet
away, and wondered if she had tried to flee in
those impossible shoes. Imagined her frantic
clack-clacking down the hall as she trailed sprays of red, as she struggled in those spike
heels. Even after the EMTs had wheeled Bonnie
away, Rizzoli was still staring at that useless
sandal.
"She's not going to make it," said Frost.
"I know." Rizzoli looked at him. "You've got
blood on your mouth."
"You should look at yourself in the mirror.
I'd say we've both been fully exposed."
She thought of blood and all the terrible
things it might carry. HIV. Hepatitis. "She
seemed pretty healthy," was all she could say.
"Still," said Frost. "You being pregnant
and all."
So what the hell was she doing here, steeped
in a dead woman's blood? I should be at home
in front of the TV, she thought, with my
swollen feet propped up. This is not the life for
a mother. It's not a life for anyone.
She tried to launch herself out of the chair.
Frost held out his hand to her, and for the first
time, she took it, allowing him to pull her to
her feet. Sometimes, she thought, you've got to
accept a helping hand. Sometimes you've got
to admit you can't do it all by yourself. Her
blouse was stiff, her hands caked brown.
Crime scene personnel would be arriving soon,
and then the press. Always the goddamn press.
It was time to clean up and get to work.
Maura stepped out of her car, into a disorienting
assault of camera lenses and thrusted microphones.
Cruiser lights flashed blue and
white, illuminating a crowd of bystanders
gathered near the perimeter of police tape. She
did not hesitate, did not give the media any
chance to close in on her as she walked briskly
toward the house and nodded at the cop
guarding the scene.
He returned her nod with a puzzled look.
"Uh--Dr. Costas is already here--"
"So am I," she said, and ducked under the
tape.
"Dr. Isles?"
"He's inside?"
"Yeah, but--"
She kept walking, knowing that he would
not challenge her. Her air of authority brought
her access that few cops dared question. She
paused in the front door to pull on gloves and
shoe covers, necessary fashion accessories when
blood is involved. Then she stepped inside,
where crime scene techs gave her barely a
glance. They all knew her; they had no reason
to question her presence. She walked, unimpeded,
from the foyer into the living room and
saw bloodstained carpet and scattered medical
debris from the ambulance team. Syringes,
torn wrappings, and wads of soiled gauze littered
the floor. No body.
She started down a hallway, where violence
had left its record on the walls. On one side,
bursts of arterial spray. On the other, more
subtle, the cast-off droplets of the pursuer's
blade.
"Doc?" Rizzoli was standing at the other
end of the hallway.
"Why didn't you call me?" said Maura.
"Costas is taking this one."

"So I just heard."
"You don't need to be here."
"You could have told me, Jane. You could
have let me know."
"This one isn't yours."
"This involves my sister. It concerns me."
"That's why it's not your case." Rizzoli
moved toward her, her gaze unwavering. "I
don't have to tell you this. You already know it."
"I'm not asking to be M.E. on this one.
What I resent is not being called about it."
"I didn't get the chance, okay?"
"That's the excuse?"
"But it's true, goddamn it!" Rizzoli waved at
the blood on the walls. "We've got two vies
here. I haven't eaten dinner. I haven't showered
the blood outta my hair. For god's sake, I don't
even have time to pee." She turned. "I have better
things to do than explain myself to you."
"Jane."
"Go home, Doc. Let me do my job."
"Jane! I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said all
that."
Rizzoli turned back to face her, and Maura
saw what she had failed to register until that
moment. The hollow eyes, the sagging shoulders.
She is barely standing.
"I'm sorry, too." Rizzoli looked at the blood-spattered
wall. "We missed him by that much,"
she said, bringing thumb and forefinger together.
"We had a team on the street, watching
the house. I don't know how he spotted the car,
but he drove right on by, and came in the back
gate instead." She shook her head. "Somehow
he knew. He knew we were looking for him.
That's why Van Gates was a problem . . ."
"She warned him."
"Who?"
"Amalthea. It had to be her. A phone call, a
letter. Something passed out through one of the
guards. She's protecting her partner."
"You think she's rational enough to do that?"
"Yes, I do." Maura hesitated. "I went to visit
her today."
"When were you going to tell me?"
"She knows secrets about me. She has the
answers."

"She hears voices, for god's sake."
"No, she doesn't. I'm convinced she's perfectly
sane, and she knows exactly what she's
doing. She's protecting her partner, Jane. She'll
never give him up."
Rizzoli regarded her for a moment in silence.
"Maybe you'd better come see this. You
need to know what we're up against."
Maura followed her to the kitchen and halted
in the doorway, stunned by the carnage she saw
in that room. Her colleague, Dr. Costas, was
crouching over the body. He glanced up at
Maura with a look of puzzlement.
"I didn't realize you were coming in on
this," he said.
"I'm not. I just needed to see . . ." She stared
at Terence Van Gates and swallowed hard.
Costas rose to his feet. "This one was
bloody efficient. No defense wounds, no indication
the victim had any chance to put up a
fight. A single slash, just about ear to ear. Approached
from behind. Incision starts higher
on the left, crosses the trachea, and trails a little
lower on the right side."
"A right-handed attacker."
"And strong, too." Costas bent down and
gently tilted the head backward, revealing an
open ring of glistening cartilage. "We're all the
way to vertebral column here." He released the
head and it rolled forward, incised edges once
again kissing together.
"An execution," she murmured.
"Pretty much."
"The second victim--in the living room--"
"The wife. She died in the ER an hour ago."
"But that execution wasn't so efficient,"
said Rizzoli. "We think the killer took out the
man first. Maybe Van Gates was expecting
the visit. Maybe he even let him into his
kitchen, thinking it was business. But he
didn't expect the attack. There were no defense
wounds, no signs of a struggle. He
turned his back on the killer, and went down
like a slaughtered lamb."
"And the wife?"
"Bonnie was a different story." Rizzoli stared
down at Van Gates, at the dyed tufts of transplanted
hair, symbols of an old man's vanity. "I
think Bonnie walked in on them. She comes
into the kitchen and sees the blood. Sees her
husband sitting here on the floor, his neck almost
severed. The killer's in here too, still holding
the knife. The air conditioner's going, and
all the windows are shut tight. Double-paned,
for insulation. So our team parked down the
street, they wouldn't hear her screams. If she
even managed to scream."
Rizzoli turned to look at the doorway leading
to the hall. Paused as though she saw the
dead woman herself standing there.
"She sees the killer coming at her. But unlike
her husband, she fights back. All she can
do, as that knife comes at her, is grab it by the
blade. It cuts right into the palm of her hand,
through skin, tendons, all the way to bone. It
slices so deep the artery's severed."
Rizzoli pointed through the doorway, at the
hallway beyond. "She runs that way, her hand
spurting blood. He's right behind her, and corners
her in the living room. Even then she
fights back, tries to fend off the blade with her
arms. But he makes one more cut, across her
throat. Not as deep as the incision in her husband's
neck, but it's deep enough." Rizzoli
looked at Maura. "She was alive when we
found her. That's how close we came."
Maura stared down at Terence Van Gates,
slumped against the cabinet. She thought of
the little house in the woods where two
cousins had formed their poisonous bond. A
bond that endures even now.
"You remember what Amalthea said to you,
the first day you went to visit her?" said Rizzoli.
Maura nodded. Now you're going to
die, too.
"We both thought it was just psychotic
rambling," said Rizzoli. She looked down at
Van Gates. "It seems pretty clear now that it
was a warning. A threat."
"Why? I don't know any more than you
do."
"Maybe it's because of who you are, Doc.
Amalthea's daughter."
An icy wind swept up Maura's spine. "My
father," she said softly. "If I really am her
daughter, then who is my father?"
Rizzoli didn't say Elijah Lank's name; she
didn't need to.
"You're the living proof of their partnership,"
said Rizzoli. "Half your DNA is his."

