The officiating priest entered—not Brophy, but the Reverend Gail Harriman of the Episcopal Church. Maura would have appreciated the fact that a woman was performing her memorial service. She would have liked this church as well, known for its open policy of welcoming all into its fold. She hadn’t believed in God, but she had believed in fellowship, and she would have approved.
As the Reverend Harriman began to speak, Gabriel took Jane’s hand. She felt her throat close up and fought back humiliating tears. Through the forty minutes of homilies and hymns and words of remembrance, she struggled to stay in control, her teeth clenched, her back pressed rigidly against the pew. When at last the service ended, she was still dry-eyed, but all her muscles ached as though she had just staggered off the battlefield.
The six pallbearers rose, Gabriel and Sansone among them, and they shepherded the casket in its slow progression up the aisle, toward the hearse that waited outside. As the other mourners filed from the building, Jane did not move. She remained in her seat, imagining Maura’s final journey. The solemn drive to the crematorium. The slide into the flames. The final rendering of bone into ashes.
I can’t believe I will never see you again.
She felt her cell phone go off. During the memorial service, she had turned off the ringer, and the sudden vibration against her belt was a startling reminder that duty still demanded her attention.
The call was from a Wyoming area code. “Detective Rizzoli,” she answered quietly.
It was Queenan’s voice on the line. “Does the name Elaine Salinger mean anything to you?” he asked.
“Should it?”
“So you’ve never heard that name before.”
She sighed. “I just sat through Maura’s memorial service. I’m afraid I’m not really focusing on the point of this call.”
“A woman named Elaine Salinger has just been reported missing. She was due back at her job in San Diego yesterday, but it seems she never returned from vacation. And she never caught her flight home from Jackson Hole.”
San Diego. Douglas Comley was from San Diego, too.
“It turns out they knew one another,” Queenan continued. “Elaine Salinger and Arlo Zielinski and Douglas Comley. They were friends, and they were all booked to fly back on the same day.”
Jane heard her own heartbeat whooshing in her ears. An image suddenly came back to her, of a torn airline boarding pass that she’d picked up in the ravine. The scrap of paper with the fragment of the passenger’s name: inger.
Salinger.
“What did this woman look like?” she asked. “How old, how tall?”
“That’s what I just spent the last hour finding out. Elaine Salinger is thirty-nine years old. Five foot six, a hundred twenty pounds. And a brunette.”
Jane shot to her feet. The church had not yet emptied out, and she had to push past stragglers as she ran up the aisle, toward the exit. She made it to the door just in time to see the hearse pull away.
“Stop it!” she yelled.
Gabriel turned to her. “Jane?”
“What’s the name of the mortuary? Does anyone know?”
Sansone looked up at her in puzzlement. “I made the arrangements. What’s the problem, Detective?”
“Call them, now. Tell them the body can’t be cremated.”
“Why not?”
“It needs to go to the medical examiner’s office.”
Dr. Abe Bristol stared down at the draped cadaver but he made no attempt to uncover it. For a man who spent his workdays cutting open dead bodies, he looked shaken by the prospect of peeling back the sheet. Most of the people in the room were veterans of multiple death scenes, yet they all quailed from what lay beneath the drape. Only Yoshima had so far laid eyes on the body, when he had taken the X-rays after its arrival. Now he hung back from the table, as though so traumatized, he wanted nothing more to do with it.
“This is one postmortem I really don’t want to do,” said Bristol.
“Someone has to look at this body. Someone has to give us a definitive answer.”
“The problem is, I’m not sure the answer is going to be any more to our liking.”
“You haven’t even looked at her yet.”
“But I can see the X-rays.” He pointed to the films of the skull, spine, and pelvis that Yoshima had clipped onto the light box. “I can tell you they’re completely consistent with a woman of Maura’s height and age. And those fractures are exactly what you’d find from injuries sustained by an unrestrained passenger.”
