The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  She almost jumped when she felt a hand touch her arm. Wordlessly, Rizzoli pointed to the right.

  Timbers creaked under their weight as they moved through shadows, Rizzoli in the lead.

  “Wait,” whispered Maura. “Shouldn’t you call for backup?”

  “Why?”

  “For whatever’s up here.”

  “I’m not calling for backup, if all we’re hunting down is just some stupid raccoon.…” She paused, her flashlight arcing left, then right. “I think we’re over the west wing now. It’s getting nice and warm up here. Turn off your flashlight.”

  “What?”

  “Turn it off. I want to check out something.”

  Reluctantly, Maura switched off her light. So did Rizzoli.

  In the sudden blackness, Maura felt her pulse throbbing. We can’t see what’s around us. What might be moving toward us. She blinked, trying to force her eyes to accommodate to the darkness. Then she noticed the light—slivers of it, shining through cracks in the floor. Here and there, a wider shaft, where the boards had pulled apart, or where knotholes had contracted in the dry winter air.

  Rizzoli’s footsteps creaked away. Her shadowy form suddenly dropped to a crouch, her head bent toward the floor. For a moment she held that pose, then she gave a soft laugh. “Hey. It’s just like peeking into the boys’ locker room at Revere High.”

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Camille’s room. We’re right above it. There’s a knothole here.”

  Maura eased her way through the darkness, to where Rizzoli was crouched. Dropping to her knees, Maura peered through the opening.

  She was staring down directly at Camille’s desk.

  She straightened, a chill suddenly running its cold fingers up her spine. Whatever was up here could see me, in that room. It was watching me.

  Thump-thump-thump.

  Rizzoli spun around so fast, her elbow slammed into Maura.

  Maura fumbled to turn on her flashlight, her beam jerking in all directions as she hunted for whoever—whatever—was in this crawlspace with them. She caught glimpses of feathery cobwebs, of massive crossbeams, hanging low overhead. It was so warm up here, the air close and stifling, and the sense of suffocation fed her panic.

  She and Rizzoli had instinctively moved into defensive positions, back to back, and Maura could feel Rizzoli’s tense muscles, could hear her rapid breathing as they both scanned the darkness. Searching for the gleam of eyes, a feral face.

  So swiftly did Maura scan her surroundings, she missed it in the first sweep of her flashlight. It was only as she brought it back that the farthest reach of her beam rippled across an irregularity on the rough-planked floor. She stared, but did not believe what she was looking at.

  She took a step toward it, her horror mounting as she moved closer, as her beam began to pick up other, similar forms lying nearby. So many of them …

  Dear god, it’s a graveyard. A graveyard of dead infants.

  The flashlight beam wavered. She, whose scalpel hand had always been rock-steady at the autopsy table, could not stop shaking. She came to a stop, her beam shining directly down on a face. Blue eyes glittered back at her, shiny as marbles. She stared, slowly grasping the reality of what she was seeing.

  And she laughed. A startled bark of a laugh.

  By now, Rizzoli was right beside her, flashlight playing over the pink skin, the kewpie mouth, the lifeless gaze. “What the hell,” she said. “It’s just a friggin’ doll.”

  Maura waved her beam at the other objects lying nearby. She saw smooth plastic skin, plump limbs. The sparkle of glass eyes stared back at her. “They’re all dolls,” she said. “A whole collection of them.”

  “See how they’re lined up, in a row? Like some kind of weird nursery.”

  “Or a ritual,” said Maura softly. An unholy ritual in God’s sanctuary.

  “Oh, man. Now you’ve got me spooked.”

  Thump-thump-thump.

  They both whirled, flashlights slicing the darkness, finding nothing. The sound had been fainter. Whatever had been inside the crawlspace with them was now moving away, retreating far beyond the reach of their lights. Maura was startled to see that Rizzoli had drawn her weapon; it had happened so quickly, she had not even noticed it.

  “I don’t think that’s an animal,” Maura said.

  After a pause, Rizzoli said: “I don’t think so either.”

  “Let’s get out of here. Please.”

  “Yeah.” Rizzoli took in a deep breath, and Maura heard the first tremolo of fear. “Yeah, okay. Controlled exit. We take it one step at a time.”