She locked her front door and turned the dead
bolt. Paused there, thinking of Anna and all
the brass bolts and chains that had adorned the
little house in Maine. I'm turning into my sister,
she thought. Soon I'll be cowering behind
barricades, or fleeing my own home for a new city, a new identity.
Headlights trailed across the closed curtains
of her living room. She glanced out and saw a
police cruiser glide by. Not Brookline this
time, but a patrol car with BOSTON POLICE
DEPARTMENT emblazoned on the side. Rizzoli
must have requested it, she thought.
She went into the kitchen and mixed herself
a drink. Nothing fussy tonight, not her usual
cosmopolitan, just orange juice and vodka and
ice. She sat at the kitchen table and sipped it, ice
cubes rattling in her glass. Drinking alone; not a
good sign, but what the hell. She needed the
anesthesia, needed to stop thinking of what
she'd seen tonight. The air conditioner hissed its
cool breath from the ceiling. No open windows
tonight; everything was locked and secure. The
cold glass chilled her fingers. She set it down
and looked at her palm, at the pale blush of capillaries.
Does their blood run in my veins?
The doorbell rang.
Her head snapped up; she turned toward
the living room, her heart beating a quickstep,
every muscle in her body rigid. Slowly she rose
to her feet and moved soundlessly down the
hall to the front door. Paused there, wondering
how easily a bullet might penetrate that wood.
She eased toward the side window and glanced
out to see Ballard standing on her porch.
With a sigh of relief, she opened the door.
"I heard about Van Gates," he said. "Are you
okay?"
"A little shaken up. But I'm fine." No I'm
not. My nerves are shot, and I'm drinking
alone in my kitchen. "Why don't you come in?"
He had never been inside her house. He
stepped in, closed the door, and eyed the dead
bolt as he locked it. "You need to get a security
system, Maura."
"I've been planning to."
"Do it soon, okay?" He looked at her. "I can
help you choose the best one."
She nodded. "I'd appreciate the advice.
Would you like a drink?"
"Not tonight, thanks."
They went into the living room. He paused,
looking at the piano in the corner. "I didn't
know you played."
"Since I was a kid. I don't practice nearly
enough."
"You know, Anna played too ..." He
stopped. "I guess you might not know that."
"I didn't know that. It's so eerie, Rick, how
every time I learn something new about her,
she seems more and more like me."
"She played beautifully." He went to the
piano, lifted the keyboard cover, and plunked
out a few notes. Closed the cover again, and
stood staring down at the gleaming black surface.
He looked at her. "I'm worried about
you, Maura. Especially tonight, after what
happened to Van Gates."
She sighed and sank onto the couch. "I've
lost control of my life. I can't even sleep with
my windows open anymore."
He sat down, too. Chose the chair facing
her, so that if she raised her head, she would
have to look at him. "I don't think you should
be alone here tonight."
"This is my house. I'm not going to leave."
"Then don't leave." A pause. "Do you want
me to stay with you?"
Her gaze lifted to his. "Why are you doing
this, Rick?"
"Because I think you need watching over."
"And you're the one to do it?"
"Who else is going to? Look at you! You live
such a solitary life, all by yourself in this house.
I think about you alone here, and it scares me,
what could happen. When Anna needed me, I
wasn't there. But I can be here for you." He
reached out and took her hands. "I can be here
whenever you need me."
She looked down at his hands, covering
hers. "You loved her, didn't you?" When he
didn't answer, she looked up and met his gaze.
"Didn't you, Rick?"
"She needed me."
"That's not what I asked."
"I couldn't stand by and let her get hurt.
Not by that man."
I should have seen it from the beginning,
she thought. It was always there, in the way he
looked at me, the way he touched me.
"If you'd seen her that night, in the ER," he
said. "The black eye, the bruises. I took one
look at her face, and I wanted to beat the shit
out of whoever did it. There aren't many things
that'll make me lose it, Maura, but any man
who hurts a woman--" He took a sharp breath.
"I wasn't going to let that happen to her again.
But Cassell wouldn't let go. He kept calling her,
stalking her, so I had to step in. I helped her install
some locks. Started dropping by every day,
to check on her. Then one night, she asked me
to stay for dinner, and ..." He gave a defeated
shrug. "That's how it started. She was scared,
and she needed me. It's instinct, you know.
Maybe a cop's instinct. You want to protect."
Especially when she's an attractive woman.
"I tried to keep her safe, that's all." He
looked at her. "So, yes. I ended up falling in
love with her."
"And what is this, Rick?" She looked at his
hands, still grasping hers. "What's happening
here? Is this for me, or for her? Because I'm not
Anna. I'm not her replacement."
"I'm here because you need me."
"This is like a replay. You've cast yourself in
the same role, as the guardian. And I'm just the
understudy who happened to step into Anna's
part."
"It's not like that."
"What if you'd never known my sister, if
you and I were just two people who'd met at a
party? Would you still be here?"
"Yes. I would be." He leaned toward her, his
hands tight around hers. "I know I would be."
For a moment they sat in silence. I want to
believe him, she thought. It would be so easy
to believe him.
But she said, "I don't think you should stay
here tonight."
Slowly he straightened. His eyes were still
on hers, but there was distance between them
now. And disappointment.
She rose to her feet; so did he.
In silence they walked to the front door.
There he paused and turned to her. Gently he
lifted his hand to her face and cupped her face,
a touch she did not flinch away from.
"Be careful," he said, and walked out.
She locked the door behind him.
TWENTY-NINE


mattie ate the last strip of beef jerky.
She gnawed it like a wild animal feeding on desiccated
carrion, thinking: Protein for strength.
For victory! She thought of athletes preparing
for marathons, honing their bodies for the
performance of their lives. This would be a
marathon, too. One chance to win.

Lose, and you're dead.

