She looked at the glowing face of her clock; it was eleven forty-five.
She rolled out of bed, and the room felt frigid. She groped in the darkness for a robe, but did not turn on the lights, to preserve her night vision. She went to her bedroom window and saw that it had stopped snowing. The ground glowed white under moonlight.
There it was again—the sound of something rubbing against the wall. She pressed as close to the glass as she could, and spied a flicker of shadow, moving near the front corner of the house. An animal?
She left the bedroom, and in her bare feet, she felt her way down the hallway, moving toward the living room. Edging around the Christmas tree, she peered out the window.
Her heart nearly stopped.
A man was climbing the steps to her front porch.
She could not see his face, for it was hidden in shadow. As though he sensed her watching him, he turned toward the window where she stood, and she saw his silhouette. The broad shoulders, the ponytail.
She pulled away from the window and stood wedged against the prickly branches of the Christmas tree, trying to understand why Matthew Sutcliffe was here, at her door. Why would he come at this hour without calling first? She still hadn't shaken off the last strands of fear from her nightmare, and this late night visit made her uneasy. It made her think twice about opening her door to anyone—even a man whose name and face she knew.
The doorbell rang.
She flinched, and a glass bulb fell from the tree and shattered on the wood floor.
Outside, the shadow moved toward the window.
She didn't move, still debating what to do. I just won't turn on the light, she thought. He'll give up and leave me alone.
The doorbell rang again.
Go away, she thought. Go away and call me back in the morning.
She released a sigh of relief when she heard his footsteps descending the porch steps. She inched toward the window and looked out, but could not see him. Nor could she see any car parked in front of the house. Where had he gone?
Now she heard footsteps, the crunch of boots in snow, moving around toward the side of the house. What the hell was he doing, circling her property?
He's trying to find a way into the house.
She scrambled out from behind the tree and bit back a cry of pain as she stepped on the broken bulb, and a shard of glass pierced her bare foot.
His silhouette suddenly loomed in a side window. He was staring in, trying to see into the dark living room.
She retreated into the hall, wincing with every step, the sole of her foot now damp with blood.
It's time to call the police. Call nine-one-one.
She turned and hobbled into the kitchen, hands brushing across the wall, searching for the phone. In her haste, she knocked the receiver off its cradle. She snatched it up and pressed it to her ear.
There was no dial tone.
The bedroom phone, she thought—was it off the hook?
She hung up the kitchen phone and limped back into the hallway, the shard of glass stabbing even deeper into her sole, retracing a floor now wet with her blood. Back into the bedroom, her eyes straining to see in the darkness, her feet now moving across carpet until her shin bumped up against the bed. She felt her way up the mattress to the headboard. To the phone on the nightstand.
No dial tone.
Terror blasted through her like an icy wind. He's cut the phone line.
She dropped the receiver and stood listening, desperate to hear what he would do next. The house creaked in the wind, obscuring all sounds except the drum of her own heartbeat.
Where is he? Where is he?
Then she thought: my cell phone.
She scurried over to her dresser, where she'd left her purse. Dug into it, pawing through its contents, searching for the phone. She pulled out her wallet and keys, pens and a hairbrush. Phone, where's the fucking phone?
In the car. I left it on the front seat of the car.
Her head snapped up at the sound of breaking glass.
Had it come from the front of the house, or the rear? Which way was he coming in?
She scrambled out of the bedroom and into the hall, no longer registering the pain as the shard of glass drove deeper into her foot. The door to the garage was right off the hallway. She yanked the door open and slipped through, just as she heard more glass breaking and scattering across the floor.
She pulled the door shut. Backed away toward her car, her breaths coming in quick gasps, her heart galloping. Quiet. Quiet. Slowly she lifted the car door handle and cringed when she heard the clunk as the latch released. She swung open the door and slid in behind the wheel. Gave a strangled groan of frustration when she remembered the car keys were still in her bedroom. She couldn't just start the engine and drive away. She glanced at the passenger seat, and by the glow of the dome light, she spotted her cell phone, wedged in the crack.
