She looked up. “Whose?”
“The man who owned that book. This is all his.” He waved at the boxes. “He died last month, and now everything must be sold. If you are interested in such items, I have another one just like it.” He bent down to dig through another box and came up with a slim leather-bound book, its cover battered and stained. “The same author,” he said. “R. H. Charles.”
Not the same author, she thought, but the same translator. It was a 1913 edition of The Book of Jubilees, yet another holy text that predated the Christian era. Although she was familiar with the title Jubilees, she had never read this particular book. She lifted the cover, and the pages fell open to chapter ten, verse five, a passage that was also underlined in ink:
And thou knowest how thy Watchers, the fathers of these spirits, acted in my day: and as for these spirits which are living, imprison them and hold them fast in the place of condemnation, and let them not bring destruction on the sons of thy servant, my God; for these are malignant, and created in order to destroy.
In the margin, scrawled in the same ink, were the words: The sons of Seth. The daughters of Cain.
Lily closed the book and suddenly noticed the brown stains on the leather cover. Blood?
“Would you like to buy it?”
She looked up. “What happened to this man? The one who owned these books?”
“I told you. He died.”
“How?”
A shrug. “He lived alone. He was very old, very strange. They found him locked inside his apartment, with all these books piled up against the door. So he couldn’t even get out. Crazy, eh?”
Or terrified, she thought, of what might get in.
“I’ll give you a good price. Do you want it?”
She stared at the second book, thinking of its owner, lying dead and barricaded in his cluttered apartment, and she could almost smell the scent of decaying flesh wafting up from the pages. Repulsed though she was by the stains on the leather, she wanted this book. She wanted to know why the owner had scrawled those words in the margins and whether he had written anything else.
“Five Euros,” the dealer said.
For once, she did not dicker, but simply paid the asking price and walked away with the book.
It was raining hard by the time she climbed the dank stairwell to her flat. All afternoon it rained as she sat reading by the gray and watery light through her window. She read about Seth. The third son of Adam, Seth begat Enos, who begat Kenan. It was the same lofty bloodline from which later sprang the patriarchs Jared and Enoch, Methuselah and Noah. But from this very bloodline also sprang corrupted sons, wicked sons, who mated with the daughters of a murderous ancestor.
The daughters of Cain.
Lily stopped at another underlined passage, the words long ago marked by the man whose ghostly presence now seemed to hover at her shoulder, anxious to share his secrets, to whisper his warnings.
And lawlessness increased on the earth and all flesh corrupted its way, alike men and cattle and beasts and birds and everything that walks on the earth, all of them corrupted their ways and their orders, and they began to devour each other, and lawlessness increased on the earth and every imagination of the thoughts of all men was thus evil continually.
Daylight was fading. She had been sitting for so long, she’d lost all feeling in her limbs. Outside, rain continued to tap at the window, and on the streets of Rome, traffic rumbled and honked. But here, in her room, she sat in numb silence. A century before Christ, before the Apostles, these words were already old, written about a terror so ancient that today mankind no longer remembered it, no longer marked its presence.
She looked down, once again, at The Book of Jubilees, at the ominous words of Noah, spoken to his sons:
For I see, and behold the demons have begun their seductions against you and against your children and now I fear on your behalf, that after my death ye will shed the blood of men upon the earth and that ye, too, will be destroyed from the face of the earth.
The demons are still among us, she thought. And the bloodshed has already begun.
TWENTY-SIX
Jane and Maura drove west on the Massachusetts Turnpike, Jane at the wheel as they hurtled through a stark landscape of snow and bare trees. Even on this Sunday afternoon, they shared the highway with a convoy of monster trucks that dwarfed Jane’s Subaru as she sped around them like a daredevil gnat. It was better not to watch. Maura focused instead on Jane’s notes. The handwriting was a hurried scrawl, but it was no less legible than the scrawls of physicians, which Maura had long ago learned to decipher.
Sarah Parmley, 28 years old. Last seen 12/23 checking out of the Oakmont Motel.
“She vanished two weeks ago,” said Maura. “And they only just discovered her body?”
“She was found in a vacant house. Apparently, it’s somewhat isolated. The caretaker noticed her car parked outside. He also found that the house’s front door was unlocked, so he went in to investigate. He’s the one who discovered the body.”
“What was the victim doing in a vacant house?”
“No one knows. Sarah arrived in town on December twentieth to attend her aunt’s funeral. Everyone assumed that she’d returned home to California right after the service. But then her employer in San Diego started calling, looking for her. Even then, no one in town considered the possibility that Sarah had never left.”
“Look at the map, Jane. From upstate New York to Boston—the crime scenes are three hundred miles apart. Why would the killer transport her hand that far? Maybe it’s not hers.”
“It is her hand. I know it is. I tell you, the x-rays are going to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Check out the name of the town where Sarah’s body was found.”
“Purity, New York. It’s a quaint name, but it doesn’t mean a thing to me.”
“Sarah Parmley grew up in Purity. She graduated from high school there.”
