The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Looks abandoned,” said Frost.

  “I’m going to get out and take a look around.” Jane reached for the handle and was about to open the door when she heard the warning clank of a chain, a sound as ominous as a snake’s rattle.

  Something black bounded out of the darkness.

  She gasped and jerked back as the pit bull slammed against her door, as claws scrabbled at glass and white teeth gleamed in the window.

  “Jesus!” she cried. “Where the hell did he come from?”

  The dog’s barking was frantic now, claws scraping as though to tear through metal.

  “I don’t like this,” said Frost.

  She laughed, a wildly unhinged sound in the closeness of that car. “I’m not loving this too much myself.”

  “No, I mean I don’t like the fact he’s tied up on that chain. This house looks abandoned, so who’s feeding the dog?”

  She stared at the house, at dark windows that seemed to gaze back at her like malevolent eyes. “You’re right,” she said softly. “This is all wrong.”

  “It’s time to call for backup,” said Frost and he reached for his cell phone. He never got the chance to dial.

  The first gunshot shattered the window.

  Fragments of stinging glass peppered Jane’s face. She dove beneath the dashboard as a second explosion rocked the night, as another bullet slammed into the car. Frost, too, had ducked for cover, and she saw his face was tight with panic as he crouched only inches away from her, both fumbling for their weapons.

  A third bullet pinged into metal.

  An ominous odor seeped into the car. The fumes stung Jane’s eyes and seared her throat. In that instant she and Frost stared at each other, and she saw that he, too, had registered the smell.

  Gasoline.

  Almost simultaneously, they each kicked open their doors. Jane flung herself out of the car and tumbled away just as the first flames whooshed to life. She could not see if Frost had made it out the other side; she could only hope that he had scrambled away safely, because an instant later the gas tank exploded. Windows shattered and a brilliant inferno spouted flames skyward.

  As glass pelted the ground, Jane scrambled for cover. Thorny underbrush ripped through her sleeves, clawed at her arms. She rolled behind a tree and gripped crumbling bark as she frantically tried to catch a glimpse of their assailant, but all she saw were flames consuming what remained of Frost’s car. The dog, excited to a frenzy by the fire, ran howling back and forth across the yard, chain clattering behind it.

  Another gunshot exploded. She heard a cry of pain, the crash of snapping underbrush.

  Frost is down!

  Through the obscuring veil of smoke and fire, she saw the shooter emerge from the house and step onto the porch. The woman’s blond hair reflected the glow of the flames. Rifle raised, she moved into the light. Only then could Jane see the face of Debbie Duke.

  No, not Debbie. Carrie Otto.

  Carrie started down the porch steps, her rifle poised to finish off Frost.

  Jane fired first. Even as she squeezed the trigger, she wanted it to be a killing shot. She felt no fear, no hesitation, only cold, controlled rage that took possession of her body and guided her aim. In quick succession she fired off one, two, three shots. They slammed into her target like repeated punches to the chest. Carrie jerked backward, dropping the rifle, and collapsed onto the porch steps.

  Lungs heaving, Jane eased forward. Still clutching her weapon, her gaze stayed on her target. Carrie lay sprawled against the steps, still alive and moaning, her half-open eyes reflecting the satanic glow of the flames. Jane glanced toward Frost, and saw him lying at the edge of the woods.

  Be alive. Please be alive.

  She managed to take only a few steps toward him when the pit bull slammed into her back.

  She had thought she was beyond the reach of the dog’s chain, and did not see it hurtling at her, did not have time to brace herself against the impact. His attack sent her sprawling forward. She put out her hands to break the fall, and as she landed, she heard a bone snap and her wrist collapsed beneath her. The pain was so excruciating that even the grip of the dog’s jaws on her shoulder seemed merely troublesome, a nuisance to be shaken off before dealing with this true agony. Twisting, she rolled onto her back, her weight landing on top of the dog, but it would not release her. The gun had fallen out of reach. Her right hand was useless. She could not beat the animal away, could not reach back and grip his throat. So she rammed her elbow into his belly, again and again, and heard ribs crack.

