The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  Outside, the falling snow was a thickening veil of white. They climbed through a dense forest of pine, and for the first time Jane felt uneasy about whether her Subaru could handle the road if this snowfall continued.

  “Why should you trust me?” said Lily with a bitter laugh. “I mean, all you know about me is that I tried to kill my cousin. And screwed it up.”

  “That message on Lori-Ann’s wall,” Jane said. “It was meant for you, wasn’t it? I have sinned.”

  “Because I have,” murmured Lily. “And I’ll never stop paying for it.”

  “And the four place settings on her dining table. That was meant to represent the Saul family, wasn’t it? A family of four.”

  Lily wiped a hand across her eyes and looked out the window. “And I’m the last one. The fourth place setting.”

  “You know what?” Jane said. “I would have killed the son of a bitch, too.”

  “You would have done a better job.”

  The road grew steeper. The Subaru struggled up the mountain, tires churning through ever-deepening fresh powder. Jane glanced at her cell phone and saw zero bars. They had not passed a house in at least five miles. Maybe we should turn around, she thought. I’m supposed to keep this woman alive, not strand her in the mountains where she’ll freeze to death.

  Was this the right road?

  She squinted through the windshield, trying to see the top of the hill. That’s when she spotted the lodge, perched like an eagle’s nest on the cliff’s peak. There were no other homes nearby, and only this one access road led up the mountain. At the top there would surely be a sweeping view over the valley. They passed through a gate, left open to admit them.

  Jane said, “This looks about as secure as you can get. Once that gate’s locked, this place is unapproachable. Unless he has wings, he can’t reach you up here.”

  Lily stared up at the cliff. “And we can’t escape,” she said softly.

  Two vehicles were parked in front of the lodge. Jane pulled up behind Sansone’s Mercedes and they climbed out of the car. Pausing in the driveway, Jane stared up at rough-hewn logs, at a peaked roof soaring into the snow-swirled sky. She went around to the trunk for their bags and had just slammed the trunk shut when she heard a growl right behind her.

  The two Dobermans had emerged like black wraiths from the woods, moving so silently that she hadn’t heard their approach. The dogs closed in with teeth bared as both women froze in place.

  “Don’t run,” Jane whispered to Lily. “Don’t even move.” She drew her weapon.

  “Balan! Bakou! Back off!”

  The dogs halted and looked at their mistress, who had just emerged from the lodge and was standing on the porch.

  “I’m so sorry if they scared you,” said Edwina Felway. “I had to let them out for a run.”

  Jane did not holster her weapon. She didn’t trust these animals, and clearly they didn’t trust her. They remained planted in front of her, watching with eyes black as a snake’s.

  “They’re very territorial, but they’re quick to figure out who’s friend and who’s foe. You should be fine now. Just put away the gun and walk toward me. But not too fast.”

  Reluctantly, Jane holstered her weapon. She and Lily eased past the dogs and climbed up to the porch, the Dobermans watching them every step of the way. Edwina led them inside, into a cavernous great room that smelled of wood smoke. Huge beams arched overhead, and on the walls of knotty pine hung the mounted heads of moose and deer. In a stone fireplace, flames crackled at birch logs.

  Maura rose from the couch to greet them.

  “At last you made it,” Maura said. “With this storm blowing in, we were beginning to worry.”

  “The road coming up here was pretty bad,” said Jane. “When did you get here?”

  “We drove up last night, right after Frost called us.”

  Jane crossed to a window that looked out across the valley. Through the heavy curtain of falling snow, she caught glimpses of distant peaks. “You’ve got plenty of food?” she asked. “Fuel?”

  “There’s enough for weeks,” said Edwina. “My friend keeps it well stocked. Right down to the wine cellar. We have plenty of firewood. And a generator, if the power goes out.”

  “And I’m armed,” said Sansone.

  Jane had not heard him walk into the room. She turned and was startled to see how grim he looked. The last twenty-four hours had transformed him. He and his friends were now under siege, and it showed in his haggard face.

  “I’m glad you’ll be staying with us,” he said.