The jerky was like leather, and she almost
gagged as she swallowed it, but she managed to
wash it down with a gulp of water. The second
jug was almost empty. I'm down to the bitter
end, she thought; I can't hold out much longer.
And now she had a new worry: Her contractions
were starting to get uncomfortable, like a
fist squeezing down. It didn't qualify as painful
yet, but it was a harbinger of things to come.
Where was he, goddamn it? Why had he left
her alone so long? With no watch to track the
time, she didn't know if it had been hours or
days since his last visit. She wondered if she
had made him angry when she'd yelled at him.
Was this her punishment? Was he trying to
scare her a little, make her understand that she
had to be polite and show him some respect?
All her life, she'd been polite, and look where it
had gotten her. Polite girls got pushed around.
They got stuck at the end of the line, where no
one paid them any attention. They got married
to men who promptly forgot they even
existed. Well, I'm through being polite, she
thought. If I ever get out of here, I'm going to
grow a spine.
But first I have to get out of here. And that
means I have to pretend to be polite.
She took another sip of water. Felt strangely
sated, as though she'd feasted and drunk wine.
Bide your time, she thought. He'll come back.
Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders,
she closed her eyes.
And woke up in the grip of a contraction.
Oh no, she thought, this one hurts. This one definitely hurts, She lay sweating in the dark,
trying to remember her Lamaze classes, but
they seemed like a lifetime ago. Someone else's
lifetime.
Breathe in, breathe out. Cleanse . . .
"Lady."
She went rigid. Stared up toward the grate,
where the voice had whispered. Her pulse
hammered. Time to act, GI Jane. But lying in
the darkness, breathing in her own scent of terror,
she thought: I'm not ready. I'll never be
ready. Why did I ever think I could do this?
"Lady. Talk to me."
This is your one chance. Do it.
She took a deep breath. "I need help," she
whimpered.
"Why?"
"My baby..."
"Tell me."
"It's coming. I'm having pains. Oh, please
let me out! I don't know how much longer it
will be ..." She gave a sob. "Let me out. I need
to get out. My baby's coming."
The voice fell silent.
She clung to the blanket, afraid to breathe,
afraid to miss his softest whisper. Why didn't
he answer? Had he left again? Then she heard
the thud, and a scraping.
A shovel. He was starting to dig.
One chance, she thought. I have just this
one chance.
More thuds. The shovel moved in longer
strokes, scooping away dirt, the scrapes as jarring
as the screech of chalk on a board. She was
breathing fast now, her heart banging in her
chest. Either I live or die, she thought. It all
gets decided now.
The scraping stopped.
Her hands were ice, fingers chilled as they
clutched the blanket to her shoulders. She heard
wood creak, and then the hinges gave a squeal.
Dirt spilled into her prison, into her eyes. Oh
god, oh god, I won't be able to see. I need to
see! She turned away to protect her face against
the earth trickling onto her hair. Blinked again
and again to clear the grit from her eyes. With
her head down, she could not see him standing
above her. And what did he see, staring down
into the pit? His captive huddled under a blanket,
dirty, defeated. Wracked by the pains of
childbirth.
"It's time to come out, " he said, this time
not through a grate. A quiet voice, utterly ordinary.
How could evil sound so normal?
"Help me." She gave a sob. "I can't jump all
the way up there."
She heard wood grate against wood, and felt
something bump down beside her. A ladder.
Opening her eyes, she looked up and saw only
a silhouette against stars. After the pitch blackness
of her prison, the night sky seemed awash
in light.
He turned on a flashlight, aiming it down at
the rungs. "It's only a few steps," he said.
"It hurts so much."
"I'll take your hand. But you have to step
onto the ladder."
Sniffling, she rose slowly to her feet. Swayed
and dropped back down to her knees. She had
not stood up in days, and it shocked her now,
how weak she felt despite her attempts to exercise,
despite the adrenaline now pumping
through her blood.
"If you want to get out," he said, "you have
to stand up."
She groaned and staggered back to her feet,
unsteady as a newborn calf. Her right hand was
still inside the blanket, clutching it to her chest.
With her left hand, she grasped the ladder.
"That's it. Climb."
She stepped onto the lowest rung and
paused to steady herself before she reached up
with her free hand for the next rung. Took an
other step. The hole was not deep; just a few
more rungs and she'd be out of it. Already, her
head and shoulders were at his waist.
"Help me," she pleaded. "Pull me up."
"Let go of the blanket."
"I'm too cold. Please, pull me up!"
He laid his flashlight on the ground. "Give
me your hand," he said, and bent toward her,
a faceless shadow, one tentacle extended
toward her.
That's it. He's close enough.
His head was just above hers now, within
striking distance. For an instant she faltered,
repulsed by the thought of what she was
about to do.
"Stop wasting my time, " he ordered. "Do it!"
Suddenly it was Dwayne's face she imagined
staring down at her. Dwayne's voice berating
her, scorn shoveled upon scorn. Image is
everything, Mattie, and look at you! Mattie
the cow clinging to her ladder, afraid to save
herself. Afraid to save her baby. You just aren't
good enough for me anymore.
Yes I am. YES I AM!
She let the blanket go. It slid off her shoulders,
uncovering what she had been clutching
beneath it: her sock, bulging with the eight
flashlight batteries. She brought her arm up,
swinging the sock like a mace, the arc propelled
by sheer rage. Her aim was wild, clumsy,
but she felt the satisfying whump as batteries
slammed into skull.
The shadow reeled sideways and toppled.
In seconds she was up the ladder and scrambling
out of the hole. Terror did not make you
clumsy; it sharpened your senses, made you quick as a gazelle. In the split second after her
feet touched solid ground, she registered a
dozen details at once. A quarter moon peeking
out from behind branches that arched across
the sky. The smell of soil and damp leaves. And
trees, everywhere trees, a ring of towering sentinels
that blocked out all but a narrow dome
of stars overhead. I'm in a forest. In one
sweeping gaze she took all this in, made a split-second
decision, and sprinted toward what
looked like a gap between those trees. She
found herself suddenly hurtling down a steep
gully, crashing through brambles and whip-thin
saplings that did not snap in two but
lashed back at her face in vengeance.
She landed on her hands and knees. Scrambled
back to her feet in an instant and was running
again, but with a limp now, her right
ankle twisted and throbbing. I'm making too
much noise, she thought, I'm loud as a tram
pling elephant. Don't stop, don't stop--he
could be right behind me. Just keep moving!
But she was blind in these woods, with just
the stars and that pitiful excuse of a moon to
show her the way. No light, no landmarks. No
idea where she was or in which direction help
might lie. She knew nothing of this place, and
was as lost as a wanderer in a nightmare. She
fought her way through underbrush, heading
instinctively downhill, letting gravity decide
which direction she should take. Mountains
lead to valleys. Valleys lead to streams. Streams
lead to people. Oh hell, it sounded good, but
was it true? Already her knees were stiffening
up, the aftermath of the fall she'd taken. Another
tumble and she might not be able to
walk at all.
And now another pain gripped her. It
brought her up short, catching her in mid-breath.
A contraction. She doubled over, waiting
for it to pass. When at last she could
straighten again, she was drenched in sweat.
Something rustled behind her. She whirled
and faced a wall of impenetrable shadow. She
felt evil closing in. All at once she was running
away from it, tree branches slashing her face,
panic shrieking at her. Faster. Faster!
On the downhill slope she lost her footing
and began to tumble, and would have slammed
belly first onto the ground if she had not caught
herself on a sapling. Poor baby, I almost landed
on you! She heard no sound of pursuit, but she
knew he had to be right behind her, tracking
her. Terror sent her hurtling on, through a web
of interlocking branches.
Then the trees magically evaporated. She
broke through a last tangle of vines and her
feet slammed onto packed earth. Stunned and
gasping, she stared across ripples of reflected
moonlight. A lake. A road.
And, in the distance, perched on a point,
the silhouette of a small cabin.
She took a few steps and stopped, groaning
as another contraction gripped her in its fist,
squeezing so tightly she could not breathe,
could do nothing but crouch there in the road.
Nausea flooded her throat. She heard water
slap against the shore, and the cry of a bird on
the lake. Dizziness washed over her, threatening
to drag her down to her knees. Not here!
Don't stop here, so exposed on the road.
She staggered forward, the contraction easing
now. Pushed herself onward, the cabin a
shadowy hope. She started to run, her knee
throbbing with every slap of her shoe against
the dirt road. Faster, she thought. He can see
you here against the lake's reflection. Run before
the next pain clamps down. How many
minutes until the next one? Five, ten? The
cabin looked so far away.
She was pushing herself all out, now, legs
pumping, air roaring in and out of her lungs.
Hope was like rocket fuel. I'm going to live.
I'm going to live.
The cabin windows were dark. She rapped
on the door anyway, not daring to shout for
fear her voice would carry back up the road, up
the mountain. There was no answer.
She hesitated only a second. To hell with
being a good girl. Just break the goddamn window!
She grabbed a rock near the front door
and slammed it against a pane, and the sound of
breaking glass shattered the night's silence. With
the rock, she batted away the few remaining
shards, reached in, and unlocked the door.
Breaking and entering, now. Go, GI Jane!
Inside she smelled cedar and stale air. A vacation
house that had been closed up and neglected
too long. Glass crunched under her
shoes as she hunted for a wall switch. An instant
after the lights came on, she realized:
He'll see it. Too late now. Just find a phone.
She looked around the room and saw a fire
place, stacked wood, furniture with plaid upholstery,
but no phone.
She ran into the kitchen and spotted a
handset on the counter. Picked it up and was
already dialing 911 when she realized there was
no dial tone. The line was dead.
In the living room, broken glass skittered
across the floor.
He's in the house. Get out. Get out now.
She slipped out the kitchen door and quietly
closed it behind her. Found herself standing
in a small garage. Moonlight filtered in
through a single window, just bright enough
for her to make out the low silhouette of a
	rowboat cradled in its trailer. No other cover,
no place to hide. She backed away from the
kitchen door, shrinking as far into the shadows
as she could. Her shoulder bumped up against
a shelf, rattling metal, stirring the smell of
long-gathered dust. She reached out blindly
along the shelf for a weapon and felt old paint
cans, their lids caked shut. Felt paint brushes,
the hairs shellacked solid. Then her fingers
closed around a screwdriver, and she snatched
it up. Such a pitiful weapon, about as lethal as
a nail file. The runt cousin of all screwdrivers.
The light under the kitchen door rippled.
A shadow moved across the glowing crack.
Stopped.
So did her breathing. She backed toward the
garage bay door, her heart battering its way to
her throat. Only one choice left.
She reached down for the handle and
pulled. The door squealed as it slid up the
tracks, a shriek announcing: Here she is! Here
she is!
Just as the kitchen door flew open, she
scrambled out under the bay door and ran into
the night. She knew he could see her moving
along that pitilessly exposed shore. She knew
she could not outpace him. Yet she struggled
forward along the moon-silvered lake, the mud
sucking at her shoes. She heard him moving
closer through the clattering cattail reeds.
Swim, she thought. Into the lake. She veered
toward the water.
And suddenly doubled over as the next contraction
seized her. This was pain like none she
had ever known. It dropped her to her knees.
She splashed down into ankle-deep water as
the pain crescendoed, clamping her so tightly
in its jaws that for a moment her vision went
black and she felt herself tilting sideways, toppling.
She tasted mud. Writhed, coughing, onro her back, as helpless as an overturned tor
toise. The contraction faded. The stars slowly
brightened in the sky. She could feel water caressing
her hair, lapping at her cheeks. Not
cold at all, but warm as a bath. She heard the
splash of his footsteps, the snapping of reeds.
Watched the cattails part.
And then he was there, standing above her,
towering against the sky. Here to claim his prize.
He knelt beside her, and the water's reflection
glinted in his eyes in pinpoints of light.
What he held in his hand gleamed as well: a
knife's silvery streak. He seemed to know, as he
crouched over her body, that she was spent.
That her soul was only waiting for release from
its exhausted shell.
He grasped the waistband of her maternity
slacks and pulled it down, revealing the white
dome of her belly. And still she did not move
but lay catatonic. Already surrendered, al
ready dead.
He placed one hand on her abdomen; with
the other, he grasped the knife, lowering the
blade toward bared flesh, bending toward her
to make the first cut.
Water fountained up in a silvery splash as
her hand suddenly shot up from the mud. As she aimed the tip of the screwdriver towards
his face. Muscles taut with fury, she drove
upward, the pathetic little weapon suddenly
launched with lethal aim at his eye.
This is for me, asshole!
And this is for my baby!
She thrust deep, felt the weapon penetrate
bone and brain, until the handle lodged in the
socket and could sink no deeper.
He dropped without uttering a sound.
For a moment she could not move. He had
fallen across her thighs, and she could feel the
heat of his blood soaking through her clothes.
The dead are heavy, so much heavier than the
living. She pushed, grunting with the effort,
repulsed by the touch of him. At last she rolled
him away and he splashed onto his back
among the reeds.
She stumbled to her feet and staggered
toward higher ground. Away from the water,
away from the blood. She collapsed farther up
on the bank, dropping onto a bed of grass.
There she lay as the next contraction came and
went. And the next, and the next. Through
pain-dimmed eyes she watched the quarter
moon wheel across the heavens. Saw the stars
fade and a pink glow seep into the eastern sky.
As the sun lifted over the horizon, Mattie
Purvis welcomed her daughter into the world.
THIRTY


