While Maura can’t. She was suddenly, achingly aware of all the sensations that Maura would never again experience. The cold air rushing in and out of her lungs. The warmth of a man’s arms around her. I may be ready to go home, she thought. But I’m not finished asking questions.
“Hey!” a voice shouted from above. “What are you people doing down there?”
They both looked up to see a man standing on the road above.
Gabriel waved and called back: “We’re coming up!”
The climb was far harder than the descent. The new accumulation of powder masked treacherous ice, and the wind kept puffing snow into their faces. Gabriel was first to reach the road and Jane scrambled up after him, breathing hard.
A battered pickup truck was parked at the side of the road. Beside it stood a silver-haired man holding a rifle, the barrel pointed to the ground. His face was deeply weathered, as though he’d spent a lifetime in the harsh outdoors, and his boots and ranch coat looked equally well worn. Although he appeared to be in his seventies, he stood as straight and unyielding as a pine tree.
“That’s an accident scene down there,” the man said. “Not a place for tourists.”
“We’re aware of that, sir,” said Gabriel.
“It’s also private property. My property.” The man’s grip tightened around the rifle. Although he kept it pointed at the ground, his stance made it clear that he was prepared to bring it up at an instant’s notice. “I’ve called the police.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Jane. “This is ridiculous.”
The man turned his unsmiling gaze on her. “You’ve got no business scavenging down there.”
“We weren’t scavenging.”
“Chased a buncha teenagers out of that ravine last night. They were hunting for souvenirs.”
“We’re law enforcement,” said Jane.
The man shot a dubious glance at their rental car. “From out of town?”
“One of the victims was our friend. She died in that ravine.”
That seemed to take him aback. He stared at her for a long time, as though trying to decide whether to believe her. He kept his gaze on them, even as a Sublette County Sheriff’s Department vehicle rounded the curve and pulled to a stop behind the pickup truck.
A familiar police officer stepped out of the vehicle. It was Deputy Martineau, whom they’d met at the double homicide a few nights earlier. “Hey, Monty,” he called out. “So what’s going on here?”
“Caught these people trespassing, Bobby. They claim they’re law enforcement.”
Martineau glanced at Jane and Gabriel. “Uh, actually, they are.”
“What?”
He gave a polite nod to Jane and Gabriel. “It’s Agent Dean, right? And hello, ma’am. Sorry about the misunderstanding, but Mr. Loftus here’s been a little jumpy about trespassers. Especially after those kids came by last night.”
“How do you know these people?” Loftus demanded, clearly not convinced.
“Monty, they’re okay. I saw them over at the Circle B, when they came by to talk to Fahey.” He turned to Jane and Gabriel, and his voice softened. “I’m really sorry about what happened to your friend.”
“Thank you, Deputy,” said Gabriel.
Loftus gave a conciliatory grunt. “Then I guess I owe you folks an apology.” He extended his hand.
Gabriel shook it. “No apologies needed, sir.”
“It’s just that I spotted your car and thought we had more of those souvenir hunters down there. Crazy kids, all into that death and vampire nonsense.” Loftus looked down at the charred Suburban in the ravine. “Not like it used to be when I was growing up here. When folks respected property rights. Now anyone thinks they can come hunting on my land. Leave my gates wide open.”
Jane could read the look that flickered across Martineau’s face: I’ve heard him say this a thousand times before.
“And you never show up in time to do anything, Bobby,” Loftus added.
“I’m here now, ain’t I?” protested Martineau.
“You come by my place later, and I’ll show you what they did to my gates. Something has to be done.”
“Okay.”
“I mean today, Bobby.” Loftus climbed into his pickup truck, and the engine rattled to life. With a gruff wave, he called out, grudgingly, “Sorry again, folks,” and drove away.
“Who is that guy?” asked Jane.
Martineau laughed. “Montgomery Loftus. His family used to own like, a gazillion acres around here. Double L Ranch.”