  “Actually”—Jane glanced at her watch—“I think the situation looks pretty secure.”

  “You’re not thinking of leaving tonight,” said Maura.

  “I was hoping to.”

  “It’ll be dark in an hour. The roads won’t be plowed again till morning.”

  Sansone said, “You really should stay. The roads will be bad.”

  Jane looked out, once again, at the falling snow. She thought about skidding tires and lonely mountain roads. “I guess it makes sense,” she said.

  “So the gang’s all here for the night?” asked Edwina. “Then I’ll go lock the gate.”

  “We need to drink a toast,” said Edwina, “in memory of Oliver.”

  They were all sitting in the great room, gathered around the huge stone fireplace. Sansone dropped a birch log into the flames, and papery bark hissed and sparked. Outside, darkness had fallen. The wind whined, windows rattled, and a sudden downdraft blew a puff of smoke from the chimney into the room. Like Lucifer announcing his entrance, thought Jane. The two Dobermans, who were lying beside Edwina’s chair, suddenly lifted their heads as if scenting an intruder.

  Lily rose from the couch and moved closer to the hearth. Despite the roaring fire, the room was chilly, and she clutched a blanket around her shoulders as she stared into the flames, their orange glow reflected in her face. They were all trapped there, but Lily was the real prisoner. The one person around whom the darkness swirled. All evening, Lily had said almost nothing. She had scarcely touched her dinner, and did not reach for her glass of wine as everyone else drank the toast.

  “To Oliver,” Sansone murmured.

  They raised the glasses in a sad and silent tribute. Jane took only a sip. Craving a beer instead, she slid her glass to Maura.

  Edwina said, “We need fresh blood, Anthony. I’ve been thinking of candidates.”

  “I can’t ask anyone to join us. Not now.” He looked at Maura. “I’m just sorry you got pulled into this. You never wanted to be part of it.”

  “I know a man in London,” said Edwina. “I’m sure he’d be willing. I’ve already suggested his name to Gottfried.”

  “This isn’t the time, Winnie.”

  “Then when? This man worked with my husband years ago. He’s an Egyptologist, and he can probably interpret anything that Oliver—”

  “No one can replace Oliver.”

  Sansone’s curt response seemed to take Edwina aback. “Of course not,” she finally said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “He was your student at Boston College?” asked Jane.

  Sansone nodded. “He was only sixteen, the youngest freshman on campus. I knew he was gifted from the first day he wheeled into my class. He asked more questions than anyone else. The fact he was a math major turned out to be one of the reasons he was so good at what he did. He’d take a look at some obscure ancient code and immediately see the patterns.” Sansone set down his wineglass. “I’ve never known anyone like him. From the moment you met him, you just knew he was brilliant.”

  “Unlike the rest of us,” said Edwina with a wry laugh. “I’m one of the unbrilliant members who had to be recommended by someone first.” She looked at Maura. “I guess you know that you were Joyce O’Donnell’s suggestion?”

  “Maura has mixed feelings about that,” said Sansone.

  “You didn’t like Joyce very much, did you?”

  Maura finished off Jane
’s wine. “I prefer not to speak ill of the dead.”

  “I don’t mind being up front about it,” said Jane. “Any club that would have Joyce O’Donnell as a member isn’t one that I’d want to join.”

  “I don’t think you’d join us anyway,” said Edwina as she opened a new bottle, “since you don’t believe.”

  “In Satan?” Jane laughed. “No such guy.”

  “You can say that even after all the horrors you’ve seen in your job, Detective?” said Sansone.

  “Committed by regular old human beings. And no, I don’t believe in satanic possession, either.”

  Sansone leaned toward her, his face catching the glow of the flames. “Are you familiar with the case of the Teacup Poisoner?”

  “No.”

  “He was an English boy named Graham Young. At fourteen, he began to poison members of his own family. His mother, father, sister. He finally went to jail for the murder of his mother. After he was released years later, he went right back to poisoning people. When they asked him why, he said it was all for fun. And fame. He was not a regular human being.”

  “More like a sociopath,” said Jane.

