He responded with a smile. “You were given a brilliant mind, and of course you were meant to use it. To ask your own questions and find your own answers.”
“I’m sure you ask the same questions I do.”
“Every day.”
“Yet you accept the concept of the divine. Isn’t your faith ever shaken?”
A pause. “Not my faith, no. That, I can count on.”
She heard a faint note of uncertainty in his voice and she looked at him. “Then what do you question?”
He met her gaze, a look that seemed to peer straight into her mind, to read the very thoughts she did not want him to see. “My strength,” he said quietly. “Sometimes I question my own strength.”
Outside, standing alone in the hospital parking lot, she took in punishing breaths of cold air. The sky was clear, the stars a hard glitter. She climbed into her car and sat for a moment as the engine warmed, trying to understand what had just happened between her and Father Brophy. Nothing at all, really, but she was feeling as guilty as though something had happened. Both guilty and exhilarated.
She drove home on streets polished with an icy sheen, thinking about Father Brophy and Victor. She had been tired when she’d left the house; now she was alert and edgy, nerves humming, feeling more alive than she’d felt in months.
She pulled into the garage, and was already tugging off her coat as she walked into her house. Already unbuttoning her blouse as she moved toward the bedroom. Victor slept soundly, unaware that she was standing right beside him, shedding her clothes. In the last few days, he’d been spending more time in her house than in his hotel room, and now he seemed to belong in her bed. In her life. Shivering, she slid under sheets that were deliciously warm, and the coolness of her skin against his made him stir.
A few strokes, a few kisses, and he was fully awake, fully aroused.
She welcomed him into her, urging him on, and though she lay beneath him, it was not in submission. She took her own pleasure, just as he took his, claiming her due with a soft cry of victory. But as she closed her eyes and felt him climax inside her, it was not just Victor’s face that came to mind, but also Father Brophy’s. A shifting image that would not hold steady, but flickered back and forth, until she did not know whose face it was.
Both. And neither.
SEVENTEEN
IN WINTER, it’s the clear days that are the coldest. Maura awakened to sunshine glaring on white snow, and although she was glad to see blue sky for a change, the wind was brutal, and the rhododendron outside her house huddled like an old man, its leaves drooped and folded against the cold.
She sipped coffee as she drove to work, blinking against the sunlight, longing to turn around and go home. To climb back into bed with Victor, and spend the whole day with him there, warming each other beneath the comforter. Last night, they had sung Christmas carols—he in his rich baritone, she trying to harmonize in her badly off-key alto. They’d sounded awful together, and had ended up laughing more than singing.
And here she was singing again this morning, her voice as off-key as ever, as she drove past streetlights hung with wreaths, past department store windows where holiday dresses glittered on mannequins. Suddenly, the reminders of Christmas seemed to be everywhere. The wreaths and garlands had been hanging for weeks, of course, but she hadn’t really taken notice of them. When had the city ever looked so festive? When had the sun ever glittered so brightly on snow?
God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.
She walked into the Medical Examiner’s building on Albany Street, where PEACE ON EARTH was displayed in huge foil letters in the hallway.
Louise looked up at her and smiled. “You’re looking happy today.”
“I’m just so glad to see sunshine again.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts. I hear we’re getting more snow tomorrow night.”
“Snow on Chirstmas Eve is fine with me.” She scooped up some chocolate kisses from the candy bowl on Louise’s desk. “How’s the schedule look today?”
“Nothing came in last night. I guess no one wants to die just before Christmas. Dr. Bristol has to be in court at ten, and he may go straight home after that, if you can cover his calls.”
“If it stays quiet, I think I’ll leave early myself.”
Louise’s eyebrow lifted in surprise. “For something fun, I hope.”
“You bet,” Maura said with a laugh. “I’m going shopping.”
She walked into her office, where even the tall stack of lab reports and dictations waiting to be reviewed could not dampen her mood. Sitting at her desk, she happily snacked on chocolate as she worked through the lunch hour and into the afternoon, hoping to slip out by three and head straight to Saks Fifth Avenue.
She did not count on a visit from Gabriel Dean. When he walked into her office at two thirty that afternoon, she had no inkling of how completely his visit would change her day. As always, she found him difficult to read, and once again, she was struck by the improbability of any affair between the temperamental Rizzoli and this coolly enigmatic man.
“I’m heading back to Washington this afternoon,” he said, setting down his briefcase. “I wanted your opinion on something before I left.”
“Of course.”
“First, may I view Jane Doe’s remains?”
“It’s all in my autopsy report.”
“Nevertheless, I think I should see her myself.”
Maura rose from her chair. “I have to warn you,” she said, “this will be a difficult viewing.”
Refrigeration can only slow, not halt, the process of decomposition. As Maura unzipped the white body pouch, she had to steel herself against the odors. She had already warned Dean about the corpse’s appearance, and he did not flinch when the plastic parted, revealing raw tissue where the face should have been.
“It was completely stripped off,” said Maura. “The skin sliced along the hairline, at the crown, and then peeled downward. Freed with another incision below the chin. Like ripping off a mask.”