“So?”
“So guess where Lori-Ann Tucker went to high school?”
Maura looked at her in surprise. “She’s from the same town?”
“You got it. And Lori-Ann Tucker was twenty-eight years old, too. Eleven years ago, they would have graduated from the same high school class.”
“Two victims who grew up in the same town, went to the same high school. They would have known each other.”
“And maybe that’s where this perp met them. This is how he chose them. Maybe he was obsessed with them since high school. Maybe they snubbed him, and he’s spent the last eleven years thinking about ways to get back at them. Then suddenly, Sarah shows up in Purity for her aunt’s funeral, and he sees her. Gets all pissed off again. Kills her and cuts off her hand as a souvenir. Has so much fun doing it that he decides to do it again.”
“So he drives all the way to Boston to kill Lori-Ann? It’s a long way to go for a thrill.”
“But not for good old-fashioned revenge.”
Maura stared at the road, thinking. “If it was all about revenge, why did he call Joyce O’Donnell that night? Why did he turn his rage on her?”
“Only she knew the answer to that. And she refused to share the secret with us.”
“And why write on my door? What’s the message there?”
“You mean, I have sinned?”
Maura flushed. Closing the folder, she sat with clenched hands pressing against the file. So it was back to that again. The one subject she had no wish to talk about.
“I told Frost about it,” said Jane.
Maura said nothing, just kept her gaze focused straight ahead.
“He needed to know. He’s already spoken to Father Brophy.”
“You should have let me talk to Daniel first.”
“Why?”
“So he wouldn’t be completely taken by surprise.”
“That we know about you two?”
“Don’t sound so damn judgmental.”
“I wasn’t aware tha
t I did.”
“I can hear it in your voice. I don’t need this.”
“Then it’s a good thing you didn’t hear what Frost had to say about it.”
“You think this doesn’t happen all the time? People fall in love, Jane. They make mistakes.”
“But not you!” Jane sounded almost angry, betrayed. “I always thought you were smarter than this.”
“No one’s that smart.”
“This can’t go anywhere and you know it. If you ever expect him to marry you—”
“I’ve already tried marriage, remember? That was a rousing success.”
“And what do you think you’re going to get out of this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do. First there’ll be all the whispers. Your neighbors wondering why that priest’s car is always parked outside your house. Then you’ll have to sneak out of town just to spend time with each other. But eventually, someone’s going to see you two together. And then the gossip starts. It’ll just get more and more awkward. Embarrassing. How long are you going to be able to keep that up? How long before he’s forced to make a choice?”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“You think he’ll choose you?”
“Cut it out, Jane.”
“Well, do you?” The question was unnecessarily brutal, and for a moment Maura considered getting out at the next town, calling for a rental car, and driving home by herself.
“I’m old enough to make my own choices,” she said.
“But what’s his choice going to be?”
Maura turned her head to stare out the window at snowy fields, at toppling fence posts half-buried in drifts. If he doesn’t choose me, will I really be all that surprised? He can tell me again and again how much he loves me. But will he ever leave his church for me?
Jane sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s my life, not yours.”
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s your life.” Jane shook her head and laughed. “Man, the whole world’s gone totally bonkers. I can’t count on anything anymore. Not a single goddamn thing.” She drove for a moment in silence, squinting at the setting sun. “I didn’t tell you about my own wonderful news.”
“What news?”
“My parents have split up.”
At last Maura looked at her. “When did this happen?”
“Right after Christmas. Thirty-seven years of marriage, and my dad suddenly goes sniffing after some blondie from work.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Then this thing with you and Brophy—it’s like everyone’s gone sex crazy. You. My idiot dad. Even my mom.” She paused. “Vince Korsak asked her out on a date. That’s how weird everything’s gotten.” Suddenly Jane gave a groan. “Oh, Christ. I just thought about it. Do you realize that he could end up being my stepdad?”
“The world hasn’t gone that crazy.”
“It could happen.” Jane shuddered. “It gives me the creeps just thinking about the two of them.”
“Then don’t think about it.”
Jane gritted her teeth. “I’m trying not to.”
And I’ll try not to think of Daniel.
But as they continued driving west toward the setting sun, through the city of Springfield and into the rolling Berkshire Hills, all she could think about was him. She breathed in and could still smell his scent, crossed her arms and could still feel his touch, as though the memories were engraved on her skin. And she wondered: Is it the same for you, Daniel? When you stood before your congregation this morning and looked around at the faces watching you, waiting for your words, was it my face you sought, my face you thought about?
By the time they crossed the state line into New York, night had fallen. Her cell phone rang, and in the dark car it took her a moment to find it among the jumbled contents of her purse. “Dr. Isles,” she answered.
“Maura, it’s me.”
At the sound of Daniel’s voice, she felt her cheeks flame and was glad that darkness masked her face from Jane’s gaze.
“Detective Frost came to see me,” he said.
“I had to tell them.”
“Of course you had to. But I wish you’d called me about it. You should have told me.”