“He was pretty pissed at us. I thought he was going to blast us with that rifle.”
“He’s pissed about everything these days. You know how it is with some old folks. Always complaining it ain’t the way it used to be.”
It never is, thought Jane as she watched Martineau climb back into his vehicle. And it won’t be the same in Boston, either. Not with Maura gone.
As they drove back to the hotel, Jane stared out the window, thinking about the last conversation she’d had with Maura. It was in the morgue, and they’d been standing at the autopsy table as Maura sliced into a cadaver. She’d talked about her upcoming trip to Wyoming. How she’d never been there, how she looked forward to seeing elk and buffalo and maybe even a wolf or two. They’d talked about Jane’s mother, and Barry Frost’s divorce, and how life always kept surprising you. You just never know, Maura had said, what lies around the corner.
No, you never do. You had no idea you’d be coming home from Wyoming in a coffin.
They pulled into the hotel parking lot, and Gabriel shut off the engine. For a moment they sat without speaking. There was still so much to do, she thought. Make phone calls. Sign papers. Arrange for the coffin’s transportation. The thought of it all exhausted her. But at least they’d be going home, now. To Regina.
“I know it’s only noon,” said Gabriel. “But I think we could both use a drink.”
She nodded. “I second that.” She pushed open her door and stepped out, into the softly falling snow. They held on to each other as they walked across the parking lot, their arms wrapped tightly around each other’s waists. How much harder this day would have been without him here, she thought. Poor Maura has lost everything, while I am still blessed with this man. Blessed with a future.
They stepped into the hotel bar, where the light was so subdued that at first she didn’t spot Brophy sitting in one of the booths. Only as her eyes adjusted to the gloom did she see him.
He was not alone.
Seated with him at the table was a man who now rose to his feet, a tall and forbidding figure in black. Anthony Sansone was notoriously reclusive, and so paranoid about his privacy that he seldom ventured out in public. Yet here he was, standing in their hotel bar, his grief in full view.
“You should have called me, Detective,” said Sansone. “You should have asked for my help.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jane. “I didn’t think about it.”
“Maura was my friend, too. If I’d known she was missing, I would have flown back from Italy in a heartbeat.”
“There’s nothing you could have done. Nothing any of us could have done.” She glanced at Brophy, who was stone-faced and silent. These two men had never liked each other, yet here they were, a truce declared between them in Maura’s memory.
“My jet’s waiting at the airport,” said Sansone. “As soon as they release her body, we can all fly home together.”
“It should be this afternoon.”
“Then I’ll let my pilot know.” His sigh was heavy with sadness. “Call me when it’s time to make the transfer. And we’ll bring Maura home.”
IN THE COMFORTABLE COCOON of Anthony Sansone’s jet, the four passengers were quiet as they flew east, into the night. Perhaps they were all thinking, as Jane was, of their unseen companion who rode below in cargo, boxed in a coffin, stored in the dark and frigid hold. This was the first time Jane had ever flown on a private jet. Were it for any other occasion, she would h
ave taken delight in the soft leather seats, the spacious legroom, the myriad comforts that supremely wealthy travelers are accustomed to. But she scarcely registered the taste of the perfectly pink roast beef sandwich that the steward had presented to her on a china plate. Although she’d missed both lunch and dinner, she ate without enjoyment, fueling up only because her body needed it.
Daniel Brophy did not eat at all. His sandwich sat untouched as he stared out at the night, his shoulders sagging under the weight of grief. And guilt, too, surely. The guilt of knowing what could have been, had he chosen love above duty, Maura above God. Now the woman he cared about was charred flesh, locked in the hold beneath their feet.
“When we get back to Boston,” said Gabriel, “we have decisions to make.”
Jane looked at her husband and wondered how he managed to stay focused on necessary tasks. In times like these, she was reminded that she’d married a marine.
“Decisions?” she said.
“Funeral arrangements. Notifications. There must be relatives who need to be called.”
