“Wake up. You must wake up!”
Jane opened her eyes—or thought she did. The darkness she saw was so impenetrable that she wondered if she was trapped in the shadowy borderland between sleep and wakefulness, paralyzed but aware. Or was there another reason she could not move? She tried to roll onto her back and realized that her hands and feet were immobilized. She strained to free her wrists and met the unyielding resistance of duct tape. The floor beneath her cheek was concrete that bruised her hips and chilled straight through her clothes. She did not know how she’d come to be in this cold, black place. The last she remembered was sitting in Patrick’s dining room, paging through Charlotte’s yearbooks. Sipping coffee. Coffee that he served me.
“Detective Rizzoli! Please wake up!”
Jane recognized Iris Fang’s voice, and she turned her head toward the sound. “How … where …”
“I cannot help you. I’m here, against the wall. Chained to the wall. We are in a cellar, I think. Maybe in his house. I don’t know because I can’t remember how I got here.”
“Neither can I,” groaned Jane.
“He brought you here hours ago. We don’t have much time. He’s just waiting for the other one to return.”
The other one. Jane struggled to think through the lifting fog in her head. Of course Patrick was not working alone. At sixty-seven, he would need someone to help him with the strenuous tasks. That’s why he’d hired professionals to kill Ingersoll, to attack Iris.
“We have to prepare,” said Iris. “Before they come back.”
“Prepare?” Jane couldn’t help a desperate laugh. “I can’t move my arms or legs. I can’t even feel my hands!”
“But you can roll toward the wall. There’s a set of keys hanging near the door. I saw it when he turned on the light and brought you down here. They might unlock my handcuffs. You free me, then I’ll free you.”
“Which way is the door?”
“It’s to my right. Follow my voice. The keys are hanging on a hook. If you can get to your feet, grab the keys with your teeth—”
“That’s a lot of ifs.”
“Do it.” The command pierced the darkness, sharp as a blade. But the next words were soft. “He took my daughter,” she whispered, sobs suddenly stuttering through. “He’s the one.”
Jane listened to Iris crying in the darkness, and she thought of the other girls who’d vanished. Deborah Schiffer. Patty Boles. Sherry Tanaka. How many others had there been, girls whose names they did not yet know? Even his own daughter, Charlotte.
She fought against her bonds, but duct tape was indestructible, the favorite tool of MacGyver and serial killers alike. No amount of straining and twisting would tear those straps from her wrists.
“Don’t let him win,” said Iris. Her voice had steadied; the steel was back in it.
“I want him, too,” said Jane.
“The keys. You have to reach them.”
Already Jane was twisting, rolling across the floor. Her bruised hip banged against the concrete and she gasped, breathing deeply for a moment as the pain faded. Then it was another twist, another tumble across the floor. This time her face landed on the concrete, scraping her nose, banging her teeth. She rolled onto her unbruised side, knees drawn up in a fetal position, fighting tears of pain and frustration. How was she going to do this? She couldn’t even make it across the floor, much less rise to her feet and reach the keys.
“You have a daughter,” said Iris softly.
“Yes.”
“Think of her. Think of what you’d do to hold her again. To smell her hair, touch her face. Think. Imagine.”
That quiet command seemed to come from somewhere inside her own head, as if it were her own voice demanding action. She thought of Regina in the bathtub, slippery and sweet-smelling with soap, dark curls clinging to pink skin. Regina, who would grow into a young woman, never knowing her own mother except as a ghost reflected in her own face, her own features. And she thought of Gabriel, growing old and gray. A lifetime we’ll never have together if I don’t survive this night.
“Think of her.” Iris’s voice drifted through the darkness. “She’ll give you the strength you need to fight.”
“Is that how you did it all these years?”
“It was all I had. It’s what kept me alive, the hope that my daughter might come home to me. I lived for that, Detective. I lived for the day I’d see her again. Or if it never happened, for the day I would see justice done. At least I’ll know that I died trying.”