  Yelping in pain, the dog released its grip. She rolled away and scrambled to her knees. Only then, as she stared down at the whimpering dog, did she see that the chain was no longer attached to the collar. How had he gotten free? Who had released him?

  The answer emerged from the shadows.

  Jimmy Otto moved into the firelight, pushing Josephine before him as a shield. Jane lunged for her fallen weapon, but a gunshot made her flinch back as the bullet kicked up dirt only inches from her hand. Even if she could reach her gun she did not dare return fire, not with Josephine standing in the way. Jane knelt helpless in the dirt as Jimmy Otto came to a halt beside the burning car, his face aglow in the light of the crackling flames, his temple blackened by an ugly bruise. Josephine tottered against him, unsteady in her leg cast, her head shorn of all hair. Jimmy pressed his gun to her temple, and Josephine’s eyes snapped wide with fear.

  “Move away from the gun,” he ordered Jane. “Do it!”

  Supporting her broken wrist with her left hand, Jane struggled to her feet. The fracture was so painful that nausea clenched her stomach, shutting down her brain just when she needed it most. She stood swaying as black spots danced before her eyes and a cold sweat bloomed on her skin.

  Jimmy looked down at his wounded sister, who was still slumped back against the porch steps, moaning. In one ruthless glance, he seemed to decide that Carrie was beyond saving and no longer worth his attention.

  He refocused on Jane. “I’m tired of waiting around,” he said. “Tell me where she is.”

  Jane shook her head. The black spots swirled. “I have no idea what you want, Jimmy.”

  “Where the fuck is she?”

  “Who?”

  Her answer enraged him. Without warning he fired his gun just above Josephine’s head. “Medea,” he said. “I know she’s back. And you’re the one she’d contact, so where is she?”

  That shocking explosion swept her brain clear. Despite her pain and nausea, Jane was fully focused now, her attention only on Jimmy. “Medea’s dead,” she said.

  “No, she’s not. She’s alive. I know damn well she is. And it’s time for payback.”

  “For killing Bradley? She did what she had to do.”

  “So will I.” He pressed the gun to Josephine’s head, and in that instant Jane realized that he was fully prepared to pull the trigger.

  “If Medea won’t come back to save her daughter, maybe she will for the funeral.”

  From the darkness, a voice called out: “Here I am, Jimmy. I’m right here.”

  He froze, staring toward the trees. “Medea?”

  She followed us here.

  Medea strode out of the woods, moving without hesitation, without any sign of fear. The mother lion had arrived to save her cub, and she moved with grim purpose toward the battle, coming to a halt only a few yards from Jimmy. They faced each other in the circle of firelight. “I’m the one you want. Let my daughter go.”

  “You haven’t changed,” he murmured in wonder. “All these years and you’re exactly the same.”

  “So are you, Jimmy,” Medea answered without a note of irony.

  “You were the only one he ever wanted. The one he couldn’t have.”

  “But Bradley’s not here now. So why are you doing this?”

  “This is for me. This is to make you pay.” He pressed his gun against Josephine’s temple, and for the first time Jane glimpsed terror in Medea’s fac
e. If the woman felt any fear at all, it was not for herself but for her daughter. The key to destroying Medea had always been Josephine.

  “You don’t want my daughter, Jimmy. You have me.” Medea was in control now, her fear disguised by a cool glaze of contempt.

  “I’m the reason you took her, the reason you’ve been playing these games with the police. Well, here I am. Let her go and I’m all yours.”

  “Are you?” He gave Josephine a shove, and she stumbled away to safety. He turned his gun instead on Medea. Even with that barrel pointed at her, she managed to look utterly calm. She cast a glance at Jane, a look that said: I have his attention. The rest is up to you. She took a step toward Jimmy, toward the gun aimed at her chest. Her voice turned silky, even seductive. “You wanted me just as much as Bradley did. Didn’t you? The first time I met you, I saw it in your eyes. What you wanted to do to me. The same thing you did to all those other women. Did you fuck them while they were still alive, Jimmy? Or did you wait until they were dead? Because that’s how you like them, isn’t it? Cold. Dead. Yours for eternity.”