turkey vultures traced lazy circles
in the sky, the black-winged heralds of fresh
carrion. The dead do not long escape Mother
Nature's attention. The perfume of decomposition
draws blowflies and beetles, crows and
rodents, all converging on Death's bounty.
And how am I any different? Maura thought,
as she headed down the grassy bank toward the
water. She too was drawn to the dead, to poke
and prod cold flesh like any scavenger. This
was such a beautiful place for so grim a task.
The sky was a cloudless blue, the lake like silvered
glass. But at the water's edge, a white
sheet draped what the vultures, circling above,
were so eager to feast on.
Jane Rizzoli, standing with Barry Frost and
two Massachusetts State Police officers, stepped
forward to meet Maura. "Body was lying in a
couple inches of water, over in those cattails.
We pulled it up onto the bank. Just wanted you
to know it's been moved."
Maura stared down at the draped corpse,
but did not touch it. She was not quite ready
to confront what lay beneath the plastic sheet.
"Is the woman all right?"
"I saw Mrs. Purvis in the ER. She's a little
banged up, but she'll be fine. And the baby's
doing great." Rizzoli pointed toward the bank,
where tufts of feathery grass grew. "She had it
right over there. Managed it all by herself.
When the park ranger drove by around seven,
he found her sitting at the side of the road,
nursing the baby."
Maura stared up the bank and thought of
the woman laboring alone under the open sky,
her cries of pain unheard, while twenty yards
away, a corpse cooled and stiffened. "Where
did he keep her?"
"In a pit, about two miles from here."
Maura frowned at her. "She made it all this
way on foot?"
"Yeah. Imagine running in the dark,
through the trees. And doing it while you're in
labor. Came down that slope there, out of the
woods."
"I can't imagine."
"You should see the box he kept her in, like
a coffin. Buried alive for a week--I don't know
how she came out of it still sane."
Maura thought of young Alice Rose, trapped
in a pit all those years ago. Just one night of despair
and darkness had haunted her for the rest
of her short life. In the end, it had killed her.
Yet Mattie Purvis had emerged not only sane,
but prepared to fight back. To survive.
"We found the white van," said Rizzoli.
"Where?"
"It's parked way up on one of the maintenance
roads, about thirty, forty yards away
from the pit where he buried her. We never
would have found her there."
"Have you found any remains yet? There must be victims buried nearby."
"We've just started to look. There's a lot of
trees, a large area to search. It'll take time for us
to comb that whole hill for graves."
"All these years, all those missing women.
One of them could be my ..." Maura stopped,
and looked up at the trees on the slope. One of
them could be my mother. Maybe I don't
have a monster's blood in my veins at all.
Maybe my real mother has been dead all these
years. Another victim, buried somewhere in
those woods.
"Before you make any assumptions," said
Rizzoli, "you need to see the corpse."
Maura frowned at her. Looked down at the
shrouded body lying at her feet. She knelt and
reached for a corner of the sheet.
"Wait. I should warn you--"
"Yes?"
"It's not what you're expecting."
Maura hesitated, her hand hovering over
the sheet. Insects hummed, greedy for access to
fresh meat. She took a breath and peeled back
the cover.
For a moment she didn't say a word as she
stared at the face she'd just exposed. What
stunned her was not the ruined left eye, or the
screwdriver handle jammed deep into the
orbit. That gruesome detail was merely a feature
to be noted, mentally filed away as she
would file a dictated report. No, it was the face
that held her attention, that horrified her.
"He's too young," she murmured. "This
man's too young to be Elijah Lank."
"I'd guess he's about thirty, thirty-five."
Maura released a shocked breath. "I don't
understand ..."
"You do see it, don't you?" Rizzoli asked
quietly. "Black hair, green eyes."
Like mine.
"I mean, sure, there could be a million guys
with hair and eyes that color. But the resemblance
..." She paused. "Frost saw it, too. We
all saw it."
Maura pulled the sheet over the corpse
and stepped back, retreating from the truth
which had stared so undeniably from the
dead man's face.
"Dr. Bristol's on his way now," said Frost.
"We didn't think you'd want to do this autopsy."
"Then why did you call me?"
"Because you said you wanted to be in the
loop," said Rizzoli. "Because I promised I
would. And because ..." Rizzoli looked down
at the draped body. "Because you'd find out
sooner or later who this man was."
"But we don't know who he was. You think
you see a resemblance. That's not proof."
"There's more. Something we just learned
this morning."
Maura looked at her. "What?"
"We've been trying to track down Elijah
Lank's whereabouts. Searching for any place his
name may have popped up. Arrests, traffic tickets,
anything. This morning we got a fax from a
county clerk in North Carolina. It was a death
certificate. Elijah Lank died eight years ago."
"Eight years ago? Then he wasn't with
Amalthea when she killed Theresa and Nikki
Wells."
"No. By then, Amalthea was working with
a new partner. Someone who stepped in to
take Elijah's place. To continue the family
business."
Maura turned and stared at the lake, its
water now blindingly bright. I don't want to
hear the rest of this, she thought. I don't want
to know.
"Eight years ago, Elijah died of a heart attack
in a Greenville hospital," said Rizzoli. "He
showed up in the emergency room complaining
of chest pain. According to their records,
he was brought to the ER by his family."
Family.
"His wife, Amalthea," said Rizzoli. "And
their son, Samuel."
Maura took a deep breath and smelled both
decay and the scent of summer in the air.
Death and life mingled in a single perfume.
"I'm sorry," said Rizzoli. "I'm sorry you had
to find out. There's still a chance we're wrong
about this man, you know. There's still a chance
he's not related to them at all."
But they weren't wrong, and Maura knew it.
I knew it when I saw his face.