She flipped it open and saw the glow of the full battery signal.
Thank you, God, she thought, and dialed 911.
"Emergency Operator."
"This is twenty-one thirty Buckminster Road," she whispered. "Someone's breaking into my house!"
"Can you repeat the address? I can't hear you."
"Twenty-one thirty Buckminster Road! An intruder—" She went dead silent, her gaze fixed on the door leading into the house. A sliver of light now glowed beneath it.
He's inside. He's searching the house.
She scrambled out of the car and softly pushed the door shut, extinguishing the dome light. Once again, she was in darkness. The house's fuse box was only a few feet away, on the garage wall, and she considered flipping all the circuit breakers and cutting off power to the lights. It would give her the cover of darkness. But he would surely guess where she was, and would immediately head into the garage.
Just stay quiet, she thought. Maybe he'll think I'm not at home. Maybe he'll think the house is empty.
Then she remembered the blood. She had left a trail of blood.
She could hear his footsteps. Shoes moving across the wood floor, following her bloody footprints out of the kitchen. A confusing smear of them, up and down the hallway.
Eventually, he would follow them into the garage.
She thought of how Rat Lady had died, remembered the bright spray of pellets scattered throughout her chest. She thought of the path of devastation that a copper-jacketed Glaser bullet cuts through the human body. The explosion of lead shot tearing through internal organs. The rupture of vessels, the massive hemorrhage of blood into the chest cavity.
Run. Get out of the house.
And then what? Scream for the neighbors? Pound on doors? She didn't even know which of her neighbors was home tonight.
The footsteps were moving closer.
Now or never.
She ran toward the side door and cold air blasted in as she pulled it open. She bolted out into the yard. Her bare feet sank calf-deep into snow, which cascaded in, blocking the jamb, so she could not close the door behind her.
She left it ajar, waded to the gate, and yanked up the cold-stiffened latch. The cell phone tumbled from her grasp as she strained on the gate, trying to pull it open against the barrier of deep snow. At last she swung it just far enough so that she could squeeze through, and she stumbled into the front yard.
All the houses on her street were dark.
She ran, bare feet churning through snow. Had just reached the sidewalk when she heard her pursuer also wrenching on the gate, straining to open it wider.
The sidewalk was mercilessly exposed; she veered between hedges, into Mr. Telushkin's front yard. But here the drifts were even deeper, almost to her knees, and she had to struggle just to move forward. Her feet were numb, her legs clumsy from the cold. Against the bright reflection of moonlight on snow, she was an easy target, a stark black figure against a sea of pitiless white. Even as she stumbled forward, her legs mired, she wondered if he was, at that moment, taking aim.
She sank
into a thigh-deep drift and fell, tasting snow. Rose to her knees and began to crawl, refusing to surrender. To accept death. On senseless legs she tunneled forward, hearing footsteps crunch toward her. He was moving in for the kill.
Light suddenly cut through the darkness.
She looked up and saw the glitter of approaching headlights. A car.
My only chance.
With a sob, she sprang to her feet and began to run toward the street. Waving her arms, screaming.
The car skidded to a stop just in front of her. The driver stepped out, a tall and imposing silhouette, moving toward her across the spectral whiteness.
She stared. Slowly began to back away.
It was Father Brophy.
"It's all right," he murmured. "Everything's all right."
She turned and looked toward her house, but saw no one. Where is he? Where did he go?
Now more lights were approaching. Two more cars pulled to a stop. She saw the pulsing blue of a police cruiser, and raised her hand against the glare of headlights, trying to make out the silhouettes walking toward her.
She heard Rizzoli call out: "Doc? Are you okay?"
"I'll take care of her," said Father Brophy.
"Where's Sutcliffe?"
"I didn't see him."
"The house," said Maura. "He was in my house."
"Get her in your car, Father," said Rizzoli. "Just stay with her."
