The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “And if he does, her blood is on your hands.”

  Hilzbrich had not stopped staring at the images. His legs suddenly seemed to give way, and he stumbled to a chair where he sat with his shoulders slumped.

  “You knew Bradley was capable of this. Didn’t you?” Jane said.

  He shook his head. “I didn’t know.”

  “You were his psychiatrist.”

  “That was over thirty years ago! He was only sixteen. And he was quiet and well behaved.”

  “So you remember him.”

  A pause. “Yes,” he admitted. “I remember Bradley. But I don’t see how anything I could tell you would be useful. I have no idea where he is now. I certainly never thought he was capable of…” He glanced at the photos. “That.”

  “Because he was quiet and well behaved?” She couldn’t help a cynical laugh. “You, of all people, must know that it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. You must have seen the signs, even when he was sixteen. Something that warned you he’d someday be doing that to a woman.”

  Unwillingly, Hilzbrich focused again on the photo of the mummified body. “Yes, he would have the knowledge. And probably the skills to do it,” he admitted. “He was fascinated by archaeology. His father sent him a box of Egyptology textbooks, and Bradley read them again and again. Obsessively. So yes, he’d know how to mummify a body, but to actually attack and abduct a woman?” He shook his head. “Bradley never took the initiative in anything and had trouble standing up to anyone. He was a follower, not a leader. For that, I blame his father.” He looked at Jane. “You’ve met Kimball?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know how he takes command of everyone. In that family, Kimball makes all the decisions. He chooses what’s right for his wife, for his son. Whenever Bradley had to make a choice, even for something as simple as what to eat for dinner, he’d have to mull it over in great detail. He’d have trouble making a split-second choice, and that’s what abducting a victim requires, isn’t it? You spot her, you want her, you take her. You don’t have time to dither over whether you’ll do it or not.”

  “But if he had a chance to plan, couldn’t he manage it?”

  “He might fantasize about it. But the boy I knew would’ve been afraid to actually confront a girl.”

  “Then how did he end up at the institute? Isn’t that what you specialized in, boys with criminal sexual behaviors?”

  “Sexual deviances come in a variety of forms.”

  “Which form did Bradley’s take?”

  “Stalking. Obsession. Voyeurism.”

  “You’re telling me he was just a Peeping Tom?”

  “It had gone some ways beyond that, which was why his father sent him to the institute.”

  “How far beyond?”

  “First he was caught several times peering into a teenage neighbor’s window. Then he progressed to following her at school, and when she very publicly rejected him, he broke into her house while it was empty and set fire to her bed. That’s when the judge gave Bradley’s parents an ultimatum: Either the boy went for treatment, or he faced incarceration. The Roses chose to send him out of state so the gossip wouldn’t find its way into their exclusive circle of friends. Bradley came to the institute and stayed for two years.”

  “That seems like a pretty long stay.”

  “It was his father’s request. Kimball wanted the boy fully straightened out so the family wouldn’t be embarrassed by him again. The mother wanted him back home, but Kimball prevailed. And Bradley seemed contented enough with us. At the institute, we had woods and hiking trails, even a pond for fishing. He enjoyed the outdoors and he managed to make some friends.”

  “Friends like Jimmy Otto?”

  Hilzbrich grimaced at the mention of that name.

  “I see you remember Jimmy, too,” said Jane.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “Jimmy was…memorable.”

  “You’ve heard that he’s dead? He was shot to death twelve years ago, in San Diego. When he broke into a woman’s house.”

  He nodded. “A detective called me from San Diego. He wanted background information. Whether I thought Jimmy might have been committing a criminal act when he was killed.”

  “I’m assuming you told him yes.”

  “I’ve treated hundreds of sociopathic boys, Detective. Boys who’ve set fires, tortured animals, assaulted classmates. But only a few have really scared me.” He met her gaze. “Jimmy Otto was one of them. He was the consummate predator.”

  “And it must have rubbed off on Bradley.”

  Hilzbrich blinked. “What?”

  “You don’t know about their partnership? They hunted together, Bradley and Jimmy. And they met at your institute. You didn’t notice?”

  “We had only thirty inpatients, so of course they’d know each other. They would have participated in group therapy together. But these boys were completely different personalities.”

  “Maybe that’s why they worked so well together. They would have complemented each other. One the leader, the other the follower. We don’t know who chose the victims, or who did the actual killing, but it’s clear they were partners. They were compiling a collection together. Until the night Jimmy was killed.” She fixed him with a hard gaze. “Now Bradley’s carried on without him.”

  “Then he’s turned into a different person than I remember. Look, I knew that Jimmy was dangerous. Even as a fifteen-year-old, he scared me. He scared everyone, including his own parents. But Bradley?” He shook his head. “Yes, he’s amoral. Yes, you could persuade him to do anything, maybe even kill. But he’s a follower, not a leader. He needs someone to direct him, someone to make the decisions.”

  “Another partner like Jimmy, you mean.”

  Hilzbrich gave a shudder. “Thank God there aren’t a lot of monsters like Jimmy Otto around. I hate to think about what Bradley might have learned from him.”