“She has no family,” said Brophy. “There’s only her mo—” He stopped, not finishing the word mother. Nor did he say the name they were all thinking: Amalthea Lank. Two years ago, Maura had sought out her birth mother, whose identity had been a mystery to her. The search had eventually brought her to a women’s prison in Framingham. To a woman guilty of unspeakable crimes. Amalthea was not a mother anyone would want to claim, and Maura never spoke of her.
Daniel said again, more firmly: “She has no family.”
She had only us, thought Jane. Her friends. While Jane had a husband and daughter, parents and brothers, Maura had few intimate connections. She had a lover whom she saw only in secret, and friends who did not really know her. It was a truth that Jane now had to acknowledge: I did not really know her.
“What about her ex-husband?” Sansone asked. “I believe he still lives in California.”
“Victor?” Brophy gave a disgusted laugh. “Maura despised him. She wouldn’t want him anywhere near her funeral.”
“Do we know what she did want? What her final wishes were? She wasn’t religious, so I assume she’d want a secular service.”
Jane glanced at Brophy, who had suddenly stiffened. She did not think Sansone’s comment was meant as a barb at the priest, but the air between the two men suddenly felt charged.
Brophy said, tightly: “Even though she fell away from the Church, she still respected it.”
“She was a committed scientist, Father Brophy. The fact that she respected the Church doesn’t mean she believed in it. It would probably strike her as odd to have a religious service at her funeral. And as a nonbeliever, wouldn’t she be denied a Catholic funeral, anyway?”
Brophy looked away. “Yes,” he conceded. “That is official policy.”
“There’s also the question of whether she would have wanted burial or cremation. Do we know what Maura wanted? Did she ever broach the subject with you?”
“Why would she? She was young!” Brophy’s voice suddenly broke. “When you’re only forty-two, you don’t think about how you want your body disposed of! You don’t think of who should and shouldn’t be invited to the funeral. You’re too busy being alive.” He took a deep breath and looked away.
No one spoke for a long time. The only sound was the steady whine of the jet engines.
“So we have to make those decisions for her,” Sansone finally said.
“We?” asked Brophy.
“I’m only trying to offer my help. And the necessary funds, whatever it may cost.”
“Not everything can be bought and paid for.”
“Is that what you think I’m trying to do?”
“It’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Why you’ve swooped in with your private jet and taken control? Because you can?”
Jane reached out to touch Brophy’s arm. “Daniel. Hey, relax.”
“I’m here because I cared about Maura, too,” said Sansone.
“As you made so abundantly obvious to both of us.”
“Father Brophy, it was always clear to me where Maura’s affections lay. Nothing I could do, nothing I could offer her, would have changed the fact that she loved you.”
“Yet you were always waiting in the shadows. Hoping for a chance.”
“A chance to offer my help if she ever needed it. Help that she never asked for while she was alive.” Sansone sighed. “If only she had. I might have …”
“Saved her?”
“I can’t rewrite history. But we both know things could have been different.” He looked straight at Brophy. “She could have been happier.”
Brophy’s face flushed a deep red. Sansone had just delivered the cruelest of truths, but it was a truth obvious to anyone who knew Maura, anyone who’d watched her over the past few months and seen how her already slender frame had become thinner, how sadness had dimmed her smile. She was not alone in her pain: Jane had seen the same sadness reflected in Daniel Brophy’s eyes, compounded by guilt. He loved Maura, yet he’d made her miserable, a fact that was all the harder for him to bear because it was Sansone pointing it out.
Brophy half rose from his seat, his hands clenched into fists, and she reached for his arm. “Stop it,” she said. “Both of you! Why are you two doing this? It’s not some contest to decide who loved her the most. We all cared about her. It doesn’t matter now who would have made her happier. She’s dead and there’s no way to change history.”
Brophy sank back in his seat, the rage draining from his body. “She deserved better,” he said. “Better than me.” Turning, he stared out the window, retreating into his own misery.