“Maura always wore her seat belt,” said Jane. “She was compulsive about it. You know how she was.” Was. I can’t stop using the past tense. I can’t quite believe this exam will change anything.
“True,” Bristol said. “Not wearing a seat belt isn’t like her at all.” He pulled on gloves and reluctantly peeled back the sheet.
Even before she saw the body, Jane flinched away, her hand lifted over her nose against the smell of burned flesh. Gagging, she turned and saw Gabriel’s face. He at least seemed to be holding his own, but there was no mistaking the appalled look in his eyes. She forced herself to turn back to the table. To see the body they had believed was Maura’s.
It was not the first time Jane had seen charred remains. Once she had watched postmortems on three arson victims, two young children and their mother. She remembered those three cadavers lying on the tables, their limbs bent, their arms thrust forward like boxers spoiling for a fight. The woman she saw now was frozen in the same pugilistic pose, her tendons contracted by intense heat.
Jane took another step closer and stared down at what should have been a face. She tried to see something—anything—familiar, but all she saw was an unrecognizable mask of charred flesh.
Someone gave a startled gasp behind her, and she turned to see Maura’s secretary, Louise, standing in the doorway. Louise seldom ventured into the autopsy room, and Jane was surprised to see her here, and so late in the day. The woman was wearing her winter coat, and her windblown gray hair sparkled with melting snowflakes.
“You probably don’t want to come any closer, Louise,” said Bristol.
But it was too late. Louise had already glimpsed the corpse and she stood frozen, too horrified to take another step into the room. “Dr.—Dr. Bristol—”
“What is it?”
“You asked about her dentist. The one Dr. Isles went to. I suddenly remembered that she’d asked me to make an appointment for her, so I went back over the calendar. It was about six months ago.”
“You found her dentist’s name?”
“Even better.” Louise held out a brown envelope. “I have her X-rays. When I explained to him why we needed them, he told me I should drive right over and pick them up.”
Bristol crossed the room in a few swift steps and snatched the envelope from Louise’s hand. Yoshima was already pulling down the skull X-rays from the light box, the unwieldy films twanging as he hastily yanked them from the clips to make room.
Bristol pulled the dental films from the envelope. These were not morgue panograms, but small bitewing X-rays that looked dwarfed by Bristol’s meaty hands. As he clipped them onto the box, Jane spotted the patient’s name on the label.
ISLES, MAURA.
“These films were all taken within the last three years,” Bristol noted. “And we’ve got plenty here for ID purposes. Gold crowns on the lower left and right molars. An old root canal here …”
“I did panograms on this body,” said Yoshima. He shuffled through the X-rays he’d taken of the burned cadaver. “Here.” He slid the films onto the box, right beside Maura’s bitewing X-rays.
Everyone crowded closer. For a moment no one said a word as gazes flicked back and forth between the sets of films.
Then Bristol said: “I think it’s pretty clear.” He turned to Jane. “The body on that table isn’t Maura’s.”
The breath whooshed out of Jane’s lungs. Yoshima sagged against a countertop, as though suddenly too weak to support
himself.
“If this body is Elaine Salinger’s,” said Gabriel, “then we’re still left with the same question we had before. Where’s Maura?”
Jane took out her cell phone and dialed.
After three rings, a voice answered: “Detective Queenan.”
“Maura Isles is still missing,” she said. “We’re coming back to Wyoming.”
TWENTY-THREE
Maura awakened to the crackle of burning wood. Firelight danced across her closed eyelids, and she smelled the sweetness of molasses and bacon, the scent of pork and beans bubbling over the campfire. Although she lay perfectly still, her captor sensed that she was no longer asleep. His boots scraped closer, and his shadow blocked out the firelight as he bent over her.
“Better eat,” he grunted, and shoved a spoonful of beans in her direction.
She turned away, nauseated by the smell. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.
“Trying to keep you alive.”
“There’s a man, in the village. He needs to be in the hospital. You have to let me help him.”
“You can’t.”
“Untie me. Please.”