  He said nothing, just kept staring as she moved closer. As she enticed him with the possibilities. For years he and Bradley had pursued her, and here she finally was, within his reach. His and his alone.

  Jane’s weapon lay on the ground only a few feet away. She inched toward it, mentally rehearsing her moves. Drop to the ground, snatch up the gun. Fire. She’d have to do all this with only the use of her left hand. She might be able to get off one shot, two at the most, before Jimmy returned fire. No matter how fast I am, she thought, I won’t be able to bring him down in time. Either Medea or I could die tonight.

  Medea kept moving toward Jimmy. “All these years, you’ve been hunting me,” said Medea softly. “Now here I am and you don’t really want to end it right here and now, do you? You don’t really want the hunt to be over.”

  “But it is over.” He raised the gun and Medea went stock-still. This was the ending she’d been running from all these years, an ending she could not alter with pleading or seduction. If she had walked into this thinking she could control the monster, she now saw her mistake.

  “This isn’t about what I want,” said Jimmy. “I was told to finish it. And that’s what I’m going to do.” The muscles in his forearms snapped taut as he prepared to fire.

  Jane lunged for her weapon. But as her left hand closed around the grip, there was a blast of gunfire. She pivoted and the night swirled by in slow motion, a dozen details assaulting her senses at once. She saw Medea drop to her knees, arms crossed protectively over her head. She felt the crackling heat from the flames and the strange heaviness of the weapon in her left hand as she brought it up and her fingers tightened into a firing grip.

  But even as Jane squeezed off the first round, she realized that Jimmy Otto had already staggered back, that her bullet was punching into a target that was already bloodied by an earlier gunshot.

  Silhouetted by the flames behind him, he tumbled backward like a doomed Icarus, his arms flung out at his sides, his torso in free fall. He slumped back across the hood of the burning car and his hair caught fire, wreathing his head in flames. With a shriek he lurched away from the car. His shirt ignited. He staggered around the yard in an agonized death dance and collapsed.

  “No!” Carrie Otto’s anguished moan was not a human sound at all, but the guttural cry of a dying animal. She crawled slowly, painfully toward her brother, trailing a black smear of blood across the gravel.

  “Don’t leave me, baby. Don’t leave me.”

  She rolled on top of his body, heedless of the flames, desperate to smother the fire.

  “Jimmy. Jimmy!”

  Even as her hair and clothes ignited, even as the fire seared her skin, she clung to her brother in an agonized embrace. They remained locked together, their flesh melding into one, and the flames consumed them.

  Medea rose unhurt to her feet. But her gaze was not focused on the burning bodies of Jimmy and Carrie Otto; she stared instead toward the woods.

  Toward Barry Frost, who had sagged backward against a tree, his weapon still clutched in his hands.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The label of hero did not sit comfortably on Barry Frost’s shoulders.

  He looked embarrassed rather than heroic, sitting in his hospital bed, wearing only the flimsy johnny gown. He’d been transferred to Boston Medical Center two days earlier, and since then a steady stream of well-wishers, everyone from the police commissioner to the Boston PD cafeteria staff, had made the pilgrimage to his hospital room. That afternoon, when Jane arrived, she found three visitors still lingering amid the jungle of flower arrangements and Mylar GET WELL balloons. From kids to old ladies, everybody liked Frost, she thought as she watched from the doorway. And she understood why. He was the Boy Scout who’d cheerfully shovel your sidewalk and jump-start your car and climb a tree to rescue your cat.

  He’d even save your life.

  She waited for the other visitors to leave before she finally stepped into his room. “Can you stand one more?” she asked.

  He gave her a wan smile. “Hey. I was hoping you’d stick around.”

  “This seems to be the happening place. I have to fight off all your groupies just to get in.” With her right arm now in a cast, Jane felt clumsy as she dragged a chair over to the bed and sat down. “Geez, will you look at us two,” she said. “What a pathetic pair of wounded war buddies.”

  Frost started to laugh, but caught himself as the motion set off fresh pain from his laparotomy incision. He hunched forward, grimacing in discomfort.

  “I’ll get the nurse,” she said.

  “No.” Frost held up his hand. “I can handle this. I don’t want any more morphine.”

  “Screw the macho stuff. I say take the drugs.”