When Rizzoli and Frost walked into J.P.
Doyle's that evening, the cops standing around
the bar greeted them with a loud and boisterous
round of applause that made Rizzoli flush.
Hell, even the guys who didn't particularly like
her were applauding in comradely acknowledgment
of her success, which at that moment was
being trumpeted on the five o'clock news playing
on the TV above the bar. The crowd began
to stomp in unison as Rizzoli and Frost approached
the counter, where the grinning bartender
had already set out two drinks for them.
For Frost, a shot of whiskey, and for Rizzoli. . .
A large glass of milk.
As everyone burst out laughing, Frost
leaned over and whispered in her ear: "You
know, my stomach's kind of upset. Wanna
trade drinks?"
The funny thing was, Frost really did like
milk. She slid her glass his way, and asked the
bartender for a Coke.
As their fellow cops came around to shake
their hands and slap high fives, she and Frost ate
peanuts and sipped their virtuous drinks. She
missed having her usual Adams ale. Missed a lot
of things tonight--her husband, her beer. Her
waistline. Still, this was a good day. It's always a
good day, she thought, when a perp goes down.
"Hey, Rizzoli! The bets are up to two hundred
bucks you're having a girl, a hundred
twenty on a boy."
She glanced sideways and saw Detectives
Vann and Dunleavy standing beside her at the
bar. The fat Hobbit and the skinny one, holding
up their twin pints of Guinness.
"So what if I have both?" she asked.
"Twins?"
"Huh," said Dunleavy. "We didn't consider
that."
"So who wins then?"
"I guess no one."
"Or everyone?" said Vann.
The two men stood pondering that question
for a while. Sam and Frodo, stuck on the
Mount Doom of dilemmas.
"Well," said Vann, "I guess we should add
another category."
Rizzoli laughed. "Yeah, you guys do that."
"Great work, by the way," said Dunleavy.
"Just watch, next thing, you're gonna be in People magazine. A perp like that, all those
women. What a story."
"You want the honest truth?" Rizzoli sighed
and set down her Coke. "We can't take the
credit."
"No?"
Frost looked over at Vann and Dunleavy.
"Wasn't us brought him down. It was the vie."
"Just a housewife," said Rizzoli. "A scared,
pregnant, ordinary housewife. Didn't need a
gun or a billy club, just a goddamn sock filled
with batteries."
Up on the TV, the local news was over, and
the bartender flipped the channel to HBO. A
movie with women in short skirts. Women
who had waistlines.
"So what about that Black Talon?" asked
Dunleavy. "How did that tie in?"
Rizzoli was quiet for a moment as she
sipped her Coke. "We don't know yet."
"You find the weapon?"
She caught Frost looking at her, and felt a
ripple of uneasiness. That was the detail that
troubled them both. They had found no gun
in the van. There had been knotted cords and
blood-caked knives. There'd been a neatly kept
notebook with the names and phone numbers
of nine other baby brokers around the country;
Terence Van Gates had not been the only
one. And there'd been records of cash pay
ments made to the Lanks through the years, a
mother lode of information that would keep
investigators busy for years. But the weapon
that had killed Anna Leoni was not in the van.
"Oh, well," said Dunleavy. "Maybe it'll turn
up. Or he got rid of it."
Maybe. Or maybe we're still missing something.
It was dark when she and Frost left Doyle's.
Instead of going home, she drove back to
Schroeder Plaza, the conversation with Vann
and Dunleavy still weighing on her mind,
and sat down at her desk, which was covered
by a mountain of files. On top were the
records from NCIC, several decades' worth
of missing persons reports compiled during
their hunt for the Beast. But it was Anna
Leoni's murder that had set the whole search
in motion, like a pebble dropped into water,
launching ever wider ripples. Anna's murder
was what had led them to Amalthea, and
eventually to the Beast. Yet Anna's death remained
a question still unresolved.
Rizzoli cleared away the NCIC files, working
her way down to the folder on Anna Leoni.
Though she had read and reread everything in
this file, she leafed through it again, rereading
the witness statements, the autopsy, the reports
from hair and fiber, fingerprints, and DNA.
She came to the ballistics report, and her gaze
lingered over the words Black Talon. She remembered
the starburst shape of the bullet in
Anna Leoni's skull X-ray. Remembered, too,
the track of devastation it had left in her brain.
A Black Talon bullet. Where was the gun
that had fired it?
She closed the folder and looked down at
the cardboard box that had been sitting beside
her desk for the last week. It contained the files
that Vann and Dunleavy had lent her, on the
murder of Vassily Titov. He'd been the only
other Boston-area victim of a Black Talon bullet
in the last five years. She took the folders
from that box and piled them on her desk,
sighing when she saw how high the stack
was. Even a slam-dunk investigation generates
reams of paper. Vann and Dunleavy had
summed up the case for her earlier, and she
had read enough of their files to satisfy herself
that they had indeed made a good arrest. The
subsequent trial and speedy conviction of Antonin
Leonov only reinforced that belief. Yet
here she was, reviewing the files again, on a
case which left no room for doubt that the
right man had been convicted.
Detective Dunleavy's final report was thor
ough and convincing. Leonov had been under
police surveillance for a week, in anticipation
of a delivery of Tajikistan heroin. While the
two detectives had watched from their vehicle,
Leonov had pulled up in front of Titov's residence,
knocked on the front door, and was admitted.
Moments later, two gunshots were
fired inside the house. Leonov walked out,
climbed into his car, and was about to drive
away when Vann and Dunleavy closed in and
arrested him. Inside the house, Titov was
found dead in the kitchen, two Black Talons in
his brain. Ballistics later confirmed both bullets
had been fired by Leonov's weapon.
Open and shut. The perp convicted, the
weapon in police custody. Rizzoli could see no
link at all between the deaths of Vassily Titov
and Anna Leoni, except for the use of Black
Talon bullets. Increasingly rare ammunition,
but not enough to constitute any real connection
between the murders.
Yet she continued flipping through the files,
reading through the dinner hour. By the time
she reached the last folder, she was almost too
tired to tackle it. I'll get this over and done
with, she thought, then pack up the files and
put this issue to bed.
She opened the folder and found a report on
the search of Antonin Leonov's warehouse. It
contained Detective Vann's description of the
raid, a list of Leonovs arrested employees,
along with an accounting of everything confiscated,
from crates and cash to bookkeeping
records. She skimmed down until she reached
the list of officers on the scene. Ten Boston PD
cops. Her gaze froze on one particular name, a
name she hadn't noticed when she'd read the report
a week ago. Just a coincidence. It doesn't
necessarily mean . . .
She sat and thought about it for a moment.
She remembered a drug raid she'd been in on
as a young patrol officer. Lots of noise, lots of
excitement. And confusion--when a dozen
adrenaline-hyped cops converge on a hostile
building, everyone's nervous, everyone's looking
out for himself. You may not notice what
your fellow cop is doing. What he's slipping
into his pocket. Cash, drugs. A box of bullets
that would never be missed. It's always there,
that temptation to take a souvenir. A souvenir
you might later find useful.
She picked up the phone and called Frost.
THIRTY-ONE

