Symbol of the martyr.
The card slips out of my fingers and flutters to the floor.
“These must be from one of my old admirers,” Victoria says. “How weird that he didn’t sign his name. Oh, well.” She laughs. “A gal does love a little mystery in her life. He could have just come up and said hello. I wonder if he’s here right now?”
I glance wildly around the bookstore. I see women browsing the shelves and three studious-looking young men hunched over their textbooks. And Everett. He notices I’m rattled, and he’s frowning as he comes toward me.
“Holly? What’s wrong?”
“I need to go home.” I snatch up my coat. My hands are shaking. “I’ll call you later.”
THROUGH THE CLOSED DOOR OF the Crazy Ruby Films studio, Jane and Frost heard a woman’s terrified shrieks, and Jane snorted. “If those kids want real nightmares, they should spend a night with us.”
The door opened and a dazed-looking Travis Chang stood blinking at them. He was wearing the same ratty SCREAMFEST FILM FESTIVAL T-shirt he’d been wearing on their first visit, and his unwashed hair stood up in black tufts like greasy devil’s horns. “Oh. Hey, you’re back.”
“Yeah, we’re back,” said Jane. “We need to show you something.”
“Uh, we’re right in the thick of editing.”
“This won’t take long.”
Travis cast an embarrassed glance over his shoulder. “I just want to warn you, it’s kinda ripe in here. You know how things get when you’re, like, totally in the zone.”
Judging by the condition of the studio, in the zone was not anyplace Jane cared to ever be. The room was even more disgusting than when they’d first visited, the trash cans overflowing with pizza boxes and Red Bull cans. Every horizontal surface was covered with wadded napkins, pens, notebooks, and electronics. The air smelled like scorched popcorn and dirty socks.
Slouched on the sofa were Travis’s colleagues, Ben and Amber, who, judging by their sallow faces, hadn’t been out of the building in days. They didn’t even look up at their visitors but kept their eyes locked on the big-screen TV, where a buxom blonde in a low-cut T-shirt was desperately barricading a door against something that was trying to pound its way in. An ax blade splintered the wood. The blonde shrieked.
Travis hit the PAUSE button, freezing the blonde’s face in mid-scream.
“What’re you doing, man?” Ben protested. “We’re up against the clock here.”
“We’re trying to make the deadline for horror-film festivals,” Travis explained to Jane and Frost. “Mr. Simian needs to be submitted in three weeks.”
“When can we see it?” asked Jane.
“Not yet. We’re still editing and the soundtrack’s in progress. Plus we’ve got a few special effects to tweak.”
“I thought you guys ran out of money.”
The three filmmakers looked at one another. Amber sighed. “We are out of money,” she said. “So we all took out loans. And Ben sold his car.”
“You kids are really going to gamble everything on this?”
“What else are we going to gamble on, if not our own creation?”
They were probably going to lose their filthy-looking shirts, but Jane had to admire their confidence.
“I watched I See You,” said Frost. “It wasn’t bad. It should’ve made money.”
Travis perked up. “You think so?”
“Better than a lot of horror films I’ve seen.”
“Exactly! We know we can make as good a movie as any big studio. We just have to hang in there and keep telling good stories. Even if it means risking everything.”
Jane pointed to the blonde on the TV screen. “I think I’ve seen that actress before. What else has she been in?”
“As far as I know, this was her first acting gig,” said Ben. “She just has one of those universal faces.”
“Standard hot blonde with perfect teeth,” observed Jane.
“Yeah, they make the best victims.” Ben paused. “Sorry. I guess that was in bad taste, considering…”
“You said you wanted to show us something,” said Travis.
“Yeah. We want you to look at a photo.” Jane glanced around the room for some open space to set down her laptop.
Travis swept away the pizza debris from the coffee table. “Here ya go.”
Avoiding a clump of cheese that had congealed on the table, Jane set down her laptop and opened the photo file. “These are screen captures from Cassandra’s memorial service. We had a surveillance camera set up at the entrance to videotape the faces of everyone who attended.”
“You recorded the whole thing?” said Amber. “That’s really creepy, recording people without their knowledge. It’s like Big Brother watching us.”
“It’s like a homicide investigation.” Jane turned the laptop screen to face them. “Do you recognize this woman?”
As the three filmmakers crowded around the laptop, Jane caught a powerful whiff of stale breath and dirty laundry, a stench that brought her straight back to her brothers’ sleepovers, when every square inch of carpet was covered with sleeping bags and teenage boys.
Amber squinted through her black-framed glasses at the photo. “I don’t remember seeing her, but there were a lot of people. Plus I was kinda weirded out about being in church.”
“Why?” asked Frost.
Amber blinked at him. “I’m always worried I’ll do something wrong and God’ll strike me down with lightning.”
“Hey, I think I remember this woman,” said Ben. He leaned forward, absently stroking the week-old stubble on his chin. “She was sitting across the aisle from us. I gave her a good long look.”
Amber punched his arm. “You would.”
“No, no, it’s ’cause she has an interesting face. I’ve got an eye for who’ll pop on camera, and look at her. Nice cheekbones, great facial architecture, easy to light. And a big head.”