  They stayed close together as they moved back the way they’d come. The air grew cooler, damper; or maybe it was fear that chilled Maura’s skin. By the time they neared the panel doorway, she was ready to bolt straight out of the crawlspace.

  They stepped through the panel opening, into the chapel gallery, and with the first deep breaths of cold air, her fear began to dissipate. Here in the light, she felt back in control. Able, once again, to think logically. What had she seen, really, in that dark place? A row of dolls, nothing more. Plastic skin and glass eyes and nylon hair.

  “It wasn’t an animal,” Rizzoli said. She was crouched down, staring at the gallery floor.

  “What?”

  “There’s a footprint here.” Rizzoli pointed to smudges of powdery dust. The tread mark of an athletic shoe.

  Maura glanced down behind her own shoes, and saw that she too had tracked dust onto the gallery. Whoever left that footprint had fled the crawlspace just ahead of them.

  “Well, there’s our creature,” said Rizzoli, and she shook her head. “Jesus. I’m glad I never took a shot at it. I’d hate to think …”

  Maura stared at the footprint and shuddered. It was a child’s.

  SIX

  GRACE OTIS SAT at the convent dining table, shaking her head. “She’s only seven years old. You can’t trust anything she says. She lies to me all the time.”

  “We’d like to talk to her anyway,” said Rizzoli. “With your permission, of course.”

  “Talk to her about what?”

  “What she was doing up in the crawl space.”

  “Did she damage something, is that it?” Grace glanced nervously at Mother Mary Clement, who had been the one to summon Grace from the kitchen. “She’ll be punished, Reverend Mother. I’ve tried to keep track of her, but she’s always so quiet about her mischief. I never know where she’s gone off to …”

  Mary Clement placed a gnarled hand on Grace’s shoulder. “Please. Just let the police speak to her.”

  Grace sat for a moment, looking unsure. Evening cleanup in the kitchen had left her apron stained with grease and tomato sauce, and strands of dull brown hair had worked free from her ponytail and hung limp about her sweating face. It was a raw, worn face that had probably never been beautiful, and it was further marred by lines of bitterness. Now, while others awaited her decision, she was the one in control, the one who held power, and she seemed to relish it. To be drawing out the decision as long as possible while Rizzoli and Maura waited.

  “What are you afraid of, Mrs. Otis?” Maura asked quietly.

  The question seemed to antagonize Grace. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “Then why don’t you want us to speak to your daughter?”

  “Because she’s not reliable.”

  “Yes, we understand that she’s only seven—”

  “She lies.” The words shot out like the snap of a whip. Grace’s face, already unattractive, took on an even uglier cast. “She lies about everything. Even silly things. You can’t believe what she says—any of it.”

  Maura glanced at the Abbess, who gave a bewildered shake of her head.

  “The girl has usually been quiet and unobtrusive,” said Mary Clement. “That’s why we’ve allowed Grace to bring her into the abbey while she works.”

  “I can’t afford a baby sitter,” cut in Grace. “I can’t afford anything
, really. It’s the only way I can manage to work at all, if I keep her here after school.”

  “And she just waits here for you?” asked Maura. “Until you’re done for the day?”

  “What am I supposed to do with her? I have to work, you know. It’s not as if they let my husband stay there for free. These days, you can’t even die unless you have money.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My husband. He’s a patient in St. Catherine’s Hospice. Lord knows how long he’ll have to be there.” Grace shot a glance at the Abbess, sharp as a poison dart. “I work here, as part of the arrangement.” Clearly not a happy arrangement, Maura thought. Grace could not be much older than her mid-thirties, but it must seem to her that her life was already over. She was trapped by obligations, to a daughter for whom she clearly had little affection; to a husband who took too long to die. For Grace Otis, Graystones Abbey was no sanctuary; it was her prison.

  “Why is your husband in St. Catherine’s?” Maura asked gently.

  “I told you. He’s dying.”

  “Of what?”