THE DEAD WERE NOT good company.
Maura sat at her microscope, staring through
the eyepiece at sections of lung and liver and
pancreas--bits of tissue sliced from a suicide
victims mortal remains, preserved under glass,
and stained a gaudy pink and purple with a
hematoxylin-eosin preparation. Except for the
occasional clink of the slides, and the faint hiss
of the air-conditioning vent, the building was
quiet. Yet it was not empty of people; in the cold
room downstairs, half a dozen silent visitors
lay zipped into their shrouds. Undemanding
guests, each with a story to tell, but only to those willing to cut and probe.
The phone rang on her desk; she let the
after-hours office recording pick up. Nobody
here but the dead. And me.
The story Maura now saw beneath her microscope
lens was not a new one. Young organs,
healthy tissues. A body designed to live
many more years, had the soul been willing,
had some inner voice only whispered to the
despairing man: Now, wait a minute, heartbreak
is temporary. This pain will pass, and
you'll find another girl to love someday.
She finished the last slide and set it in the
box. Sat for a moment, her mind not on the
slides she had just reviewed, but on another
image: a young man with dark hair and green
eyes. She had not watched his autopsy; that
afternoon, while he had been split open and
dissected by Dr. Bristol, she had remained upstairs
in her office. But even as she'd dictated
reports and flipped through microscope slides
late into the evening, she had been thinking
about him. Do I really want to know who he
is? She still hadn't decided. Even as she rose
from her desk, as she gathered her purse and an
armful of files, she was uncertain of her answer.
Again, the phone rang; again, she ignored it.
Walking down the silent hallway, she passed
closed doors and deserted offices. She remembered
another evening when she had walked
out of this empty building, to find the claw
mark scratched into her car, and her heart
started to beat a little faster.
But he's gone, now. The Beast is dead.
She stepped out the rear exit, into a night
soft with summery warmth. She paused beneath
the building's outside lamp to scan the
shadowy parking lot. Drawn by the glow of the
light, moths swarmed around the lamp and she
heard wings fluttering against the bulb. Then,
another sound: the closing of a car door. A silhouette
walked toward her, taking on form and
features as it moved into the lamp's glow.
She gave a sigh of relief when she saw it was
Ballard. "Were you waiting for me?"
"I saw your car in the lot. I tried calling you."
"After five, I let the machine pick up."
"You weren't answering your cell phone,
either."
"I turned it off. You don't need to keep
checking on me, Rick. I'm fine."
"Are you, really?"
She sighed as they walked to her car. She
looked up at the sky, where stars were washed
pale by city lights. "I have to decide what to
do about the DNA. Whether I really want to
know the truth."
"Then don't do it. It doesn't matter if you
are related to them. Amalthea has nothing to
do with who you are."
"That's what I would have said before." Before
I knew whose bloodlines I might share.
Before I knew I might come from a family of
monsters.
"Evil isn't hereditary."
"Still, it's not a good feeling, knowing I
might have a few mass murderers in my family."
She unlocked her door and climbed in behind
the wheel. Had just thrust her key in the
ignition when Ballard leaned into the car.
"Maura," he said. "Have dinner with me."
She paused, not looking at him. Just stared
at the green glow of the dashboard lights as she
considered his invitation.
"Last night," he said, "you asked me a question.
You wondered whether I'd still be interested
in you if I'd never loved your sister. I
don't think you believed my answer."
She turned to look at him. "There's no way
to really know, is there? Because you did
love her."
"So give me the chance to know you. I didn't
just imagine it, up there in the woods. You felt
it, I felt it. There was something between us."
He leaned in closer. Said, softly, "It's only dinner,
Maura."
She thought of the hours she had just spent
working in that sterile building, with only
the dead to keep her company. Tonight, she
thought, I don't want to be alone. I want to be
with the living.
"Chinatown's right up the street," she said.
"Why don't we go there?"
He slid into the passenger seat beside her,
and they looked at each other for a moment.
The glow of the parking lot lamp slanted
across his face, casting half of it in shadow.
He reached out to touch her cheek. Then his
arm came around to pull her closer, but she
was already there, leaning into him, ready
to meet him halfway. More than halfway.
His mouth found hers, and she heard herself
sigh. Felt him draw her into the warmth of
his arms.
The explosion rocked her.
She flinched as Rick's window imploded, as
glass stung her cheek. She opened her eyes again
to stare at him. At what was left of his face, now
bloody pulp. Slowly his body slumped toward
her. His head landed on her thighs, and the heat
of his blood soaked into her lap.
"Rick. Rick!"
A movement outside drew her stunned
gaze. She looked up, and from out of the darkness,
a figure in black emerged, moving toward
her with robotic efficiency.
Coining to kill me.
Drive. Drive.
She shoved at Rick's body, struggling to move
him off the gear-shift, his ruined face oozing
blood, turning her hands slippery. She managed
to yank the gear into reverse, and hit the gas.
The Lexus lurched backward, out of the stall.
The shooter was somewhere behind her,
moving in.
Sobbing with the effort, she pushed Rick's
face off the gear-shift and her fingers sank into
bloodied meat. She jammed the gear into drive.
The rear window exploded, and she cringed
as glass showered her hair.
She floored the accelerator. The Lexus
screeched forward. The shooter had cut off her
nearest parking lot exit; there was only one direction
she could go now, toward the adjoining
parking lot for the Boston University Medical
Center. The two lots were separated only by a
curb. She drove straight toward that curb,
bracing herself for the bump. Felt her chin
snap forward, her teeth slam together, as her
tires bounced up over the concrete.
Another bullet flew; the windshield disintegrated.
Maura ducked as shattered glass rained
onto the dashboard, pelleting her face. The
Lexus careened forward, out of control. She
glanced up to see the lamppost straight ahead.
Unavoidable. She closed her eyes just before
the air bag exploded. She was slammed back
against her seat.
Slowly she opened her eyes, stunned. Her
horn blasted, unceasing. It did not stop, even
as she rolled away from the collapsed air bag,
even as she shoved open her door and tumbled
out, onto the pavement.
She staggered to her feet, ears ringing from
the horn's continuing blare. Managed to duck
behind the cover of a nearby parked car. Legs
unsteady, she forced herself to keep moving
along that row of cars, until she suddenly came
to a stop.
A wide expanse of open pavement lay in
front of her.
She dropped to her knees behind a tire and
peered around the bumper. Felt the blood
freeze in her veins as she saw the dark figure
stride out of the shadows, relentless as a machine,
moving toward the smashed Lexus. It
stepped beneath the pool of light cast by the
streetlamp.
Maura saw the glint of blond hair, the streak
of a pony tail.
The shooter yanked open the passenger
door and leaned inside to look at Ballard's
body. Suddenly her head popped up again and
she stared, head swiveling, her gaze sweeping
the parking lot.
Maura ducked back behind the wheel. Her
pulse throbbed in her temples, her breaths
were gulps of panic. She looked toward the
empty pavement, starkly lit by another street-lamp.
Beyond it, across the street, was the
bright red EMERGENCY sign for the Medical
Center ER. She had only to make it across that
open pavement, and then across Albany Street.
Already, the blare of her car horn must be attracting
the attention of hospital personnel.
So close. Help is so close.
Heart banging, she rocked onto the balls of
her feet. Afraid to move, afraid to stay. Slowly
she eased forward and peered around the tire.
Black boots were planted right on the other
side of the car.
Run.
In an instant she was sprinting straight for
that open pavement. No thought of evasive
moves, no dodging left and right, just all-out
panicked flight. The red EMERGENCY sign
glowed ahead of her. I can make it, she thought.
I can--
The bullet was like a slam to her shoulder. It
sent her pitching forward, sprawling onto
blacktop. She tried to rise to her knees, but her
left arm collapsed beneath her. What's wrong
with my arm, she thought, why can't I use my
arm? Groaning, she rolled onto her back and
saw the glare of the parking-lot lamp shining
above her.
The face of Carmen Ballard moved into view.
"I killed you once," Carmen said. "Now I
have to do it all over again."
"Please. Rick and I--we never--"
"He wasn't yours to take." Carmen raised
her gun. The barrel was a dark eye, staring at
Maura. "Fucking whore." Her hand tensed,
about to squeeze off the killing shot.
Another voice suddenly cut in--a man's.
"Drop the weapon!"
Carmen blinked in surprise. Glanced sideways.
Standing a few yards away was a hospital security
guard, his gun trained on Carmen. "Did
you hear me, lady?" he barked. "Drop it!"
Carmen's aim wavered. She glanced down at
Maura, then back at the guard, her rage, her
hunger for revenge, battling with the reality of
the consequences.
"We were never lovers," said Maura, her
voice so weak she wondered if Carmen could
hear it through the far-off bleat of the car
horn. "Neither were they."
"Liar." Carmen's gaze snapped back to
Maura. "You're just like her. He left me because
of her. He left me."
"That wasn't Anna's fault--"
. "Yes it was. And now it's yours." She kept
her focus on Maura, even as tires screeched to a
stop. Even as a new voice yelled:
"Officer Ballard! Drop the weapon!"
Rizzoli.
Carmen glanced sideways, a last calculating
look as she weighed her choices. Two weapons
were now trained on her. She had lost; no matter what she chose, her life was over. As Carmen
stared back down at her, Maura could see,
in her eyes, the decision she'd made. Maura
watched as Carmen's arms straightened, steadying
her aim on Maura, the barrel poised for
its final blast. She watched Carmen's hands
tighten around the grip, preparing to squeeze
off the killing shot.
The blast shocked Maura. It knocked Carmen
sideways; she staggered. Fell.
Maura heard pounding footsteps, a crescendo
of sirens. And a familiar voice murmuring, "Oh,
Jesus. Doc!"
She saw Rizzoli's face hovering above
her. Lights pulsed on the street. All around her
shadows approached. Ghosts, welcoming her
to their world.
THIRTY-TWO