“Is that good or bad?” said Jane. “A big head.”
“Oh, it’s good. A big head fills the screen, calls attention to itself. Gee, I wonder if she can act.”
“We don’t even know who she is,” said Jane. “We were hoping one of you might recognize her.”
“That was the only time I’ve ever seen her,” said Ben. “At Cassie’s funeral.”
“You’re sure you haven’t seen her anywhere else? Did she come by this studio, ever hang out with Cassandra?”
“Nope.” Ben glanced at his colleagues, and they shook their heads.
“Why are you asking about this woman?” said Travis.
“We’re trying to find what her connection is to Cassandra and why she showed up at the church. Cassandra’s stepmother doesn’t know her. None of Cassandra’s neighbors do either.”
“What’s the big deal? It’s not a crime to show up at a stranger’s funeral,” said Amber.
“No. But it’s odd.”
“There were a lot of people at that service. Why are you asking about this woman in particular?”
“Because she showed up somewhere else.” Jane tapped on the keyboard, and the second image of the mystery woman appeared onscreen. It was a harshly lit photo taken in the cold light of a winter morning.
“It’s her again,” said Amber.
“But different background, different light. Different day,” noted Ben.
“Exactly,” confirmed Jane. “This was from a surveillance video at a different memorial service. Notice there’s a man holding hands with our mystery woman. Do you recognize him?”
All three filmmakers shook their heads.
“So what’s the deal with this woman? Does she like to go to random funerals?” asked Ben.
“I don’t think she chooses them at random. This second funeral was for a different homicide victim.”
“Oh, wow. She’s a murder junkie?” Ben looked at his colleagues again. “It’s right out of Kill Her Again, Sam.”
“What?” asked Frost.
“It’s a movie we worke
d on a few years ago, produced by a buddy of ours in L.A. About this Goth girl who goes to random funerals. She ends up catching the eye of a killer.”
“Did Cassandra work on that movie as well?”
“We all did, but we were just part of the crew. It’s not like the plot was special or anything. There really are people who go to the funerals of strangers. They feed off the grief. Or they want to be part of a community. Or they have an obsession with death. Maybe that’s what she is. Just some oddball who never even knew Cassandra.”
Jane looked at the young woman captured in the video. Dark-haired, beautiful, nameless. “I wonder what her reasons were for being there.”
“Who knows? That’s why we love making horror films, Detective,” said Travis. “The possibilities are endless.”
TIED TO A STAKE, SAINT Polycarp the martyr gazed serenely heavenward as the flames engulfed him, searing his skin and consuming his flesh. The man in this full-color illustration did not plead or shriek as he was burned alive on the pyre; no, he appeared to welcome the agony that would bring him straight to the arms of his Savior. Studying the image of Polycarp’s demise, Jane thought of the time she’d splattered herself with hot grease while frying chicken, and she imagined the pain of that burn magnified a thousandfold, the flames lighting her clothes, her hair. Unlike Saint Polycarp, she wouldn’t be gazing at heaven with a look of rapture. She’d be shrieking her head off.
Enough of this. She turned to the next page in the book, only to confront another martyr, another portrait of agony. The color illustration showed the death of Saint Erasmus of Formiae in all its bloody glory, with Erasmus stretched across a table as his torturers slit his belly open and wrapped his entrails around a windlass.
From her daughter’s bedroom came the sound of Regina giggling as Gabriel read her a bedtime story, jarringly happy sounds that made the images in The Book of Martyrs seem all the more grotesque.
The doorbell buzzed.
Relieved to set aside the relentlessly gruesome illustrations, she left the kitchen to greet the visitor.
Father Daniel Brophy looked thinner and wearier than the last time she’d seen him, only seven months ago. His face reminded her of the martyrs she’d just been studying, a man resigned to his miseries.
“Thank you for coming, Daniel,” said Jane.
“I’m not sure I can offer you much assistance, but I’m happy to try.” As he hung up his coat, childish laughter erupted from Regina’s bedroom.
“Gabriel’s putting her to bed. Let’s go talk in the kitchen.”
“Is Maura joining us?”
“No. It’s just you and me.”
Was that disappointment or relief she saw in his eyes? She led him into the kitchen, where he surveyed the books and papers spread across the table.
“I’ve been reading up on the saints,” she said. “Yeah, I know I should already know all this, but what can I say? Catechism class dropout.”
“I thought you weren’t convinced about Maura’s theory.”
“I’m still not sure I believe it, but I’ve learned it’s not smart to ignore her theories. Because more often than not, she turns out to be right.” Jane nodded at the Cassandra Coyle and Timothy McDougal files on the table. “The problem is, I haven’t been able to find anything that links these victims, except for the mystery woman who attended both their funerals. They had no friends in common; they lived in different neighborhoods, worked in different fields, and attended different colleges. But they were both drugged with ketamine and alcohol, and both were mutilated postmortem. Based on those mutilations, Maura believes the killer is obsessed with Catholic lore. That’s where you come in.”
“Because I’m your expert on saints and martyrs?”
“And you’re also familiar with religious symbols in art. That’s what Maura tells me.”
