“And remember that call made to Sarah Parmley’s motel room two weeks ago. It was a woman’s voice.”
“Before you go jumping to conclusions,” said Sansone, “it wasn’t Lily Saul who found her father’s body. Her cousin did. It’s the first and only time Dominic Saul’s name appears in any of these articles.”
Maura turned to the third photocopy and stared at a photo of a smiling Dr. Peter Saul. Beneath it was the caption: Despondent over death of wife and son. She looked up. “Is there any photo of Dominic?”
“No. But he’s mentioned in that article as the one who found his uncle’s body. He’s also the one who called the police.”
“And the girl?” asked Jane. “Where was Lily when this happened?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“I assume the police checked her alibi.”
“You would assume so.”
“I wouldn’t assume anything.”
“Let’s hope that information’s in the police files,” said Sansone, “because you’re not going to get it from the investigator himself.”
“Why not?”
“He died last year of a heart attack. I found his obituary in the newspaper archives. So all we have to go on is what’s in the files. But think about the situation. You’re a local cop, dealing with a sixteen-year-old girl who’s just lost her brother, her mother, and now her father. She’s probably in shock. Maybe she’s hysterical. Are you going to harass her with questions about where she was when her father died when it clearly looked like a suicide?”
“It’s my job to ask,” said Jane. “I would have.”
Yes, she would have, thought Maura, looking at Jane’s unyielding expression and remembering the relentless questions that had been asked of her yesterday morning. No mercy, no holding back. God help you if Jane Rizzoli decides you’re guilty of something. Maura looked down at the photo of Peter Saul. “There’s no picture of Lily. We don’t know what she looks like, either.”
“Actually, there is a photo,” said Sansone. “And you’ll find it very interesting.” He flipped to the next photocopied page and pointed to the article.
DOCTOR’S FUNERAL DRAWS MOURNERS FROM ACROSS COUNTY
Friends, co-workers, even strangers gathered at Ashland Cemetery on a beautiful August afternoon to mourn Dr. Peter Saul, who died last Sunday of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. It was the third tragedy to befall the Saul family in the past two weeks.
“There she is,” said Sansone, pointing to the accompanying photo. “That’s Lily Saul.”
It was an indistinct image, the girl’s face partly obscured by two other mourners flanking her. All Maura could see was the profile of her bowed head, veiled by long dark hair.
“That doesn’t show us much,” said Jane.
“It’s not the photo I wanted you to see,” said Sansone. “It’s the caption. Look at the names of the girls standing beside Lily.”
Only then did Maura understand why Sansone had been so insistent on sharing these pages. The caption beneath the photo of a grief-stricken Lily Saul included two startlingly familiar names.
Lily Saul is comforted by friends Lori-Ann Tucker and Sarah Parmley.
“There’s the link that wraps it all up,” said Sansone. “Three friends. Two of them are now dead. Only Lily Saul is still alive.” He paused. “And we can’t even be sure of her status.”
Jane plucked up the page and stared at it. “Maybe because she doesn’t want us to know.”
“She’s the one we have to find,” said Sansone. “She’ll know the answers.”
“Or she could be the answer. We know next to nothing about this girl Lily. Whether she got along with her family. Whether she walked away with a nice inheritance.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Maura.
“I have to admit, Mr. Sansone here said it earlier. Evil has no gender.”
“But to kill her own family, Jane.”
“We kill the ones we love. You know that.” Jane regarded the photo of the three girls. “And maybe these girls knew it, too. Twelve years is a long time to keep a secret.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to ask around town, see what else I can learn about Lily. Someone must know how to find her.”
“While you’re asking questions,” said Sansone, “you might want to ask about this, too.” He slid yet another photocopy to Jane. The headline read: South Plymouth Boy Takes Top 4-H Honors.
“Uh … I’m supposed to ask about prizewinning bulls?” asked Jane.
“No, it’s the item under the Police Beat,” said Sansone. “I almost missed it myself. In fact, I wouldn’t have seen it at all, except for the fact it was on the same page, below the story about Teddy Saul’s drowning.”
“You mean this one? Barn Vandalized, Goat Missing?”
“Look at the story.”
Jane read the article aloud. “ ‘Police received a complaint from Eben Bongers of Purity that vandals broke into his barn last Saturday night. Four goats escaped and three were recaptured, but one remains missing. The barn was also defaced with carvings of’ ”—Jane paused and looked up at Maura—“ ‘crosses.’ ”
“Keep reading,” said Sansone.
Jane swallowed and looked back down at the article. “ ‘Similar carvings have been found on other buildings in the area. Anyone with information is asked to contact the Chenango County Sheriff’s Office.’ ”
“The killer was here,” said Sansone. “Twelve years ago, he was living right in this county. And no one realized what was walking among them. No one knew what was living in their midst.”
He talks as though this killer isn’t human, thought Maura. He doesn’t say who, but what. Not a someone, but a something.