“And he took the skin with him?”
“It’s not the only thing he took.” Maura unzipped the rest of the pouch, releasing a stench so powerful that she wished she had put on a mask and shield. But Dean had requested only a superficial viewing, not a full examination, and they had donned only gloves.
“The hands,” he said.
“They were both removed, as were parts of the feet. At first, we thought we were dealing with a collector. Body parts as trophies. The other possibility was that he was trying to obscure her identity. No fingerprints, no face. That would have been a practical reason for removal.”
“Except for the feet.”
“And that’s what didn’t make sense. That’s when I realized there might be another reason for the amputations. It wasn’t to hide her identity, but her diagnosis of leprosy.”
“And these lesions all over her skin? That’s from the Hansen’s disease as well?”
“This skin eruption is called erythema nodosum leprosum. It’s a reaction to medical treatment. She’s obviously been receiving antibiotics for the Hansen’s disease. That’s why we didn’t see any active bacteria on skin biopsy.”
“So it’s not the disease itself that’s causing these lesions?”
“No. It’s a side effect of recent antibiotic therapy. Based on her X rays, she’d had Hansen’s for some time, probably years, before she started receiving therapy.” She looked up at Dean. “Have you seen enough?”
He nodded. “Now I want to show you something.”
Back upstairs in her office, he opened his briefcase and took out a file. “Yesterday, after our meeting, I called Interpol and requested information on the Bara massacre. That’s what the Special Crimes Division of India’s Central Bureau of Investigation faxed back to me. They also e-mailed some digital images that I want you to look at.”
She opened the folder and saw the top sheet. “It’s a police file.”
“From the India
n state of Andhra Pradesh, where the village of Bara was located.”
“What’s the status of their investigation?”
“It remains ongoing. The case is a year old, and they haven’t made much progress. I doubt this one is ever going to be solved. I’m not even sure it’s high on their priority list.”
“Nearly a hundred people were slaughtered, Agent Dean.”
“Yes, but you have to take this event in context.”
“An earthquake is an event. A hurricane is an event. An entire village of people being massacred isn’t an event. It’s a crime against humanity.”
“Look at what else is happening in South Asia. In Kashmir, mass slaughters by both Hindus and Muslims. In India, the murders of Tamils and Sikhs. Then there are all the caste killings. Bombings by Maoist-Leninist guerillas—”
“Mother Mary Clement believes it was a religious massacre. An attack against Christians.”
“Such attacks do occur there. But the clinic where Sister Ursula worked was funded by a secular charity. The other two nurses—the ones who died in the massacre—weren’t affiliated with any church. That’s why the police in Andhra Pradesh are doubtful this was a religious attack. A political attack, perhaps. Or a hate crime, because the victims were lepers. This was a village of the despised.” He pointed to the file she was holding. “There are autopsy reports I wanted you to see, as well as crime scene photos.”
She turned the page and stared at a photograph. Stunned by the image, she could not speak. She could not turn her eyes from the horror.
It was a vision of Armageddon.
Piled atop mounds of smoking wood and ash were seared corpses. The fire’s heat had contracted flexor muscles, and the bodies were frozen in pugilistic attitudes. Mingled among the human remains were dead goats, their fur singed black.
“They killed everything,” said Dean. “People. Animals. Even the chickens were slaughtered and burned.”
She forced herself to turn to the next photo.
She saw other corpses, more thoroughly consumed by the flames, reduced to piles of charred bones.
“The attack happened sometime during the night,” said Dean. “It wasn’t until the next morning that the bodies were discovered. Day shift workers at a nearby factory noticed heavy smoke rising from the valley below. When they arrived to investigate, that’s what they found. Ninety-seven people dead, many of them women and children, as well as two nurses from the clinic—both of them Americans.”
“The same clinic where Ursula worked.”
Dean nodded. “Now here’s the really interesting detail,” he said.
She looked up, her attention suddenly sharpened by the change in his voice. “Yes?”
“That factory, near the village.”
“What about it?”
“It was owned by Octagon Chemicals.”
She stared at him. “Octagon? That’s the company Howard Redfield worked for?”
He nodded. “The one under SEC investigation. There are so many lines connecting these three victims, it’s starting to look like a giant spiderweb. We know Howard Redfield was a VP of foreign operations for Octagon, which owned the factory near Bara village. We know Sister Ursula worked in Bara village. We know that Jane Doe suffered from Hansen’s disease, so she may have lived in Bara village as well.”
“It all goes back to that village,” she said.
“To that massacre.”
Her gaze dropped to the photographs. “What are you hoping I’ll find in these autopsy reports?”
“Tell me if there’s something the Indian pathologists missed. Something that might shed light on that attack.”
She looked at the burned corpses and shook her head. “It’s going to be difficult. Incineration destroys too much. Whenever fire’s involved, the cause of death may be impossible to determine, unless there’s other evidence. Bullets, for instance, or fractures.”
“A number of the skulls were crushed, according to those postmortem reports. They concluded the victims were most likely bludgeoned while asleep. The bodies were then dragged from the huts to form several different piles, for incineration.”