“I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by sacred art. I’m somewhat familiar with the iconography.”
“Then could you take another look at these crime-scene photos?” Jane slid her laptop across the table to him. “Tell me if anything new jumps out at you. Anything that might give us insight into this killer’s mind.”
“Maura and I have discussed these photos in detail. Shouldn’t she be part of this conversation?”
“No, I’d rather hear from you separately.” She added quietly, “It would be less complicated for you both, don’t you think?”
She saw a flash of pain in his eyes, as stark as if she’d just thrust a blade into his chest. He sagged back in his chair and nodded. “When she called me, I thought I was ready to handle it. I thought we could both move forward as friends.”
“Going on that retreat to Canada didn’t help change things?”
“No. The retreat felt more like going under anesthesia. A long, deep coma. For six months I managed not to feel anything. Then when she called, when I saw her again, it was like suddenly waking up from that coma. And the pain was back. As bad as ever.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Daniel. Sorry for both of you.”
From the bedroom came Regina’s voice, calling out, “Good night, Daddy!” Jane saw Daniel wince, and she wondered: Does he regret never marrying, never having children? Does he ever pine for the life he could have had if he’d never donned that priest’s collar?
“I want her to be happy,” he said. “Nothing is more important to me than that.”
“Nothing except your vows.”
He looked at her with haunted eyes. “I made a promise to God when I was fourteen years old. I pledged that—”
“Yes, Maura told me about your sister. She had childhood leukemia, is that right?”
He nodded. “The doctors told us it was terminal. She was only six years old, and all I could do for her was pray. God answered my prayers, and today Sophie’s alive and healthy. She has two beautiful adopted children.”
“And you really believe your sister’s alive only because of that deal you made with God?”
“You can’t understand. You’re not a believer.”
“I believe we’re each responsible for our own choices in life. You made your choice, for reasons that seemed right when you were fourteen. But now?” She shook her head. “Could God really be that cruel?”
The words must have stung, because he had no answer. He sat in silence, his hands resting on the illustrated book of saints and martyrs. Daniel too was a martyr, a man who’d accepted his fate as resolutely as Saint Polycarp, sacrificed to the flames.
Into that silence walked Gabriel, who came into the kitchen, saw their defeated-looking guest slumped in the chair, and gave Jane a questioning look. As a seasoned investigator, Gabriel was adept at assessing a scene, and he instantly understood that more than crime was being discussed in their kitchen. “Everything all right in here?” he asked.
Daniel glanced up, startled to see that Gabriel had joined them. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to contribute.”
“Intriguing theory, though, don’t you think? A killer who’s obsessed with religious iconography.”
“Has the FBI joined the investigation?”
“No, I’m just the interested spouse on this one. Jane’s spared me no details.”
Jane laughed. “If a couple can’t share a juicy murder, what’s the point of being married?”
Gabriel nodded at the laptop. “What do you think, Daniel? Has Boston PD missed anything?”
“The symbolism seems apparent,” said Daniel, clicking halfheartedly through the crime-scene photos. “The young woman’s mutilation certainly looks like it’s meant to represent Saint Lucy.” He paused at a photo taken in Cassandra’s kitchen, where the vase of flowers was displayed on the countertop. “And if you’re looking for religious symbols, you can find plenty of them in this bouquet. White lilies represent purity and virginity. Red roses symbolize martyrdom.” He paused. “Where did these flowers come from? Is it possible the killer—”
“No, that’s a birthday bouquet from her father. So any symbolis
m you see there is purely incidental.”
“She was killed on her birthday?”
“Three days later. December sixteenth.”
For a moment Daniel stared at the birthday flowers, meant for a girl who would live only three more days.
“When was the second victim killed?” he asked. “The young man?”
“December twenty-fourth. Why?”
“And when was his birthday?” Daniel glanced up at her, and she saw a spark of excitement in his eyes. Gabriel had also picked up on the new tension in the room and he joined them at the table, his gaze fixed on Daniel.
“Let me find the autopsy report,” Jane said, rifling through the file folders. “Here it is. Timothy McDougal. His date of birth was—”
“January twentieth?”
She looked up, startled. Said, softly: “Yes. January twentieth.”
“How did you know his birthday?” Gabriel asked.
“The liturgical calendar. Each saint is commemorated on a particular day. On January twentieth, we honor Saint Sebastian, who’s depicted in art with his body pierced by arrows.”
“And Saint Lucy? Which day is she honored?” asked Jane.
“December thirteenth.”
“Cassandra Coyle’s birthday.” Jane turned in astonishment to Gabriel. “That’s it! The killer chooses the form of mutilation based on the victim’s birthday! But how would he know what their birthdays are?”
“Driver’s licenses,” said Gabriel. “Young people at a bar, they almost always get carded. And both these victims had alcohol in their stomachs. So now you’re talking bartenders. Servers…”
“Tim McDougal was stabbed with arrows,” said Jane. “Did the killer have a stash of arrows handy, just in case he happened to run into someone born on January twentieth? He’d have to be a very well-equipped killer. Think of all the ways martyrs have been killed, with rocks and swords, cleavers and pincers. There’s even one guy beaten to death with wooden shoes.”