Jane rolled again and her battered hip thumped against the floor, her face scraping across rough concrete. Suddenly her back collided with a wall and she lay on her side, panting, resting for what would be the next, and most difficult challenge. “I’ve reached the wall,” she said.
“Get to your feet. The door’s at the far end.”
With the wall as a support, Jane tried to squirm up to a kneeling position, but lost her balance and collapsed facedown, her mouth slamming against the floor. Pain shot straight from her teeth into her skull.
“Your daughter,” said Iris. “What is her name?”
Jane licked her lip and tasted blood. Felt the soft tissues already puffing up, swelling. “Regina,” she said.
“How old is she?”
“Two and a half.”
“And you love her very much.”
“Of course I do.” With a grunt, Jane struggled to her knees. She knew what Iris was doing; she could feel new strength in her muscles, new steel in her spine. No, she would not be kept away from her daughter. She would survive this night, the way Iris had survived these past two decades, because nothing mattered more to a mother than seeing her child again. She fought gravity, straining her back and neck to rise to a kneeling position.
“Regina,” said Iris. “She is the blood in your veins. The breath in your lungs.” Her voice was hypnotic, her words a whispered chant that sent heat rushing through Jane’s limbs. Words spoken in the universal language that every mother understands.
She is the blood in your veins. The breath in your lungs.
Get to your feet, Jane thought. Get those keys.
She rocked forward on her knees, coiling her muscles, and sprang up. Landed on her feet, but only for a few tottering seconds before she lost her balance and fell forward, her kneecaps slamming onto concrete.
“Again,” ordered Iris. No hint of sympathy in her voice. Was she as ruthless with her students? Was this the way real warriors were honed, without mercy, pushed beyond their limits?
“The keys,” said Iris.
Jane took a deep breath, tensed, and sprang up. Again she landed on her feet and wobbled, but the wall was right beside her. She propped her shoulder against it as she waited for the cramp in her calf to ease. “I’m up,” she said.
“Get to the far corner. That’s where the door is.”
Another hop, another wobble. She could do this. “Once we get free, we still have to get past him,” said Jane. “He has my gun.”
“I don’t need a weapon.”
“Oh, right. Ninjas just fly through the air.”
“You don’t know anything about me. Or what I can do.”
Jane hopped again, landing like a kangaroo. “Then tell me. Since we’re probably going to die, anyway. Are you the Monkey King?”
“The Monkey King is a fable.”
“It leaves behind real hair. It kills with a real sword. So who is it?”
“Someone you want on your side, Detective.”
“First I want to know who it is.”
“He’s inside you and me. He’s inside everyone who believes in justice.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s as much as I can tell you.”
“I’m not talking mystical mumo jumbo,” Jane panted and hopped again. “I’m talking about something real, something I’ve actually seen. Something that saved my life.” She paused to catch her breath. And said quietly: “I just want to thank him—or her—for t
hat. So if you know who it is, could you pass that message along?”
Iris answered, just as softly: “It already knows.”
Jane made one last hop and her forehead banged against a door. “I’m here.”
“It’s hanging about the level of your head. Can you feel it?”
Brushing her cheek against the wall, Jane felt metal suddenly bite into her skin. Heard the soft clink of the hanging keys. “Found it!”
“Please don’t drop them.”
Jane gripped the keys in her mouth and lifted the ring off the wall hook. We’re going to do this. We’re going to beat them …
The squeal of the opening door made her freeze. Lights blazed on, so bright that she shrank back, blinded, against the wall.
“Well, this is a complication,” said a voice she recognized. Slowly she opened her eyes against the glare and saw Mark Mallory standing beside Patrick. It has always been the two of them, she thought. Hunting together. Killing together. And the bond that linked these men was Charlotte. Poor Charlotte, whose every interest, every activity, had introduced predators to their prey, turning something as innocent as a tennis meet or an orchestra performance into an opportunity for killers to glimpse and choose fresh faces.