“Then two weeks ago,” said Sansone, “this killer returns to the house where the Sauls once lived. Draws the same symbols on the walls, pounds nails in the floor. All in preparation for his victim. For what he’s going to do to Sarah Parmley.” Sansone leaned forward, his gaze focused on Jane. “I don’t think Sarah Parmley was his first kill. There were others before her. You saw how elaborate Sarah’s death scene was, how much planning, how much ceremony was involved. This was a mature crime, by someone who’s had months, even years, to refine his rituals.”
“We requested a VICAP search. We looked for earlier kills.”
“Your search parameters?”
“Dismemberment. Satanic symbols. Yes, a few cases showed up from other states, but nothing that matched to our satisfaction.”
“Then widen the search.”
“Any wider, and it becomes useless. It’s too general, too big a net.”
“I’m talking internationally.”
“That’s a pretty big net.”
“There’s no net too big for this killer. Look at all the clues he’s left. Latin inscriptions. Drawings made with red ocher from Cyprus. A Mediterranean seashell. He’s practically announced to you that he’s lived abroad. And probably killed abroad. I guarantee you, if you search the Interpol database, you’ll find more of his victims.”
“How can you be so …” Jane paused, and her gaze suddenly narrowed. “You already know. You’ve checked.”
“I took the liberty. This killer has left distinctive tracks everywhere. He’s not afraid of the police. He’s utterly confident in his own ability to stay invisible.” He pointed to the photocopies. “Twelve years ago, the killer was living here. Already having his fantasies, already drawing those crosses.”
Jane looked at Maura. “I’m going to stay here at least another night. There are other people I need to talk to.”
“But I need to get home,” said Maura. “I can’t stay away that long.”
“Dr. Bristol can cover for you, can’t he?”
“I have other things I need to attend to.” Maura did not like the look Jane suddenly shot her. Other things being Daniel Brophy?
“I’m driving back to Boston tonight,” said Sansone. “You can ride with me.”
TWENTY-NINE
“Detec
tive Rizzoli didn’t look too happy when you took me up on my offer,” Sansone said.
“She’s unhappy about a lot of things these days,” said Maura, staring out at fields covered in a snowy white skin. Although the last light of day had faded, the moon was rising, and its reflection was bright as a lantern on the snow. “Me included.”
“I noticed the tension between you two.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“She doesn’t try to hide much, does she?” He shot her a glance in the dark car. “You two couldn’t be more different.”
“I’m finding that out more and more.”
“You’ve known each other long?”
“About two years. Since I took the job in Boston.”
“Has it always been this edgy between you?”
“No. It’s only because …” She fell silent. Because she disapproves of me. Because she’s on her moral high horse, and I’m not allowed to be human. I’m not allowed to fall in love. “This has been a stressful few weeks” was how she finished the sentence.
“I’m glad we have this chance to talk in private,” he said. “Because what I’m about to tell you is going to sound absurd. And she’d dismiss it without a second thought.” Again he glanced at her. “I’m hoping you’ll be more willing to listen.”
“Because you think I’m less of a skeptic than she is? Don’t bet on it.”
“What did you think about the death scene today? What did it tell you about the killer?”
“I saw evidence of a severely disturbed mind.”
“That’s one possibility.”
“What’s your interpretation?”
“That there’s real intelligence behind this. Not just some nutcase getting his jollies by torturing women. This is someone with a focused and logical motive.”
“Your mythical demons, again.”
“I know you don’t accept their existence. But you saw that news article, about the barn that was defaced twelve years ago. Did anything else in that report stand out for you?”
“You mean, aside from the crosses carved in the barn?”
“The missing goat. There were four goats released from the barn, and the farmer recovered only three of them. What happened to the fourth?”
“Maybe it escaped. Maybe it got lost in the woods.”
“In Leviticus, chapter sixteen, another name for Azazel is ‘the scapegoat.’ He who assumes all the sins, all the evils, of mankind. By tradition, the chosen animal is led into the wilderness, taking humanity’s sins with it. And there it’s released.”
“We’re back to your symbol of Azazel again.”
“A drawing of his head appeared on your door. You can’t have forgotten that.”
No, I haven’t. How could I forget that my door bears the mark of a killer?
“I know you’re skeptical,” he said. “I know you think this will turn out to be like so many other investigations. That it will lead to some rather ordinary, even pitiful character who lives quietly alone. Another Jeffrey Dahmer, or another Son of Sam. Maybe this killer hears voices. Maybe he’s read Anton LaVey’s Satanic Bible a few too many times and taken it to heart. But consider another possibility, something far more frightening.” He looked at her. “That Nephilim—the Watchers—really exist. That they’ve always existed, and they still live among us.”
“The children of fallen angels?”
“That’s merely the biblical interpretation.”
“This is all biblical. And you know I don’t believe.”
“The Old Testament is not the only place where these creatures are mentioned. They appear in the myths of earlier cultures.”
“Every civilization has its mythical evil spirits.”
“I’m not talking about spirits, but flesh and blood, with human faces. A parallel species of predators who’ve evolved right alongside us. Interbred with us.”
“Wouldn’t we know of their existence by now?”