  “Lou Gehrig’s disease. ALS.” Grace said it without emotion, but Maura knew the terrible reality behind that name. As a medical student, she had examined a patient with amyotrophic lateralizing sclerosis. Though completely awake and aware and able to feel pain, he could not move because his muscles had wasted away, reducing him to little more than a brain trapped in a useless body. As she had examined his heart and lungs and palpated his abdomen, she had felt his gaze on her, and had not wanted to meet it, because she knew the despair she would see in his eyes. When she’d finally walked out of his hospital room, she had felt both relief as well as a twinge of guilt—but only a twinge. His tragedy was not hers. She was just a student, passing briefly through his life, under no obligation to share the burden of his misfortune. She was free to walk away, and she had.

  Grace Otis could not. The result was etched in resentful lines in her face, and in the prematurely gray streaks in her hair. She said, “At least I’ve warned you. She’s not reliable. She tells stories. Sometimes they’re ridiculous stories.”

  “We understand,” said Maura. “Children do that.”

  “If you want to talk to her, I need to be in the room. Just to make sure she behaves.”

  “Of course. It’s your right, as a parent.”

  At last, Grace rose to her feet. “Noni’s hiding out in the kitchen. I’ll get her.”

  It was several minutes before Grace reappeared, tugging a dark-haired girl by the hand. It was clear that Noni did not want to come out, and she resisted it all the way, every fiber of her little body straining against Grace’s relentless pull. Finally, Grace just picked up the girl under the arms and plopped her into a chair—not gently, either, but with the tired disgust of a woman who has reached the end of her rope. The girl sat still for a moment, looking stunned to find herself so swiftly conquered. She was a curly-haired sprite with a square jaw and lively dark eyes that quickly took in everyone in the room. She spared only a glance at Mary Clement, then her gaze lingered a little longer on Maura before it finally settled on Rizzoli. There it stayed, as though Rizzoli was the only one worth focusing on. Like a dog who chooses to annoy the only asthmatic in the room, Noni had settled her attentions on the one person who was least fond of children.

  Grace gave her daughter a nudge. “You have to talk to them.”

  Noni’s face scrunched up in protest. Out came two words, hoarse as a frog’s croak. “Don’t wanna.”

  “I don’t care if you don’t want to. These are the police.”

  Noni’s gaze remained on Rizzoli. “They don’t look like the police.”

  “Well, they are,” Grace said. “And if you don’t tell the truth, they’ll put you in jail.”

  This was exactly what cops hated to hear a parent say. It made children afraid of the very people they were supposed to trust.

  Rizzoli quickly motioned to Grace to stop talking. She dropped to a crouch in front of Noni’s chair, so that she and the girl were eye to eye. They were so strikingly alike, both with curly dark hair and intense gazes, that Rizzoli could have been facing a young clone of herself. If Noni was equally stubborn, then there were fireworks ahead.

  “Let’s get something clear right off, okay?” Rizzoli said to the girl, her voice brusque and matter-of-fact, as though she was speaking not to a child but to a miniature adult. “I won’t put you in jail. I don’t ever put kids in jail.”

  The girl eyed her dubiously. “Even bad kids?” she challenged.

  “Not even bad kids.”

  “Even really, really bad kids?”

  Rizzoli hesitated, a spark of irritation in her eyes. Noni was not about to let her off the hook. “Okay,” she conceded. “The really, really bad ones I send to juvenile hall.”

  “That’s jail for kids.”

  “Right.”

  “So you do send kids to jail.”

  Rizzoli shot Maura a can you believe this? look. “Okay,” she sighed. “You got me there. But I’m not gonna put you in jail. I just want to talk to you.”

  “How come you don’t have a uniform?”

  “Because I’m a detective. We don’t have to wear uniforms. But I really am a policeman.”

  “But you’re a woman.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Policewoman. So you wanna tell me what you were doing up there, in the attic?”

  Noni hunched down in the chair and just stared like a gargoyle at her questioner. For a solid minute, they eyed each other, waiting for the other one to break the silence first.

  Grace finally lost her patience and gave the girl a whack on the shoulder. “Go on! Tell her!”

  “Please, Mrs. Otis,” said Rizzoli. “That’s not necessary.”

  “But you see how she is? Nothing’s ever easy with her. Everything’s a struggle.”