“You’ll just run away.” He gave up trying to force the food on her and slipped the spoon in his own mouth instead. She looked at the face staring down at her. Backlit by the fire, his features were invisible. All she saw was the outline of his head, frighteningly enormous in the fur-lined hood. Somewhere in the shadows a dog whined and claws scratched. The animal moved closer and she smelled his hot breath, felt the lick of a tongue across her face. He was a huge dog, his silhouette shaggy and wolf-like, and although he seemed friendly, she recoiled from his attentions.
“Bear likes you. Doesn’t like most people.”
“Maybe he’s telling you I’m okay,” she said. “And you should let me go.”
“Too soon.” He turned and moved closer to the fire. Scooping up beans from the pot, he shoveled spoonfuls into his mouth with feral hunger. Veiled in smoke, he looked like some primitive creature squatting in the light of an ancient campfire.
“What do you mean, it’s too soon?” she asked.
He just kept eating, noisily slurping from the spoon, his concentration completely focused on filling his belly. He was an animal, stinking of sweat and smoke, no more civilized than the dog. Her wrists were raw from the rope bindings, and her hair was matted and infested with fleas. For days she had been wheezing and coughing in the smoke that hung thick in their shelter. She was suffocating in here, while that filthy creature sat calmly stuffing food into his mouth, not caring if she lived or died.
“Goddamn you,” she said. “Let. Me. Go.”
The dog gave a low growl and moved beside his master.
The figure squatting by the fire slowly turned to her, and in the featureless shadow that was his face, she imagined evils that were all the more frightening because she could not see them. In silence, he reached into his backpack. When she saw what he brought out, she froze. The firelight’s reflection gleamed in the blade and cast ripples of shadow along the serrations. A hunter’s knife. She had seen, at the autopsy table, what such a knife could do to human flesh. She had probed incised skin, used a ruler to measure the wounds that split apart muscle and tendon and sometimes even bone. She stared at the blade poised above her, and cringed as he brought the knife down.
With a sharp flick, he cut the rope binding her wrists, then freed her ankles. Blood rushed into her hands. She scrabbled away, retreating into a shadowy corner. There she huddled, breathing hard, her heart pounding from the unaccustomed exertion. For days she had been restrained, allowed up only when she needed to use the bucket. Now she felt light-headed and weak, and the shelter seemed to rock like a ship on the high seas.
He moved closer, until he was right in front of her and she could smell the stink of damp wool. Up till now his face had been obscured by shadow. Now she could make out thin cheeks smeared with soot, a beardless jaw. Hungry, deep-set eyes. Maura stared at that gaunt face and came to a stunning realization: He was just a boy, sixteen at the oldest. But a boy with the size and strength to cut her down with one stroke of his knife.
The dog moved close beside its master, and was rewarded with a pat on the head. Boy and dog both stared at her, contemplating the strange creature that they had captured on the road.
“You have to let me go,” said Maura. “They’ll be looking for me.”
“Not anymore.” The boy slid the knife into his belt and went back to the fire. It was dying, and already the chill had started to penetrate their shelter. He threw on another log, and the flames danced to life in the ring of stones. As the fire brightened, she could make out more details of the hovel in which she had been imprisoned. How many days have I been here? She didn’t know. There were no windows, and she could not see whether it was day or night outside. The walls were rough-hewn logs sealed with dried mud. A pallet of twigs covered with blankets served as his bed. By the fire was a single cooking pot and cans of food, stacked into a neat pyramid. She spotted a familiar-looking jar of peanut butter; it was the same jar that she had been carrying in her backpack.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “What do you want from me?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“By dragging me here? Keeping me a prisoner?” She could not hold back a disdainful laugh. “Are you insane?”
His gaze narrowed, a look so dark, so intent, that she wondered if she had just pushed him too far. “I saved your life,” he said.
“People will look for me. And they’ll keep searching, for as long as it takes. If you don’t let me go—”
“No one’s looking for you, ma’am. Because you’re dead.”