  “I don’t want to be doped up. Tonight I need to have my head clear.”

  “What for?”

  “Alice is coming to see me.”

  It was painful to hear the hopeful note in his voice, and she looked away so he could not read the pity in her eyes. Alice didn’t deserve this man. He was one of the good guys, one of the decent guys, and that was why he was going to get his heart broken.

  “Maybe I should leave,” she said.

  “No. Not yet. Please.” Carefully he settled back against the pillows and released a cautious breath. Trying to look cheerful, he said: “Tell me the latest news.”

  “It’s been confirmed. Debbie Duke was really Carrie Otto. According to Mrs. Willebrandt, Carrie showed up at the museum back in April and offered to help out as a volunteer.”

  “April? That’s soon after Josephine was hired.”

  Jane nodded. “It took only a few months for Carrie to become indispensable to the museum. She must have stolen Josephine’s keys. Maybe she was the one who left that bag of hair in Dr. Isles’s backyard. She gave Jimmy complete access to the building. In every way, brother and sister were a team.”

  “Why would any sister go along with a brother like Jimmy?”

  “We caught a glimpse of it that night. Inappropriate sibling attachment was what the therapist wrote in Jimmy’s psychiatric file. I spoke to Dr. Hilzbrich yesterday, and he said Carrie was every bit as pathological as her brother. She’d do anything for him, maybe even maintain his dungeon. The crime scene unit found multiple hairs and fibers in that Maine cellar. The mattress had bloodstains from more than one victim. Neighbors on the road said they’d sometimes see both Jimmy and Carrie in the area at the same time. They’d stay in the house for several weeks, then they’d disappear for months.”

  “I’ve heard of husband-and-wife serial killer teams. But a brother and sister?”

  “The same dynamic applies. A weak personality coupled with a powerful one. Jimmy was the dominator, so overwhelming that he could exert total control over people like his sister. And Bradley Rose. While Bradley was alive, he helped Jimmy in the hunt. He preserved the victims and found places to store their bodies.” />
  “So he was just Jimmy’s follower.”

  “No, they both got something out of the relationship. That’s Dr. Hilzbrich’s theory. Jimmy fulfilled his teenage fantasies of collecting dead women while Bradley acted out his obsession with Medea Sommer. She was what they had in common, the one prey they both wanted, but could never catch. Even after Bradley died, Jimmy never stopped looking for her.”

  “But instead he found her daughter.”

  “He probably spotted Josephine’s photo in the newspaper. She’s the spitting image of Medea, and she’s the right age to be her daughter. She’s even in the same profession. It wouldn’t take much digging to learn that Josephine wasn’t who she claimed to be. So he watched her, waiting to see if her mother would turn up.”

  Frost shook his head. “That was some crazy obsession he had with Medea. After all these years, you’d think he’d move on.”

  “Remember Cleopatra? Helen of Troy? Men were obsessed with them, too.”

  “Helen of Troy?” He laughed. “Man, this archaeology thing is rubbing off on you. You sound like Dr. Robinson.”

  “The point is, men get obsessed. A guy will cling to a particular woman for years.” She added, quietly: “Even a woman who doesn’t love him.”

  His face reddened and he looked away.

  “Some people just can’t move on,” she said, “and they waste their lives waiting for someone they can’t have.” She thought of Maura Isles, another person who wanted someone she couldn’t have, who was trapped by her own desires, her own poor choice of a lover. On the night Maura had needed him, Father Daniel Brophy was not there for her. Instead, it was Anthony Sansone who had taken her into his house. It was Sansone who had called Jane to confirm it was safe to let Maura return home. Sometimes, thought Jane, the person who could make you happiest is the one you overlook, the one who waits patiently in the wings.

  They heard a knock on the door, and Alice stepped in. Dressed in a sleek skirt suit, she looked blonder and more stunning than Jane remembered, but her beauty had no warmth. She held herself like marble, perfectly chiseled, meant only for looking but not touching. The women exchanged tense but polite greetings, like two rivals for the same man’s attention. For years they had shared Frost, Jane as his partner, Alice as his wife, yet Jane felt no connection with this woman.