Maura still hadn't moved. She stood frozen in place as Father Brophy stepped toward her. He pulled off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. Wrapped his arm around her and helped her toward the passenger seat of his car.
"I don't understand," she whispered. "Why are you here?"
"Shhh. Let's just get you out of this wind."
He slid in beside her. As the heater blasted at her knees, her face, she hugged his coat tighter, trying to get warm, her teeth chattering so hard she could not talk.
Through the windshield, she saw dark figures moving on the street. She recognized Barry Frost's silhouette as he approached her front door. Saw Rizzoli and a patrolman edging toward the side gate, their weapons drawn.
She turned to look at Father Brophy. Though she could not read his expression, she felt the intensity of his gaze, as surely as she felt the warmth of his coat. "How did you know?" she whispered.
"When I couldn't get through, on your phone, I called Detective Rizzoli." He took her hand. Held it in both of his, a touch that brought tears to her eyes. Suddenly she couldn't look at him; she stared straight ahead, at the street, and saw it through a blur of colors as he pressed her hand to his lips in a warm and lingering kiss.
She blinked away tears, and the street came into focus. What she saw alarmed her. Running figures. Rizzoli, silhouetted by flashing blue lights as she darted across the road. Frost, weapon drawn, dropping to a crouch behind the cruiser.
Why are they all moving toward us? What do they know that we don't?
"Lock the doors," she said.
Brophy looked at her, bewildered. "What?"
"Lock the doors!"
Rizzoli was yelling at them from the street, shouts of warning.
He's here. He's crouched behind our car!
Maura twisted sideways, hand scrabbling across the door in search of the button, frantic because she could not find it in the darkness.
Matthew Sutcliffe's shadow reared outside her window. She flinched as the door swung open and cold air rushed in.
"Get out of the car, Father," said Sutcliffe.
The priest went very still. He said quietly, calmly: "The keys are in the ignition. Take the car, Dr. Sutcliffe. Maura and I are both getting out."
"No, just you."
"I won't step out unless she does, too."
"Get the fuck out, Father!"
Her hair was wrenched sideways, and the gun bit into her temple. "Please," she whispered to Brophy. "Just do it. Do it now."
"Okay!" Brophy said in panic. "I'm doing it! I'm getting out. . . ." He pushed open his door and stepped outside.
Sutcliffe said to Maura, "Get behind the wheel."
Shaking, clumsy, Maura climbed over the gear shift, into the driver's seat. She glanced sideways, out the window, and saw Brophy still standing beside the car, staring at her helplessly. Rizzoli was shouting at him to move away, but he seemed paralyzed.
"Drive," said Sutcliffe.
Maura put the car in gear and let out the brake. She pressed her bare foot to the gas pedal, then lifted it again.
"You can't kill me," she said. The logical Dr. Isles was back in control. "We're surrounded by the police. You need me as a hostage. You need me to drive this car."
A few seconds passed. An eternity.
She sucked in a gasp as he lowered the gun from her head and pressed the barrel, hard, against her thigh.
"And you don't need your left leg to drive. So do you want to keep your knee?"
She swallowed. "Yes."
"Then let's go."
She pressed the accelerator.
Slowly the car began to roll forward, past the parked cruiser where Frost was crouched. The dark street stretched ahead of them, unobstructed. The car kept moving.
Suddenly she saw Father Brophy in her rearview mirror, running after them, lit by the strobelike flashes of the cruiser's blue lights. He grabbed Sutcliffe's door and yanked it open. Reaching in, Brophy clawed at Sutcliffe's sleeve, trying to drag him out.
The blast of the gun sent the priest flying backwards.
Maura shoved open her own door and threw herself out of the rolling car.
She landed on icy pavement, and saw bright flashes as her head slammed against the ground.
For a moment she could not move. She lay in blackness, trapped in a cold and numbing place, feeling no pain, no fear. Aware only of the wind, blowing feathery snow across her face. She heard a voice calling to her from across a great distance.