SEEING IT FROM the other side now. As a patient,
not a doctor, the ceiling lights flickering
past her as the gurney rolled down the hall, as
the nurse in a bouffant cap glanced down, concern
in her eyes. The wheels squeaked and the
nurse panted a little as she pushed the gurney
through double doors, into the operating
room. Different lights glared overhead now,
harsher, blinding. Like the lights of the autopsy
room.

Maura closed her eyes against them. As the
OR nurses transferred her to the table, she
thought of Anna, lying naked beneath identical
lamps, her body carved open, strangers peering
down at her. She felt Anna's spirit hovering
above her, watching, just as Maura had once
stared down at Anna. My sister, she thought as
the pentobarbital slid into her veins, as the
lights faded. Are you waiting for me?
But when she awakened, it wasn't Anna she
saw; it was Jane Rizzoli. Slats of daylight glowed
through the partially closed blinds, casting
bright horizontal bars across Rizzoli's face as she
leaned toward Maura.
"Hey, Doc."
"Hey," Maura whispered back.
"How're you feeling?"
"Not so good. My arm ..." Maura winced.
"Looks like it's time for more drugs." Rizzoli
reached over and pressed the nurse's call
button.
"Thank you. Thank you for everything."
They fell silent as the nurse came in to inject
a dose of morphine into the IV. The silence
lingered after the nurse had left, and the drug
began to work its magic.
Maura said, softly: "Rick ..."
"I'm sorry. You do know he's ..."
I know. She blinked back tears. "We never
had a chance."
"She wasn't about to let you have a chance.
That claw mark in your car door--that was all
about him. About staying away from her hus
band. The slashed screens, the dead bird in the
mailbox--all the threats Anna blamed on Cas-sell--I
think that was Carmen, trying to scare
Anna into leaving town. Into leaving her husband
alone."
"But then Anna came back to Boston."
Rizzoli nodded. "She came back, because
she learned she had a sister."
Me.
"So Carmen finds out that the girlfriend's
back in town," said Rizzoli. "Anna left that
message on Rick's answering machine, remember?
The daughter heard it and told her
mother. There goes any hope Carmen had of a
reconciliation. The other woman was moving
in again, on her territory. Her family."
Maura remembered what Carmen had said:
He wasn't yours to take.
"Charles Cassell said something to me,
about love," said Rizzoli. "He said, there's a
kind of love that never lets go, no matter what.
It sounds almost romantic, doesn't it? Till
death do us part. Then you think about how
many people get killed because a lover won't let
go, won't give up."
By now, the morphine had spread through
her bloodstream. Maura closed her eyes, welcoming
the drug's embrace. "How did you
know?" she murmured. "Why did you think of
Carmen?"
"The Black Talon. That's the clue I should
have followed all along--that bullet. But I got
thrown off the track by the Lanks. By the
Beast."
"So did I," whispered Maura. She felt the
morphine dragging her toward sleep. "I think
I'm ready, Jane. For the answer."
"The answer to what?"
"Amalthea. I need to know."
"If she's your mother?"
"Yes."
"Even if she is, it doesn't mean a thing. It's
just biology. What do you gain by that knowledge?"
"The truth." Maura sighed. "At least I'll
know the truth."

The truth, thought Rizzoli as she walked to her
car, is seldom what people really want to hear.
Wouldn't it be better to hold on to the thinnest
sliver of hope that you are not the spawn of
monsters? But Maura had asked for the facts,
and Rizzoli knew they would be brutal. Already,
searchers had found two sets of women's remains buried on the forested slope, not far
from where Mattie Purvis had been confined.
How many other pregnant women had known
the terrors of that same box? How many had
awakened in the darkness and had clawed,
shrieking, at those impenetrable walls? How
many had understood, as Mattie had, that a
terrible finale waited in store for them once
their usefulness, as living incubators, was over?
Could I have survived that horror? I'll
never know the answer. Not until I'm the one
in the box.
When she reached her car in the parking
garage, she found herself checking all four tires
to confirm they were intact, found herself scanning
the cars around her, searching for anyone
who might be watching. This is what the job
does to you, she thought; you begin to feel evil
all around you, even when it's not there.
She climbed into her Subaru and started the
engine. Sat for a moment as it idled, as the air
blowing from the vents slowly cooled down.
She reached into her purse for the cell phone,
thinking: I need to hear Gabriel's voice. I need
to know that I am not Mattie Purvis, that my
husband does love me. The way I love him.
Her call was answered on the first ring.
"Agent Dean."
"Hey," she said.
Gabriel gave a startled laugh. "I was about
to call you."
"L miss you."
"That's what I was hoping you'd say. I'm
heading to the airport now."
"The airport? Does that mean--"
"I'm catching the next flight to Boston. So
how about a date with your husband tonight?
Think you can pencil me in?"
"In permanent ink. Just come home. Please,
come home."
A pause. Then he said, softly: "Are you okay, Jane"
Unexpected tears stung her eyes. "Oh, it's
these goddamn hormones." She wiped her face
and laughed. "I think I need you right now."
"You hold that thought. Because I'm on
my way."