She turned to another photo. Another view of hell. “All these victims,” she murmured. “And no one was able to escape?”
“It must have happened very quickly. Many of the victims were probably crippled by disease and unable to run. It was, after all, a sanctuary for the sick. The village was cut off from society, isolated in a valley at the dead end of a road. A large group of attackers could swoop in and easily slaughter a hundred people. And no one would hear the screams.”
Maura turned to the last photograph in the folder. It showed a small whitewashed building with a tin roof, the walls scorched by fire. Lying just outside the doorway was another jumble of corpses, limbs intertwined, features burned beyond recognition.
“That clinic was the only building still standing, because it was built of cinder blocks,” said Dean. “The remains of the two American nurses were found in that pile there. A forensic anthropologist had to identify them. He said the burning was so complete, he believed the attackers must have used an accelerant. Would you agree with that, Dr. Isles?”
Maura didn’t answer. She was no longer focused on the bodies. She stared, instead, at something she found far more disturbing. Something that made her forget, for a few seconds, to breathe.
Over the clinic doorway hung a sign with a distinctive insignia: a dove in flight, its wings spread in loving protection over a blue globe. An insignia she recognized at once.
It was a One Earth clinic.
“Dr. Isles?” said Dean.
She looked up, startled. Realized that he was still waiting for her response. “Bodies . . . aren’t all that easy to incinerate,” she said. “There’s too high a water content.”
“These bodies were charred down to bone.”
“Yes. That’s true. So an accelerant—you’re right, an accelerant was probably used.”
“Gasoline?”
“Gasoline would work. And it’s the most readily available.” Her gaze dropped back to the photos of the scorched clinic. “Also, you can clearly see the remains of a pyre, which later collapsed. These charred branches . . .”
“Does that make a difference? Using a pyre?” he asked.
She cleared her throat. “Raising the bodies off the ground allows melting fat to drip into the flames. It . . . keeps the fire hot.” Abruptly she swept up the photos and slid them back into the folder. Sat with her hands clasped atop the manila file, its surface smooth beneath her skin, its contents gnawing a hole in her heart. “If you don’t mind, Agent Dean, I’d like some time to review these autopsy reports. I’ll get back to you. May I keep the entire file?”
“Of course.” Dean rose from his chair. “You can reach me in Washington.”
She was still staring down at the folder, and did not see him head for the door. Nor did she realize that he had turned back, and was looking at her.
“Dr. Isles?”
She glanced up. “Yes?”
“I have another concern. Not about the case, but something personal. I’m not sure you’re the one I should ask about this.”
“What is it, Agent Dean?”
“Do you talk much with Jane?”
“Naturally. In the course of this investigation—”
“Not about work. About what’s been troubling her.”
She hesitated. I could tell him, she thought. Someone should tell him.
“She’s always been strung pretty tightly,” he said. “But there’s something else going on. I can see she’s under a lot of pressure.”
“The abbey attack has been a difficult case for her.”
“It’s not the investigation. There’s something else bothering her. Something she won’t talk about.”
“I’m not the one you should be asking. You need to speak to Jane.”
“I’ve tried.”
“And?”
“She’s all business.
You know how she can be, a goddamn robo-cop.” He sighed. Said, quietly: “I think I’ve lost her.”
“Tell me something, Agent Dean.”
“Yes?”
“Do you care about her?”
He met her gaze without flinching. “I wouldn’t be asking you this question if I didn’t.”
“Then you have to trust me on this. You haven’t lost her. If she seems distant, it’s only because she’s afraid.”
“Jane?” He shook his head and laughed. “She’s not afraid of anything. Least of all me.”
She watched him walk out of her office, and she thought: You’re wrong. We’re all afraid of the people who can hurt us.
As a child, Rizzoli had loved winter. She would look forward all summer long to the first flutters of snow, to the morning when she’d open her bedroom curtains and see the ground covered in white, the purity still unmarred by footprints. She’d laugh as she ran from the house, to dive into the snowdrifts.
Now, fighting heavy noontime traffic, along with all the other holiday shoppers, she wondered who had stolen the magic.
The prospect of spending Christmas Eve with her family tomorrow night did nothing to cheer her. She knew how the evening would go: everyone stuffing themselves with turkey, their mouths too full to talk. Her brother Frankie, loud and obnoxious from too much rum-spiked eggnog. Her father, TV remote in hand, turning up ESPN to drown out all meaningful conversation. And her mother, Angela, exhausted from a full day’s cooking, nodding off in the easy chair. Every year, they repeated the same old rituals, but that’s what made a family, she thought. We do the same things in the same way, whether or not they make us happy.
Though she had no desire to go shopping, she could put off the ordeal no longer; you simply did not show up at the Rizzolis’ on Christmas Eve without the requisite armful of gifts. It didn’t matter how inappropriate the gifts might be, as long as they were prettily wrapped, and everyone got one. Last year her brother Frankie, the asshole, gave her a dried toad from Mexico, its skin fashioned into a coin purse. It was a cruel reminder of the nickname he used to hurl at her. A frog for the frog.
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