Mark grabbed the key ring and wrenched it from Jane’s mouth. Gave her a shove and sent her toppling to the floor. “Does anyone know she came here?”
“We have to assume so,” said Patrick. “That’s why we need to get rid of her car. We should have done it hours ago, if only you’d gotten back sooner.”
“I wanted to see if anyone would show up.”
“No one came for her?”
“Maybe the tracker’s broken.” He looked at Iris. “Or maybe no one cares about her. I waited for four hours, and not a soul turned up.”
“Well, someone’s going to be coming for this one,” said Patrick, looking down at Jane.
“Where’s her cell phone?”
Patrick handed it to Mark. “What are you going to do?”
“It looks like her last text message was to her husband.” He began to tap out a new message on Jane’s phone. “Let’s tell him she’s headed to Dorchester and won’t be home for a while.”
“Then what?”
“It has to look like an accident. Or a suicide.” He looked at Patrick. “You made it work before.”
Patrick nodded. “Her gun’s up in the dining room.”
“My husband will know,” said Jane. “He knows I’d never kill myself.”
“The spouse always says that. And the police never believe them. Do they, Detective?” said Mark, and he smiled.
If her limbs had not been trussed, she would have been on her feet and pummeling him, fists slamming into those perfect teeth. But even with rage fueling her muscles she could not tear free, could do nothing but watch as he finished the text message and sent it into the ether. She thought of how it would probably happen: a bullet to her head to kill her, followed by a second gunshot to plant residue on her hand, the way Wu Weimin’s suicide had been staged. What Mark said was true: It was too easy to ignore the denials of a victim’s family. She’d been guilty of it herself. She remembered standing over the body of a young man who was missing half his head from a shotgun blast. Remembered the mother sobbing, He’d never kill himself! He’d just turned his life around! And she remembered her own remark to Frost afterward, about clueless families who never saw it coming.
“You’ve made so many mistakes,” said Iris. “You have no idea what’s about to happen.”
Mark turned to her and laughed. “Look who’s talking. The lady chained to the wall.”
Iris regarded him with an eerily calm gaze. “Before it all ends for you, tell me. Why did you choose my daughter?”
Mark crossed toward Iris until they were face-to-face. Though he was far taller, though he held every advantage, Iris revealed not a flicker of fear. “Pretty little Laura. You do remember her, Patrick?” He glanced at the older man. “The girl we picked up as she walked out of school. The one we offered a ride to.”
“Why?” said Iris.
Mark smiled. “Because she was special. They all were.”
“We’re wasting time,” said Patrick, stepping toward Jane. “Let’s get her out of here.”
But Mark was still looking at Iris. “Sometimes I chose the girl. Sometimes Patrick chose. You never know what will catch your eye. A ponytail. A cute little ass. Something that makes her stand out. Makes her worthy.”
“Charlotte must have known,” said Jane, looking up at Patrick in disgust. “She must have realized what you were. Jesus, her own father. How could you kill her?”
“Charlotte was never part of this.”
“Never part of it? She was at the center of it!”
Jane’s cell phone rang. Mark glanced at the caller’s number and said, “Hubby seems to be checking on his wife.”
“Don’t answer it,” said Patrick.
“I wasn’t planning to. I’ll just shut this off, and let’s get her in the car.”
Iris said, “You think it will be that simple?”
The men ignored her and bent down to grab Jane. Patrick picked up her feet and Mark hauled her up under her arms. Though Jane squirmed, she could not resist them, and they easily lifted her and carried her toward the door.
“You’ve already lost,” said Iris. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Mark snorted. “I know who’s chained to the wall.”
“And I know who followed you back here.”
“No one followed me—” His voice suddenly cut off as the lights went out.
In the pitch black, both men released their grips on Jane and she fell to the floor, skull slamming against concrete. She lay stunned, trying to make sense of what was happening in a room where she could see nothing, where the darkness was chaotic with curses and panicked breathing.
“What the fuck?” said Mark.
Iris’s voice whispered through the gloom: “Now it begins.”