Rizzoli was smiling as she drove toward Natick
to visit a different hospital, a different patient.
The other survivor in this tale of slaughter.
These are two extraordinary women, she
thought, and I'm privileged to know them both.
Judging by all the TV vans in the hospital
parking lot, and all the reporters milling near
the lobby entrance, the press, too, had decided
that Mattie Purvis was a woman worth knowing.
Rizzoli had to walk through a gantlet of
reporters to get into the lobby. The tale of the
lady buried in the box had set off a national
news frenzy. Rizzoli had to flash her ID to two
different security guards before finally being allowed to knock on Mattie's hospital room
door. When she heard no answer, she stepped
into the room.
The TV was on, but with the sound off. Images
flickered onscreen, unwatched. Mattie lay
in bed, eyes closed, looking nothing like the
well-scrubbed young bride in the wedding
photo. Her lips were bruised and swollen; her
face was a map of nicks and scratches. A coiled
IV tube was taped to a hand which had
scabbed fingers and broken nails. It looked like
the claw of a feral creature. But the expression
on Mattie's face was serene; it was a sleep without
nightmares.
"Mrs. Purvis?" said Rizzoli softly.
Mattie opened her eyes and blinked a few
times before she fully focused on her visitor.
"Oh. Detective Rizzoli, you're back again."
"I thought I'd check in on you. How're you
feeling today?"
Mattie gave a deep sigh. "So much better.
What time is it?"
"Nearly noon."
"I've slept all morning?"
"You deserve it. No, don't sit up, just take it
easy."
"But I'm tired of being flat on my back."
Mattie pushed back the covers and sat up, uncombed
hair falling in limp tangles.
"I saw your baby through the nursery window.
She's beautiful."
"Isn't she?" Mattie smiled. "I'm going to call
her Rose. I've always liked that name."
Rose. A shiver went through Rizzoli. It was
just a coincidence, one of those unexplainable
convergences in the universe. Alice Rose. Rose
Purvis. One girl long dead, the other just beginning
her life. Yet another thread, however
fragile, that connected the lives of two girls
across the decades.
"Did you have more questions for me?"
Mattie asked.
"Well, actually ..." Rizzoli pulled a chair
next to the bed and sat down. "I asked you so
many things yesterday, Mattie. But I never
asked you how you did it. How you managed."
"Managed?"
"To stay sane. To not give up.
The smile on Matties lips faded. She looked
at Rizzoli with wide, haunted eyes and mur
mured: "I don't know how I did it. I never imagined
I could ever ..." She stopped. "I wanted to
live, that's all. I wanted my baby to live."
They were quiet for a moment.
Then Rizzoli said: "I should warn you about
the press. They're all going to want a piece of
you. I had to walk through a whole mob of
them outside. So far, the hospital's managed to
keep them away from you, but when you get
home, it's going to be a different story. Especially
since ..." Rizzoli paused.
"Since what?"
"I just want you to be prepared, that's all.
Don't let anyone rush you into something you
don't want to do."
Mattie frowned. Then her gaze lifted to the
muted TV, where the noon news was playing.
"He's been on every channel," she said.
On the screen, Dwayne Purvis stood before
a sea of microphones. Mattie reached for the
TV remote and turned up the volume.
"This is the happiest day of my life," Dwayne
said to the crowd of reporters. "I have my wonderful
wife and daughter back. It's been an ordeal
I can't even begin to describe. A nightmare
that none of you could possibly imagine. Thank
God, thank God for happy endings."
Mattie pressed the OFF button. But her gaze
remained on the blank TV. "It doesn't feel
real," she said. "It's like it never happened.
That's why I can sit here and be so calm about
it, because I don't believe I was really there, in
that box."
"You were, Mattie. It's going to take time
for you to process it. You might have nightmares.
Flashbacks. You'll step into an elevator,
or look into a closet, and suddenly you'll feel
like you're back in the box again. But it will get
better, I promise you. Just remember that--it
does get better."
Mattie looked at her with glistening eyes.
"You know."
Yes, I know, thought Rizzoli, her hands closing
over the scars on her palms. They were the
evidence of her own ordeal, her own battle for
sanity. Survival is only the first step.
There was a knock on the door. Rizzoli
stood up as Dwayne Purvis walked in, carrying
an armful of red roses. He went straight to his
wife's bedside.
"Hey, babe. I would have come up sooner,
but it's a zoo down there. They all wanted
interviews."
"We saw you on TV," said Rizzoli. Trying to
sound neutral, though she could not look at him without remembering the interview at the
Natick police station. Oh, Mattie, she thought.
You can do better than this man.
He turned to look at Rizzoli, and she saw
his tailored shirt, his neatly knotted silk tie.
The scent of his aftershave overwhelmed the
fragrance of the roses. "So how'd I do?" he
asked eagerly.
She told the truth. "You looked like a real
pro on TV."
"Yeah? It's amazing, all the cameras out
there. This has got everyone so excited." He
looked at his wife. "You know, hon, we need to
document everything. Just so we have a record
of it."
"What do you mean?"
"Like, right now. This moment. We should
have a picture of this moment. Me bringing
you flowers as you lie in your hospital bed. I've
already got pictures of the kid. Had the nurse
bring her up to the window. But we need to get
close-ups. You holding her, maybe."
"Her name is Rose."
"And we don't have any of you and me together.
We definitely need a few photos of us. I
brought a camera."
"My hair isn't combed, Dwayne. I'm a mess.
I don't want any pictures."
"Come on. They're all asking for 'em."
"Who is? Who are the pictures for?"
"That's something we can decide later. We
can take our time, weigh all the offers. The
story's worth so much more if it comes with
photos." He pulled a camera from his pocket
and handed it to Rizzoli. "Here, you mind taking
the picture?"
"It's up to your wife."
"It's okay, it's okay," he insisted. "Just take
the picture." He leaned in close to Mattie and
extended the bouquet of roses to her. "How
about this? Me handing her the flowers. It'll
look great." He smiled, teeth gleaming, the
loving husband sheltering his wife.
Rizzoli looked at Mattie. She saw no protest in her gaze, just a strange, volcanic gleam that
she could not interpret. She raised the camera,
centered the couple in the viewfinder, and
pressed the shutter release.
The flash went off, just in time to capture
the image of Mattie Purvis whacking her husband
across the face with the bouquet of roses.
THIRTY-THREE


Four weeks later


there was no playacting this time, no
pretense of madness. Amalthea Lank walked
into the private interview room and sat down
at the table, and the look she aimed at Maura
was clear-eyed and perfectly sane. Her previously
disheveled hair was now pulled back in a
tidy ponytail, thrusting her features into stark
prominence. Staring at Amaltheas high cheekbones,
her direct gaze, Maura wondered: Why
did I refuse to see it before? It's so obvious. I
am looking at my own face twenty-five years
from now.
"I knew you'd come back," said Amalthea.
"And here you are."
"Do you know why I'm here?"
"You've gotten back the test results, haven't
you? Now you know I was telling the truth.
Even if you didn't want to believe me."
"I needed proof. People lie all the time, but
DNA doesn't."
"Still, you must have known the answer.
Even before your precious lab test came back."
Amalthea leaned forward in the chair and regarded
her with an almost intimate smile.
"You have your father's mouth, Maura. Do
you know that? And you have my eyes, my
cheekbones. I see Elijah and me right there, on
your face. We're family. We have the same
blood. You, me, Elijah. And your brother." She
paused. "You do know that's who he was?"
Maura swallowed. "Yes." The one baby you
kept. You sold my sister and me, but you kept
your son.
"You never told me how Samuel died," said
Amalthea. "How that woman killed him."
"It was self-defense. That's all you need to
know. She had no choice but to fight back."
"And who is this woman, Matilda Purvis?
I'd like to know more about her."
Maura said nothing
"I saw her picture on TV. She didn't look so
special to me. I don't see how she could have
done it."
"People do anything to survive."
"Where does she live? What street? They
said on TV that she's from Natick."
Maura stared into her mother's dark eyes and
suddenly felt a chill. Not for herself, but for
Mattie Purvis. "Why do you want to know?"
"I have a right to know. As a mother."
"A mother?" Maura almost laughed. "Do
you really think you deserve that title?"
"But I am his mother. And you're Samuel's
sister." Amalthea leaned closer. "It's our right
to know. We're his family, Maura. There's
nothing in this life that's thicker than blood."
Maura stared into eyes so eerily like her
own, and she recognized the matching intelligence
there, even the gleam of brilliance. But it
was a light that had gone askew, a twisted reflection
in a shattered mirror.
"Blood means nothing," said Maura.
"Then why are you here?"
"I came because I wanted to get one last
look at you. And then I'm going to walk away.
Because I've decided that, no matter what the
DNA may say, you're not my mother."
"Then who is?"
"The woman who loved me. You don't
know how to love."
"I loved your brother. I could love you."
Amalthea reached across the table and caressed
Maura's cheek. Such a gentle touch, as warm as
a real mother's hand. "Give me the chance,"
she whispered.
"Good-bye, Amalthea." Maura stood up
and pressed the button to call the guard. "I'm
finished here," she said into the intercom. "I'm
ready to leave."
"You'll come back," said Amalthea.
Maura did not look at her, did not even
glance over her shoulder as she walked out of
the room. As she heard Amalthea call out behind
her: "Maura! You will come back."
In the visitors' locker room, Maura stopped
to reclaim her purse, her driver's license, her
credit cards. All the proof of her identity. But I
already know who I am, she thought.
And I know who I am not.
Outside, in the heat of a summer afternoon,
Maura paused and took a deep breath. She felt
the day's warmth cleanse the taint of prison
from her lungs. Felt, too, the poison of Amalthea
Lank wash out of her life.
In her face, her eyes, Maura wore the proof
of her parentage. In her veins flowed the blood
of murderers. But evil was not hereditary.
Though she might carry its potential in her
genes, so too did every child ever born. In this,
I am no different. We are all descended from
monsters.
She walked away from that building of captive
souls. Ahead was her car, and the road
home. She did not look back.