  Her gaze dropped to the photos on the table. He learned enough to carry on alone. Enough to become every bit as monstrous as Jimmy.

  She looked at Hilzbrich. “You say you can’t give me Bradley’s records.”

  “I told you. They’ve been destroyed.”

  “Then give me Jimmy Otto’s.”

  He hesitated, puzzled by her request. “Why?”

  “Jimmy’s dead, so he can’t complain about patient confidentiality.”

  “What good will the files do you?”

  “He was Bradley’s partner. They traveled together, killed together. If I can understand Jimmy, it may give me a window into the man Bradley has become.”

  He considered her request for a moment, then nodded and stood up. “I’ll have to find the file. It may take me a while.”

  “You keep it here?”

  “You think I can afford to pay for storage? All the institute’s files are here in my house. If you wait, I’ll get it,” he said, and walked out of the room.

  The grotesque photos on the coffee table had served their purpose, and she couldn’t bear looking at them any longer. As she gathered them together, she had a disturbing image of a fourth victim, another dark-haired beauty salted down to jerky, and she wondered if at that very moment Josephine was being ushered into the afterworld.

  Her cell phone rang. She dropped the photos to answer it.

  “It’s me,” said Barry Frost.

  She hadn’t expected a call from him. Steeling herself for an update on his marital woes, she asked gently: “How are you doing?”

  “I just spoke to Dr. Welsh.”

  She had no idea who Dr. Welsh was. “Is that the marriage counselor you were planning to visit? I think it’s a great idea. You and Alice talk this out and figure what you need to do.”

  “No, we haven’t seen a counselor yet. I’m not calling about that.”

  “Then who’s Dr. Welsh?”

  “She’s that biologist from UMass, the one who told me all about bogs and fens. She called me back today, and I thought you’d want to hear this.”


  Talking about bogs and fens was a big improvement, she thought. At least he wasn’t sobbing about Alice. She glanced at her watch, wondering how long it would take Dr. Hilzbrich to find Jimmy Otto’s file.

  “…and it’s really rare. That’s why it took her days to identify it. She had to bring it to some botanist at Harvard, and he just confirmed it.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Those bits of plant matter we picked out of Bog Lady’s hair. There were leaves and some kind of seedpod. Dr. Welsh said it’s from a plant called…” There was a pause, and Jane heard shuffling pages as he searched his notes. “Carex oronensis. That’s the scientific name. It’s also known as Orono sedge.”

  “This plant grows in bogs?”

  “And in fields. It also likes highly disturbed sites like clearings and roadsides. The specimen looked fresh, so she thinks it got picked up in the corpse’s hair when the body was moved. Orono sedge doesn’t produce seedpods until July.”

  Jane was now paying full attention to what he was saying. “You said this plant is rare. How rare?”

  “There’s only one area in the world where it grows. The Penobscot River Valley.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Maine. Up around the Bangor area.”

  She stared out the window at the dense curtain of trees surrounding Dr. Hilzbrich’s house. Maine. Bradley Rose spent two years of his life here.

  “Rizzoli,” said Frost. “I want to come back.”

  “What?”

  “I shouldn’t have bailed out on you. I want to be on the team again.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  “I need to do this. I need to help.”

  “You already have,” she said. “Welcome back.”

  As she hung up, Dr. Hilzbrich came into the room, carrying three thick folders. “Here are Jimmy’s files,” he said, handing them to her.

  “I need to know one more thing, Doctor.”

  “Yes?”

  “You said the institute’s been shut down. What happened to the property?”

  He shook his head. “It was on the market for years but it never sold. Too damn remote to interest any developers. I couldn’t keep up with the taxes, so now I’m about to lose it.”

  “It’s currently unoccupied?”

  “It’s been shuttered for years.”

  Once again, she glanced at her watch, and considered how many hours of daylight she had. She looked up at Hilzbrich. “Tell me how to get there.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Lying awake on the mildewed mattress, Josephine stared into the darkness of her prison and thought of the day, twelve years ago, when she and her mother had fled San Diego. It was the morning after Medea had mopped up the blood and washed the walls and disposed of the man who had invaded their home, forever changing their lives.

  They had crossed the border into Mexico, and as their car barreled through the arid scrubland of Baja, Josephine was still shaking with fear. But Medea had been eerily calm and focused, her hands perfectly steady on the steering wheel. Josephine had not understood how her mother could be so composed. She had not understood so many things. That was the day she saw her mother for who she really was.

  That was the day she learned she was the daughter of a lioness.

  “Everything I’ve done has been for you,” Medea told her as their car hurtled along blacktop that shimmered with heat. “I did it to keep us together. We are a family, darling, and a family has to stick together.” She looked at her terrified daughter, who sat huddled beside her like an injured animal. “Do you remember what I told you about the nuclear family? How anthropologists define it?”

  A man had just bled to death in their house. They had just disposed of his body and fled the country. And her mother was calmly lecturing her about anthropological theory?