She started to reach out to him again, but Gabriel stopped her. “Give him some space,” he whispered.
So she did. She left Brophy to his silence and his regrets, and she joined her husband on the other side of the aisle. Sansone rose and moved as well, to the rear of the plane, retreating into his own thoughts. For the remainder of the flight they sat separate and silent, as the plane with Maura’s body soared eastward, toward Boston.
OH MAURA, IF ONLY YOU WERE HERE TO SEE THIS.
Jane stood outside the entrance to Emmanuel Episcopal Church and watched as a steady stream of mourners arrived to pay their last respects to Dr. Maura Isles. Maura would be surprised by all this fuss. Impressed and maybe a little embarrassed, too: She never did enjoy being the center of attention. Jane recognized many of these people because they came from the same world that she and Maura both inhabited, a world that revolved around death. She spotted Drs. Bristol and Costas from the ME’s office, and quietly greeted Maura’s secretary, Louise, and Maura’s morgue assistant, Yoshima. There were cops, too—Jane’s partner, Barry Frost, as well as most of the homicide unit, all of whom were well acquainted with the woman they privately referred to as the Queen of the Dead. A queen who herself had now entered that realm.
But the one man whom Maura loved above all was not here, and Jane understood why. A deeply grieving Daniel Brophy was now in seclusion, and would not be attending the services. He had said his private goodbyes to Maura; to bare his pain in public was more than anyone should ask of him.
“We’d better take our seats,” Gabriel said gently. “They’re about to begin.”
She followed her husband up the aisle to the front pew. The closed coffin loomed right in front of her, framed by massive vases of lilies. Anthony Sansone had spared no expense, and the coffin’s mahogany surface was polished to such a bright gloss that she could see her own reflection.
The officiating priest entered—not Brophy, but the Reverend Gail Harriman of the Episcopal Church. Maura would have appreciated the fact that a woman was performing her memorial service. She would have liked this church as well, known for its open policy of welcoming all into its fold. She hadn’t believed in God, but she had believed in fellowship, and she would have approved.
As the Reverend Harriman began to speak, Gabriel took Jane’s hand. She felt
her throat close up and fought back humiliating tears. Through the forty minutes of homilies and hymns and words of remembrance, she struggled to stay in control, her teeth clenched, her back pressed rigidly against the pew. When at last the service ended, she was still dry-eyed, but all her muscles ached as though she had just staggered off the battlefield.
The six pallbearers rose, Gabriel and Sansone among them, and they shepherded the casket in its slow progression up the aisle, toward the hearse that waited outside. As the other mourners filed from the building, Jane did not move. She remained in her seat, imagining Maura’s final journey. The solemn drive to the crematorium. The slide into the flames. The final rendering of bone into ashes.
I can’t believe I will never see you again.
She felt her cell phone go off. During the memorial service, she had turned off the ringer, and the sudden vibration against her belt was a startling reminder that duty still demanded her attention.
The call was from a Wyoming area code. “Detective Rizzoli,” she answered quietly.
It was Queenan’s voice on the line. “Does the name Elaine Salinger mean anything to you?” he asked.
“Should it?”
“So you’ve never heard that name before.”
She sighed. “I just sat through Maura’s memorial service. I’m afraid I’m not really focusing on the point of this call.”
“A woman named Elaine Salinger has just been reported missing. She was due back at her job in San Diego yesterday, but it seems she never returned from vacation. And she never caught her flight home from Jackson Hole.”
San Diego. Douglas Comley was from San Diego, too.
“It turns out they knew one another,” Queenan continued. “Elaine Salinger and Arlo Zielinski and Douglas Comley. They were friends, and they were all booked to fly back on the same day.”
Jane heard her own heartbeat whooshing in her ears. An image suddenly came back to her, of a torn airline boarding pass that she’d picked up in the ravine. The scrap of paper with the fragment of the passenger’s name: inger.
Salinger.