“Shut up! Just shut up!” Mark yelled.
“It’s probably nothing,” said Patrick, but he sounded unnerved. “Look, maybe we just blew a fuse. Let’s go upstairs and check.”
The door banged shut and their footsteps faded up the stairs. Jane heard only the thumping of her own heart.
“You must lie very still and stay calm,” said Iris.
“What’s happening?”
“What was always meant to happen.”
“You knew? You expected this?”
“Listen carefully to me, Detective. This is not your battle. It was planned a long time ago, and it will be fought without you.”
“Fought by whom? What’s out there?”
Iris did not answer. In the silence, Jane felt, rather than heard, the brush of air against her cheek, as though the wind had whispered into the room and was stirring the darkness. Something else is here with us.
She heard the soft clatter of handcuffs falling free. And a whisper: “Apologies, Sifu. I would have come sooner.”
“My sword?”
“Here is Zheng Yi. I found it upstairs.”
Jane knew that voice. “Bella?”
A hand was pressed across her lips and Iris murmured: “Stay.”
“You can’t leave me like this!”
“You’re safer here.”
“At least cut me free!”
“No,” said Bella. “She’ll just cause trouble.”
“And if you fail?” said Jane. “I’ll be trapped down here, and I won’t be able to defend myself. At least give me a fighting chance!”
She felt a tug on her hands, heard the hiss of the blade slicing through her duct tape bindings. Another slice freed her ankles. “Remember,” Iris whispered into her ear. “This is not your battle.”
It is now. But Jane stayed silent and still as the two women melted into the darkness. She could neither see nor hear their departure; all she sensed was the kiss of air again, as if they had dissolved into wind and had whispered th
rough the door and up the stairs.
Jane tried to rise to her feet, but dizziness sent her staggering blindly in the dark. She sat back down again, her skull aching from being dropped on concrete. That and the lingering effects of the drug left her weak. She reached out, felt the wall nearby, and once again tried to stand, this time propping herself, as unsteady as a newborn foal.
A gunshot made her chin snap up.
I can’t be trapped down here, she thought. I have to get out of this house.
She felt her way to the door. It was unlocked and softly creaked open. Somewhere upstairs, she heard heavy footsteps running. Two more gunshots.
Get out now. Before the men come back for you.
She started up steps, moving slowly, afraid to make a sound. Afraid to alert anyone to her presence. Without a weapon, without any way to defend herself, she could not join this fight. She was the noncombatant trying to slip through a war zone to safety, wherever that might be. Find the exit, get out of the house. She didn’t have her car keys, so she’d have to run to the neighbors. She tried to picture the property. Remembered the long driveway, the woods and lawns and the tall hedge that surrounded it all. By daylight, it had looked like a private garden of Eden, enclosed to keep the world out. Now she knew that the gate, with its spiked posts, was not meant just to keep people out, but also to keep them in. This was no garden of Eden; it was a death camp.
She reached the top of the stairs and felt another closed door. Pressing her ear against it, she heard nothing. The silence was unnerving. How many gunshots had there been? At least three, she thought, enough to have taken down both Iris and Bella. Were the women lying dead, beyond that door? Were Patrick and Mark now on their way back to the cellar to find her?
Her hand was slick with sweat as she grasped the knob. The door swung open soundlessly, to darkness that was every bit as thick as in the cellar. She could not make out any shapes or shadows. This floor, too, was concrete, and as she slowly inched her way across it, arms outstretched for unseen obstacles, she heard something small and metallic skitter away from her shoe. She collided with an edge that hit her hip and she halted, trying to discern what it was. It felt like a table, coated with dust. Jagged metal suddenly bit her fingers and she pulled back, startled. It was a table saw. She shifted a few feet farther into the darkness and hit another obstacle. This time, a drill press. This was Patrick’s woodworking shop. She stood among the power tools, thinking of saw blades and drills, wondering if mahogany and maple were the only things this equipment had sliced into.
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