  “That’s a nice, comforting word to use. Just give it a psychiatric diagnosis, and it explains the unexplainable. But there are some acts so terrible you can’t explain them. You can’t even conceive of them.” He paused. “Graham Young inspired another young killer. A sixteen-year-old Japanese girl, whom I interviewed last year. She’d read Graham Young’s published diary and was so inspired by his crimes, she decided to emulate him. First she killed animals. Cut them up and played with their body parts. She kept an electronic log, describing in meticulous detail what it was like to plunge a knife into living flesh. The warmth of the blood, the shudder of the dying creature. Then she advanced to killing humans. She poisoned her mother with thallium and recorded in her diary every painful symptom her mother suffered.” He leaned back, but his gaze was still on Jane. “You’d call her merely a sociopath?”

  “And you’d call her a demon?”

  “There’s no other word for what she is. Or for what a man like Dominic Saul is. We know they exist.” He turned and stared into the fire. “The problem is,” he said quietly, “they seem to know we exist, too.”

  “Have you ever heard of The Book of Enoch, Detective?” asked Edwina, refilling wineglasses.

  “You’ve mentioned it before.”

  “It was found among the Dead Sea Scrolls. It’s an ancient text, pre-Christian. Part of the apocryphal literature. It foresees the destruction of the world. It tells us that the earth is plagued by another race called the Watchers, who first taught us to make swords and knives and shields. They gave us the instruments of our own destruction. Even in ancient times, people clearly knew about these creatures and recognized that they were different from us.”

  “The sons of Seth,” said Lily softly. “The descendants of Adam’s third son.”

  Edwina looked at her. “You know about them?”

  “I know they have many names.”

  “I never heard that Adam had a third son,” said Jane.

  “He actually appears in Genesis, but the Bible conveniently glosses over so many things,” said Edwina. “There’s so much history that’s been censored and suppressed. Only now, nearly two thousand years later, are we able to read the Gospel of Judas.”

  “And these descendants of Seth—these are the Watchers?”

  “They’ve been called so many different names through the centuries. The Elohim, the Nephilim. In Egypt, the Shemsu Hor. All we know is, their bloodline is ancient, its origins in the Levant.”

  “Where?”

  “The Holy Land. The Book of Enoch tells us that ultimately we will have to fight them for our own survival. And we’ll suffer terrible miseries while they slaughter and oppress and destroy.” Edwina paused to refill Jane’s glass. “Then, in the end, it will all be decided. There’ll be the final battle. The Apocalypse.” She looked at Jane. “Whether you believe it or not, the storm is coming.”

  The flames seemed to blur before Jane’s tired eyes. And just for a moment she imagined a sea of fire, consuming everything. So this is the world you people inhabit, she thought. A world I don’t recognize.

  She looked at Maura. “Please don’t tell me you believe this, Doc.”

  But Maura simply finished her glass of wine and stood up. “I’m exhausted,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Someone was tapping at the edge of Lily’s consciousness, asking to be admitted into the secret landscape of her dreams. She came awake in darkness and felt a moment’s panic when nothing seemed familiar. Then she saw the glow of moonlight and remembered where she was. Through the window, she gazed out at startlingly bright snow. The storm had blown past, and the moon now shone down on a pure white world, silent and magical. For the first time in months, she felt safe. I’m not alone anymore, she thought. I’m with people who understand my fears, people who’ll protect me.

  She heard a click-click move past the room and fade away down the hallway. It was just one of the Dobermans, she thought. Bakou and Balan. What hideous names. She lay in bed, listening for the claws to tap their way past the door again, but the dog did not return.

  Good. Because she needed to use the bathroom and didn’t want to face either one of those animals in the hallway.

  She climbed out of bed and crossed to the door. Poking her head into the hallway, she looked around for the dogs but saw no sign of them, heard no tapping of claws. Light glowed faintly from the stairway, enough to help her navigate up the hall to the bathroom. Just as she reached the threshold, her bare foot touched something wet. She looked down, saw the faint gleam of a puddle, and pulled her foot back in disgust. The dogs, of course. What other accidents had they left on the floor? She didn’t want to step in anything worse.

