“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?”
“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, ev
en 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 hundred 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?”