His words, spoken so calmly, chilled her to the marrow. You’re dead. For one wild, disorienting moment she thought that maybe it was true, that she was dead. That this was her hell, her punishment, trapped forever in a dark and frigid wilderness of her own creation with this strange companion who was half boy, half man. He watched her confusion with an eerie stillness, saying nothing.
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
“They found your body.”
“But I’m right here. I’m alive.”
“That’s not what the radio said.” He threw another log on the fire and the flames leaped up, filling the shelter with smoke that made her eyes water, her throat burn. Then he went to the corner where he crouched over a dark jumble of clothes and backpacks. Rummaging through the pile, he produced a small radio. He clicked it on and tinny music played, shot through with static. A country-western song, sung by a woman wailing about love and betrayal. He held out the radio to her. “Wait for the news.”
But her gaze was focused instead on the pile of belongings in the corner. She saw her own backpack, the one she’d been wearing on her last hike out of the valley. And she spotted something else that startled her.
“You took Elaine’s purse,” she said. “You’re a thief.”
“Wanted to know who was in the valley.”
“Those were your snowshoe tracks. You were watching us.”
“Been waiting for someone to come back. I saw your fire.”
“Why didn’t you just come talk to us? Why sneak around?”
“I didn’t know if you were one of his people. One of them.”
“Who?”
“The Gathering,” he said softly.
She remembered the words that had been stamped in gold on the leather-bound Bible. Words of Our Prophet. The Wisdom of The Gathering. And she remembered, too, the portrait that hung in every house. One of his people, the boy had said. The prophet.
The country-western song faded. They both turned to the radio as the DJ’s voice came on.
“More details are coming out about that fiery crash up on Skyview Road. Four tourists were killed last week when their rented Suburban veered over the edge and plummeted fifty feet into a ravine. The names of the victims have now been identified, and they were Arlo Zielinski
and Dr. Douglas Comley of San Diego, as well as Dr. Comley’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Grace. The fourth victim was Dr. Maura Isles from Boston. Drs. Isles and Comley were both in town to attend a medical conference. Icy roads and poor visibility during last Saturday’s snowstorm may have been a factor.”
The boy shut off the radio. “That’s you, isn’t it? You’re the doctor from Boston.” He reached into her backpack and took out her wallet. “I found your driver’s license.”
“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “There’s been a terrible mistake. They aren’t dead. They were alive when I left them. Grace and Elaine and Arlo, they were alive.”
“They think she’s you.” He pointed to Elaine’s purse.
“There was never any crash! And Doug skied out days ago!”
“He never made it.”
“How do you know?”
“You heard what the radio said. They caught him before he got down the mountain. No one made it out alive, except for you. And that’s only because you weren’t there when they came.”
“But they were coming to rescue us! There was a snowplow. I heard it, coming up the road. Just before you …” Suddenly dizzy, she dropped her head between her knees. This is wrong, all wrong. The boy was lying to her. Confusing her, scaring her, so that she would stay with him. But how could the radio be wrong, too? A crashed Suburban with four people dead, the news report had said.
One of the victims was Dr. Maura Isles from Boston.
Her head was throbbing, an aftermath of the blow the boy had landed on her skull to silence her. The last memory she had before that blow was his hand clamped over her mouth as she’d flailed and kicked, as he’d hauled her away from the road, away from the brightness of sunlight and into the gloom of the trees.
There, in the woods, the memory abruptly ended.
She pressed her hands to her temples, trying to think through the ache, trying to understand everything she had heard. I must be hallucinating, she thought. Maybe he hit me hard enough to rupture a vessel. Maybe my brain is slowly being crushed by hemorrhaging blood. That’s why none of this makes sense. I have to concentrate. I have to focus on what I do know, what I’m absolutely certain is true. I know that I’m alive. I know that Elaine and Grace did not die in a car crash. The radio is wrong. The boy is lying.
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 233