  She felt for the wall switch, flipped it on, and scanned the floor. She saw more puddles, but realized that these had not been left by dogs; they were melted snow, in the form of shoe prints. Someone had been walking outside and had tracked snow into the house. Her gaze lifted to the mirror, where she stared into her own pinched and sleepy eyes. And she saw something else, something that lifted every hair on the back of her neck, a reflection of what had been drawn in red on the wall behind her.

  Three upside-down crosses.

  Gasping, she stumbled backward and fled from the bathroom. Panic sent her tearing down the hall, bare feet skidding across the wet floor as she sprinted toward the nearest door. It was Maura’s bedroom.

  “Wake up!” she whispered. “You have to wake up!” She shook the sleeping woman so hard that the headboard rattled, the springs protested. Maura merely sighed, but did not stir.

  What’s wrong with you? Why can’t I wake you?

  Something creaked in the hallway. Lily’s head snapped around toward the door. She felt her heart thudding hard enough to crack ribs as she crossed back to the doorway. There she stood listening, trying to hear through the banging of her own heart.

  Nothing.

  She eased her head around the doorjamb and peered into the hall. It was empty.

  Wake the others. They have to know he’s in the house!

  She slipped into the hall and scurried barefoot toward the room she thought must be Jane’s. She reached for the knob and gave a soft sob of frustration when she found it was locked. Should I pound on the door to wake her? Do I dare make any noise? Then she heard the whine of a dog, the faint tapping of claws moving across the great room downstairs. She eased toward the stairway. Gazing over the banister, she almost laughed in relief.

  Downstairs, a fire was burning in the hearth. Seated on the couch, facing the flames, was Edwina Felway.

  As Lily scurried down the steps, the two Dobermans glanced up, and one of them gave a warning growl. Lily froze at the bottom of the stairs.

  “There, there, Balan,” said Edwina. “What’s got you upset now?”

  “Edwina!�
�� Lily whispered.

  Edwina turned to look at her. “Oh. You’re awake. I was just about to add some more logs.”

  Lily glanced at the fire, which was already roaring, the flames leaping, consuming a precariously tall pile of wood. “Listen to me,” whispered Lily, moving a step forward, halting again as one of the dogs rose to its feet, fangs bared. “He’s inside the house! We have to wake everyone!”

  Edwina calmly picked up two logs and tossed them onto the already raging fire, stoking the inferno. “I noticed that you hardly touched your wine tonight, Lily.”

  “Dominic’s here!”

  “You could have slept through the whole thing, along with everyone else. But this works out so much better. Having you awake.”

  “What?”

  The dog gave another growl, and Lily stared down at teeth gleaming orange in the flame’s glow. The dogs, she thought suddenly. They hadn’t barked, not once tonight. An intruder had slipped into the house. He’d tracked wet shoe prints across the floor. And the dogs gave no warning.

  Because they know him.

  As Edwina turned to face her, Lily darted forward and snatched the poker from the hearth. “You led him here,” she said as she backed away, poker brandished in defense. “You told him.”

  “Oh, I didn’t have to. He was already here on the mountain, waiting for us.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Dominic will come out in his own good time.”

  “Goddamn you,” Lily cried as her grip tightened around the poker. “Where is he hiding?”

  She saw the attack too late. She heard the growl, the clatter of claws across wood, and she glanced sideways as twin streaks of black flew at her. The impact sent her crashing to the floor and the poker fell from her hands with a loud thud. Jaws closed around her arm. She screamed as teeth ripped into flesh.

  “Balan! Bakou! Release.”

  It was not Edwina’s voice that issued the command, but another: the voice of Lily’s nightmares. The dogs released her and backed away, leaving her stunned and bleeding. She tried to push herself up, but her left hand was floppy and useless, the tendons torn by powerful jaws. With a groan, she rolled onto her side and saw her own blood pooling on the floor. And beyond that pool of blood, she saw the shoes of a man walking toward her. Her breathing now coming in sobs, she pushed herself up to a sitting position. He halted by the fireplace and stood backlit by the flames, like a dark figure emerging from the inferno. He gazed down at her.