Louder, now. Closer.
"Doc? Doc?"
Maura opened her eyes and winced against the glare of Rizzoli's flashlight. She turned her head away from the light and saw the car a dozen yards away, its front bumper rammed against a tree. Sutcliffe was lying face-down on the street, struggling to get up, his hands cuffed behind him.
"Father Brophy," she murmured. "Where is Father Brophy?"
"We've already called the ambulance."
Slowly Maura sat up and looked down the street, where Frost was crouched over the priest's body. No, she thought. No.
"Don't get up yet," said Rizzoli, trying to hold her still.
But Maura pushed her away and rose, her legs unsteady, her heart in her throat. She scarcely felt the icy road beneath her bare feet as she stumbled toward Brophy.
Frost looked up as she approached. "It's a chest wound," he said softly.
Dropping to her knees beside him, she tore open the priest's shirt and saw where the bullet had penetrated. She heard the ominous sound of air being sucked into the chest. She pressed her hand to the wound, and felt warm blood and clammy flesh. He was shaking from the cold. Wind swept down the street, its bite as sharp as fangs. And I am wearing your coat, she thought. The coat you gave me to keep me warm.
Through the howl of the wind, she heard the wail of the approaching ambulance.
His gaze was unfocused, consciousness fading.
"Stay with me Daniel," she said. "Do you hear me?" Her voice broke. "You're going to live." She leaned forward, tears sliding onto his face as she pleaded into his ear.
"Please. Do it for me, Daniel. You have to live. You have to live. . . ."
TWENTY-THREE
THE TV in the hospital waiting room was tuned, as always, to CNN.
Maura sat with her bandaged foot propped up on a chair, her gaze fixed on the news banner crawling across the bottom of the screen, but she did not register a single word. Though she was now dressed in a wool sweater and corduroy slacks, she still felt cold, and did not think she would ever feel warm again. Four hours, she thought. He has been on th
e operating table for four hours. She looked at her hand and could still see Daniel Brophy's blood under her fingernails, could still feel his heart throb like a struggling bird against her palm. She did not need to see an X ray to know what damage the bullet had done; she'd seen the lethal track that a Glaser blue-tip had torn in Rat Lady's chest, and knew what the surgeons now faced. A lung sliced by exploding shrapnel. Blood pouring from a dozen different vessels. The panic that grips the staff in the O.R. when they see life hemorrhaging out, and the surgeons cannot snap on clamps fast enough.
She looked up as Rizzoli came into the room, carrying a cup of coffee and a cell phone. "We found your phone by the side gate," she said, handing it to Maura. "And the coffee's for you. Drink it."
Maura took a sip. It was too sweet, but tonight she welcomed the sugar. Welcomed any source of energy into her tired and bruised body.
"Is there anything else I can get you?" asked Rizzoli. "Anything else you need?"
"Yes." Maura looked up from her coffee. "I want you to tell me the truth."
"I always tell the truth, Doc. You know that."
"Then tell me that Victor had nothing to do with this."
"He didn't."
"You're absolutely certain?"
"As sure as I can be. Your ex may be a major-league prick. He may have lied to you. But I'm pretty sure he didn't kill anyone."
Maura sank back against the couch and sighed. Staring down at the steaming cup, she asked: "And Matthew Sutcliffe? Is he really a doctor?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. M.D. from the University of Vermont. Did his internal medicine residency in Boston. It's interesting, Doc. If you've got that M.D. behind your name, you're golden. You can walk into a hospital, tell the staff that your patient's just been admitted, and no one questions you. Not when the patient's relative calls and backs up your story."
"A physician who works as a paid killer?"
"We don't know that Octagon paid him. In fact, I don't think the company had anything to do with these murders. Sutcliffe may have done it for his own reasons."
"What reasons?"
"To protect himself. To bury the truth about what happened in India." Seeing Maura's bewildered look, Rizzoli said, "Octagon finally released that list of personnel working at their plant in India. There was a factory doctor."