“We know them by the evil they commit. But we don’t recognize them for what they really are. We call them sociopaths or tyrants. Or Vlad the Impaler. They charm and seduce their way into positions of power and authority. They thrive on war, on revolution, on disorder. And we never realize they’re different from the rest of us. Different in a fundamental way that goes right to our genetic codes. They’re born predators, and the whole world is their hunting ground.”
“Is this what the Mephisto Foundation is all about? A search for these mythical creatures?” She laughed. “You might as well hunt for unicorns.”
“There are many of us who believe.”
“And what will you do when you actually find one? Shoot him and mount his head as a trophy?”
“We’re purely a research group. Our role is to identify and study. And advise.”
“Advise whom?”
“Law enforcement. We provide them with information and analysis. And they use what we give them.”
“Law enforcement agencies actually care what you have to say?” she asked, with an unmistakable note of disbelief.
“Yes. We are listened to” was all he said. The calm statement of a man so sure of his claims, he saw no need to defend them.
She considered how easily he had accessed confidential details of the investigation. Thought of how Jane’s inquiries about Sansone had met with silence from the FBI and Interpol and the Department of Justice. They are all protecting him.
“Our work has not gone unnoticed,” he said, and added softly, “unfortunately.”
“I thought that was the point. To have your work noticed.”
“Not by the wrong people. Somehow, they’ve discovered us. They know who we are, and what we do.” He paused. “And they think you’re one of us.”
“I don’t even believe they exist.”
“They’ve marked your door. They’ve identified you.”
She gazed out at moonlit snow, its whiteness startling in the night. It was almost as bright as day. No cover, no darkness. A prey’s every movement would be seen in that merciless landscape. “I’m not a member of your club,” she said.
“You might as well be. You’ve been seen at my home. You’ve been seen with me.”
“I’ve also visited all three crime scenes. I’ve only been doing my job. The killer could have spotted me on any one of those nights.”
“That’s what I thought at first. That you just happened to cross his line of vision, as incidental prey. It’s what I thought about Eve Kassovitz as well—that maybe he spotted her at the first crime scene on Christmas Eve, and she attracted his interest.”
“You no longer think that’s what happened?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“The seashell. If I’d known about it earlier, we all would have taken precautions. And Joyce might still be alive.”
“You think that seashell was a message meant for you?”
“For centuries, Sansone men have marched into battle under the banner of the seashell. This was a taunt, a challenge aimed at the foundation. A warning of what’s to come.”
“What would that be?”
“Our extermination.” He said it quietly, as though just speaking those two words aloud would bring the sword down on his neck. But she heard no fear in his voice, only resignation that this was the fate he’d been dealt. She could think of nothing to say in response. This conversation had strayed into alien territory, and she could not find her bearings. His universe was such a bleak landscape of nightmares that just sitting with him, in his car, altered her view of the world. Changed it to an unfamiliar country where monsters walked. Daniel, she thought, I need you now. I need your touch and your hope and your faith in the world. This man is all darkness, and you are the light.
“Do you know how my father died?” he asked.
She frowned at him, startled by the question. “I’m sorry?”
“Believe me, it’s relevant. My whole family history is relevant. I tried to walk away from it. I spent thirteen
years teaching at Boston College, thinking I could live a normal life like everyone else, convinced that my father was just a cranky eccentric, like his father, that all the bizarre stories he told me when I was growing up were quaint family lore.” He glanced at her. “I believed it about as much as you do right now, which is to say, not at all.”
He sounds so rational. Yet he isn’t. He can’t be.
“I taught history, so I’m familiar with the ancient myths,” he said. “But you’ll never convince me that there were once satyrs or mermaids or flying horses. Why should I believe my father’s stories about Nephilim?”
“What changed your mind?”
“Oh, I knew some of what he told me was true. The death of Isabella, for instance. In Venice, I was able to find the record of her imprisonment and death in church documents. She was burned alive. She did give birth to a son, just prior to her execution. Not everything that was passed down in Sansone family lore was fantasy.”
“And the part about your ancestors being demon hunters?”
“My father believed it.”
“Do you?”
“I believe there are hostile forces who would bring down the Mephisto Foundation. And now they’ve found us. The way they found my father.”
She stared at him, waiting for him to explain.
“Eight years ago,” said Sansone, “he flew out to Naples. He was going to meet an old friend, a man he’d known since his college days in New Haven. Both of them were widowers. Both of them shared a passion for ancient history. They planned to visit the National Archaeological Museum there and catch up on each other’s lives. My father was quite excited about the visit. It was the first time I’d heard any animation in his voice since my mother died. But when he got to Naples, his friend wasn’t there at the airport. Or at the hotel. He called me, told me that something was terribly wrong, and he planned to return home the next day. I could hear he was upset, but he wouldn’t say much more about it. I think he believed our conversation was being monitored.”
“He actually thought the phone was tapped?”
“You see? You have the same reaction I did. That it was just dear eccentric old Dad imagining his goblins again. The last thing he said to me was, ‘They’ve found me, Anthony. They know who I am.’ ”
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