“I’m sorry. It must have been so embarrassing, to hear it from him first.”
“No, I mean about the writing on your door. I had no idea. I would have been there for you in an instant. You shouldn’t have had to face that alone.”
She paused, acutely aware that Jane was listening to every word. And would no doubt express her disapproval the instant the call ended.
“I went by your house a little while ago,” he said. “I was hoping to find you at home.”
“I’m going to be away tonight.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the car with Jane. We just passed through Albany a while ago.”
“You’re in New York? Why?”
“They’ve found another victim. We think…” Jane’s hand suddenly closed around Maura’s arm, an unmistakable warning that the less revealed, the better. Jane didn’t trust him anymore, now that he’d proven himself to be all too human. “I can’t talk about it,” she said.
There was a silence on the line. Then, a quiet “I understand.”
“There are details we have to keep confidential.”
“You don’t need to explain. I know how it works.”
“Can I call you back later?” When there isn’t another pair of ears listening.
“You don’t have to, Maura.”
“I want to.” I need to.
She hung up and stared at a night pierced only by the beams of their headlights. They had left the turnpike behind them, and their route now took them southwest, on a road that cut through snow-covered fields. Here, the only lights they saw came from the occasional passing car or the glow of a distant farmhouse.
“You’re not going to talk to him about the case, are you?” asked Jane.
“Even if I did, he’s perfectly discreet. I’ve always trusted him.”
“Well, so did I.”
“Meaning you don’t anymore?”
“You’re in lust, Doc. That’s not the best time to trust your judgment.”
“We both know this man.”
“And I never thought—”
“What, that he’d sleep with me?”
“I’m just saying, you may think you know someone. And then they surprise you. They do something you never expected, and you realize you’re in the dark about everyone. Everyone. If you told me a few months ago that my dad would leave my mom for some bimbo, I’d have said you were nuts. I’m telling you, people are a goddamn mystery. Even the people we love.”
“And now you don’t trust Daniel.”
“Not when it comes to that vow of chastity.”
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about this investigation. About telling him details that concern both of us.”
“He’s not a cop. He doesn’t have to hear a thing.”
“He was with me last night. The writing on my door was directed at him, too.”
“You mean, I have sinned?”
Heat flooded Maura’s face. “Yes,” she said.
For a moment they drove without speaking. The only sounds were the tires on the road, the hiss of the car heater.
“I respected Brophy, okay?” said Jane. “He’s been good to Boston PD. When we need a priest on the scene, he comes right over, any time of night. I liked him.”
“Then why have you turned against him?”
Jane looked at her. “Because I happen to like you, too.”
“You certainly don’t give me that impression.”
“Yeah? Well, when you do something unexpected like this, something so self-destructive, it makes me wonder.”
“What?”
“If I really know you, either.”
It was after eight when they finally pulled into the parking lot of Lourdes Hospital in
Binghamton. Maura was not inclined to make small talk as she stepped out of the car, her muscles stiff from the long journey. They had stopped only briefly for a silent dinner at a rest stop McDonald’s, and her stomach was unsettled by Jane’s driving, by the hastily devoured meal, but most of all by the tension between them, now spun so tight that one more twist could snap it. She has no right to judge me, Maura thought as they trudged past drifts of plowed snow. Jane was married and happy and so fucking morally superior. What did she know about Maura’s life, about the nights she spent alone watching old movies or playing the piano to an empty house? The gap between their lives yawned too wide to be bridged by real friendship. And what do I have in common, anyway, with this blunt and uncompromising bitch? Not a thing.
They walked in through the ER entrance, cold wind sweeping in with them as the automatic doors slid shut. Jane crossed straight to the triage window and called out, “Hello? Can I get some information out here?”
“Are you Detective Rizzoli?” said a voice behind them.
They had not seen him sitting alone in the patient waiting area. Now he rose to his feet, a wan-faced man wearing a tweed jacket over a hunter-green sweater. Not a cop, guessed Maura, noting his shaggy head of hair, and he quickly confirmed her impression.
“I’m Dr. Kibbie,” he said. “Thought I’d wait for you out here, so you wouldn’t have to find your own way down to the morgue.”
“Thanks for meeting us tonight,” said Jane. “This is Dr. Isles, from our ME’s office.”
Maura shook his hand. “You’ve already done the autopsy?”
“Oh, no. I’m not a pathologist, just a humble internist. There are four of us who rotate as Chenango County coroners. I do the preliminary death investigation and decide if a postmortem is called for. The autopsy itself will probably be done tomorrow afternoon, assuming the Onondaga County ME can make it down here from Syracuse.”
“You must have your own pathologist in this county.”
“Yes, but in this particular case…” Kibbie shook his head. “Unfortunately, we know this murder’s going to generate publicity. A lot of interest. Plus, it could end up in a splashy criminal trial someday, and our pathologist wanted to bring in another ME on the case as well. Just so there’ll be no question about their conclusions. Safety in numbers, you know.” He picked up his overcoat from the chair. “The elevator’s that way.”