  “Let’s just relax, okay? I can wait.” I can wait as long as you can, kid, Rizzoli’s gaze told the girl. “So c’mon, Noni. Tell us where you got those dolls. The ones you were playing with up there.”

  “I didn’t steal them.”

  “I never said you did.”

  “I found them. A whole box of them.”

  “Where?”

  “In the attic. There are other boxes up there, too.”

  Grace said, “You weren’t supposed to be up there. You’re supposed to stay near the kitchen and not bother anyone.”

  “I wasn’t bothering anyone. Even if I wanted to, there’s no one in this whole place to bother.”

  “So you found the dolls in the attic,” Rizzoli said, directing the conversation back to the subject at hand.

  “A whole box of them.”

  Rizzoli turned a questioning look at Mary Clement, who answered: “They were part of a charity project some years ago. We sewed doll clothes, for donation to an orphanage in Mexico.”

  “So you found the dolls,” Rizzoli said to Noni. “And you played with them up there?”

  “No one else was using them.”

  “And how did you know how to get into the attic?”

  “I saw the man go in there.”

  The man? Rizzoli shot a glance at Maura. She leaned closer to Noni. “What man?”

  “He had things on his belt.”

  “Things?”

  “A hammer and stuff.” She pointed to the Abbess. “She saw him too. She was talking to him.”

  Mother Mary Clement gave a startled laugh. “Oh! I know who she means. We’ve had a number of renovations in the last few months. There’ve been men working in the attic, installing new insulation.”

  “When was this?” asked Rizzoli.

  “In October.”

  “Do you have the names of all these men?”

  “I can check the ledgers. We keep a record of all payments we’ve made to the contractors.”

  So it was not such a startling revelation after all. The girl had spied workmen climbing into a hidden space she hadn’t known about. A mysterious space, reachable only thr
ough a secret door. To take a peek inside would be irresistible for any child—especially one this inquisitive.

  “You didn’t mind the dark up there?” asked Rizzoli.

  “I have a flashlight, you know.” What a stupid question, Noni’s tone of voice implied.

  “You weren’t afraid? All by yourself?”

  “Why?”

  Why indeed? thought Maura. This little girl was fearless, intimidated by neither the dark nor the police. She sat with her gaze perfectly steady on her questioner, as though she, not Rizzoli, was directing this conversation. But self-possessed as she appeared, she was very much a child, and a ragged one at that. Her hair was a tangle of curls, powdery with attic dust. Her pink sweatshirt looked like a well-worn hand-me-down. It was a few sizes too large, and the rolled-back cuffs were soiled. Only her shoes looked new—brand new Keds with Velcro flaps. Her feet did not quite touch the floor, and she kept swinging them back and forth in a monotonous rhythm. A metronome of excess energy.

  Grace said, “Believe me, I didn’t know she was up there. I can’t go chasing after her all the time. I have to get the meals on the table, and then I have to clean up afterwards. We don’t get out of here until nine o’clock, and I can’t get her into bed until ten.” Grace looked at Noni. “That’s part of the problem, you know. She’s tired and cranky all the time, so everything turns into an argument. Last year, she gave me an ulcer. Made me so stressed out my stomach started digesting itself. I could be doubled over in pain, and she wouldn’t care. She still puts up a fuss about going to bed, or taking a bath. No concern for anyone else. But that’s the way children are, completely selfish. The whole world revolves around her.”

  While Grace vented her frustration, Maura was watching Noni’s reaction. The girl had gone perfectly still, her legs no longer swinging, her jaw clamped tight in an obstinate square. But the dark eyes briefly glistened with tears. Just as quickly, the tears were gone, erased by the furtive swipe of a dirty cuff. She’s not deaf and dumb, thought Maura. She hears the anger in her mother’s voice. Every day, in a dozen different ways, Grace surely conveys her disgust for this child. And the child understands. No wonder Noni is difficult; no wonder she makes Grace angry. It’s the only emotion she can wrest from her mother, the only proof that any feeling at all exists between them. Just seven years old, and already she knows she’s lost her futile bid for love. She knows more than adults realize, and what she sees and hears is surely painful.