  Despite the incredulity in her daughter’s eyes, Medea had continued. “Anthropologists will tell you that a nuclear family is not mother, father, and child. No, it’s mother and child. Fathers come and go. They sail off to sea or they march off to war, and often they don’t come home. But mother and child are linked forever. Mother and child are the primordial unit. We are that unit, and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect it, to protect us. That’s why we have to run.”

  And so they had run. They’d left a city they’d both loved, a city that had been home to them for three years—long enough for friendships to be made, for bonds to be forged.

  In one night, with a single gunshot, all those bonds were snapped forever.

  “Look in the glove compartment,” Medea had said. “There’s an envelope.”

  The daughter, still dazed, found the envelope and opened it. Inside were two birth certificates, two passports, and a driver’s license. “What is this?”

  “Your new name.”

  The girl opened the passport and saw her own photo—a photo that she vaguely remembered posing for months before, at her mother’s insistence. She had not realized it was for a passport.

  “What do you think?” Medea asked.

  The daughter stared at the name. Josephine.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Medea. “It’s your new name.”

  “Why do I need it? Why are we doing this again?” The girl’s voice rose to a hysterical shriek. “Why?”

  Medea pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car. She grasped her daughter’s face in her hands and forced her to meet her gaze. “We’re doing this because we have no choice. If we don’t run, they’ll put me in jail. They’ll take you from me.”

  “But you didn’t do anything! You’re not the one who killed him! I did!”

  Medea grabbed her daughter’s shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “Don’t ever tell that to anyone, do you understand? Not ever. If we’re ever caught, if the police ever find us, you have to tell them that I shot him. Tell them I killed that man, not you.”

  “Why do you want me to lie?”

  “Because I love you and I don’t want you to suffer for what happened. You shot him to protect me. Now I’m protecting you. So promise me you’ll keep this secret. Promise me.”

  And her daughter had promised, even though the events of that night were still vivid: Her mother sprawled on the bedroom floor, the man standing over her. The alien gleam of a gun on the nightstand. How heavy it had felt when she’d picked it up. How her hands had trembled when she’d pulled the trigger. She, and not her mother, had killed the intruder. That was the secret between them, the secret that they alone shared.

  “No one ever has to know you killed him,” Medea had said.

  “This is my problem, not yours. It will never be yours. You’re going to grow up and go on with your life. You’re going to be happy. And this will stay buried in the past.”

  But it hasn’t stayed buried, thought Josephine as she lay in her prison. What happened that night has come back to haunt me.

  Cracks of light slowly brightened in the window boards as dawn progressed to midday. It was just enough light for her to barely see the outline of her own hand when she held it in front of her face. A few more days in this place, she thought, and I’ll be like a bat, able to navigate in the dark.

  She sat up, shaking off the morning chill. She heard the chain rattling outside as the dog lapped up water. She followed suit and sipped from her water jug. Two nights ago, when her captor had cut off her hair, he’d also left behind a fresh bag of bread, and she was enraged to discover there were newly chewed holes in the plastic. The mice had been at it. Find your own damn food, she thought as she greedily wolfed down two slices. I need the energy; I need to find a way to get out of here.

  I’ll do it for us, Mom. For the primordial unit. You taught me how to survive so I will. Because I am your daughter.

  As the hours passed, she flexed her muscles, rehearsed her moves. I am my mother’s daughter. That was her mantra. Again and again, Josephine hobbled around the cell with her eyes closed, me
morizing how many steps it took to travel between the mattress and the wall, the wall and the door. The darkness would be her friend, if she knew how to use it.

  Outside, the dog began to bark.

  She looked up, her heart suddenly banging hard, as footsteps creaked across the ceiling.

  He’s back. This is it, this is my chance.

  She dropped down onto the mattress and curled into a fetal position, assuming the universal pose of the scared and the defeated. He would see a woman who had given up, a woman who was prepared to die. A woman who would give him no trouble.

  The bolt squealed. The door opened.

  She saw the glow of his flashlight beaming from the doorway. He came into the room and set down a fresh jug of water, another bag of bread. She remained perfectly still. Let him wonder if I’m dead.

  His footsteps came closer, and she heard him breathing in the dark above her. “Time is running out, Josephine,” he said.

  She did not move, even as he bent down and stroked her shorn scalp.

  “Doesn’t she love you? Doesn’t she want to save you? Why doesn’t she come?”

  Don’t say a word. Don’t move a muscle. Make him lean closer.

  “All these years she’s managed to hide from me. Now if she doesn’t come out, then she’s a coward. Only a coward would let her daughter die.”

  She felt the mattress sag as he knelt beside her.

  “Where is she?” he asked. “Where is Medea?”

  Her silence frustrated him. He grasped her wrist and said, “Maybe the hair wasn’t enough. Maybe it’s time to send them another souvenir. Do you think a finger would do?”

  No. God, no. Panic was screaming at her to wrench her hand away, to kick and shriek, anything to escape the ordeal to come. But she remained frozen, still playing the victim paralyzed by despair. He shone the flashlight directly in her face and, blinded by the light, she could not read his expression, could not see anything in the black hollows of his eyes. He was so focused on provoking a response from her that he did not notice what she held in her free hand. He did not notice her muscles snap as tense as a bowstring.