The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “On a seventy-five-foot yacht? They had money,” said Frost. “What did they do for a living?”

  “Annabelle was a homemaker. Nicholas was a financial consultant for some company in Providence. The neighbor didn’t remember the name.”

  Crowe laughed. “Yeah, a title like financial consultant does sound like money.”

  “It’s kind of a radical move isn’t it?” said Frost. “To suddenly pull up roots like that? Leave everything behind and drag your family onto a sailboat?”

  “The neighbor certainly thought so,” said Moore. “And it happened abruptly. Annabelle never even mentioned it until the day just before they left. It makes you wonder.”

  “About what?” said Crowe.

  “Was the family running from something? Scared of something? Maybe there is a link between these two attacks on Teddy.”

  “Two years apart?” Crowe shook his head. “As far as we know, the Clocks and the Ackermans didn’t even know each other. All they had in common was the boy.”

  “It just troubles me. That’s all.”

  It troubled Jane as well. She looked at the Christmas photo, perhaps the last one that existed of the Clock family. Annabelle Clock’s chestnut hair was upswept and casually elegant, reflecting hints of gold. Her face, like sculpted ivory with delicately arching brows, could have adorned a medieval painter’s canvas.

  Nicholas was blond and athletic looking, his impressive shoulders filling out a lemon-yellow polo shirt. With his square jaw, his direct gaze, he looked like a man built to protect his family from any threat. On the day this photo was taken, when he stood smiling with one muscular arm draped around his wife, he could not have imagined the horrors that lay ahead. A watery grave for himself. The slaughter of his wife and two of their children. At that instant the camera captured a family with no reason to fear the future; their optimism shone brightly in their eyes and smiles, and in the Christmas decorations they had hung on the tree behind them. Even Teddy looked ebullient as he stood beside his younger sisters, three angelic-looking children with matching light brown hair and wide blue eyes. All of them smiling and safe within the bubble of their sheltering family.

  And she thought: Teddy will never feel safe again.

  Killing is easy. All you need is access and the proper tool, whether it’s a bullet, a blade, or Semtex. And if you plan it right, no cleanup is necessary. But extracting a man like Icarus, who’s alive and resisting you, a man who surrounds himself with family and bodyguards, is a far more delicate process.

  Which is why we devoted most of that June to surveillance and reconnaissance and dry runs. The hours were long, seven days a week, but no one complained. Why would we? Our hotel was comfortable, our expenses covered. And at the end of the day, there was always plenty of alcohol. Not mere plonk, but good Italian wines. For what we were required to do, we believed we deserved the best.

  It was a Thursday when we got the call from our local asset. He worked as a waiter inside the restaurant La Nonna, and that night two adjacent tables had been reserved for dinner. One table was for a party of four, the other for a party of two. Bottles of Brunello di Montalcino had been requested, to be opened immediately for proper airing upon the patrons’ arrival. He had no doubt for whom those tables were reserved.

  They arrived in separate vehicles, one right behind the other. In the black BMW were the two bodyguards. In the silver Volvo, Icarus was at the wheel. It was one of his quirks: He always insisted on being his own driver, on being in control. Both cars parked directly across the street from La Nonna, where they would be in view throughout the meal. I was already in position, seated at an outdoor café nearby, sipping espresso. From there I had a front-row view of the precision ballet that was about to unfold.

  I saw the bodyguards get out of their BMW first, and they watched as Icarus emerged from his Volvo. He always drove a Volvo, an unexciting choice for a man who could afford a fleet of Maseratis. He opened the rear door, and out climbed one of the reasons for choosing such a safe vehicle. Little Carlo, the younger son, was eight years old, with large dark eyes and unruly hair like his mother’s. The boy’s shoelace had come loose, and Icarus bent down to tie it.

  That was the moment Carlo noticed me, sitting nearby. His eyes fixed on mine so intently that I felt a dart of panic. I thought: The boy knows. Somehow he knows what’s about to happen. I did not have children; no one on our team did, so children were a mystery to us. They were like little aliens, unformed creatures who could be ignored. But Carlo’s eyes were luminous and wise, and I felt stripped of all pretense, unable to justify what we were about to do to his father.

  Then Icarus stood up. He took Carlo’s hand and led his wife and older son across the street, into La Nonna for their supper.

  I breathed again.

  Our team moved into action.

  A young woman approached, pushing a baby carriage, her infant hidden under layers of swaddling. The baby gave a sudden wail; the woman stopped to fuss over him. I was the only one close enough to see her slash the tire of the bodyguards’ vehicle. Her infant fell silent, and the woman continued up the sidewalk.

  At that moment, inside La Nonna, wine was being poured, two little boys twirled spaghetti, and platters of veal and lamb and pork emerged from the kitchen.

  Outside, on the street, the jaws of a trap were about to close. Everything was proceeding as planned.

  But I could not shake off the image of little Carlo’s face, staring at me. A look that reached into my chest and clawed at my heart. When you feel a premonition as powerful as that, it should never be ignored.

  I am sorry that I did.

  SEVEN

  Maura drove with her windows open and the smell of summer blowing into the car. Hours ago she had left the Maine coast behind and headed northwest, into gently rolling hills where the afternoon sun leafed hay fields in gold. Then the forest closed in, the trees suddenly so dense that it seemed night had instantly fallen. She drove for miles without passing any cars, and wondered if she’d taken a wrong turn. Here there were no houses, no driveways, not a single road sign to tell her whether she was headed in the right direction.

  She was ready to turn around when the road suddenly ended at a gate. On the archway above it was a single word, spelled in gracefully entwined letters: EVENSONG.

  She stepped out of her Lexus and frowned at the locked gate, which was flanked by massive stone pillars. She saw no intercom button, and the wrought-iron fence extended deep into the woods in both directions, as far as she could see. She pulled out her cell phone to call the school, but this deep in the forest she couldn’t get a signal. The silence of the woods magnified the ominous whine of a mosquito, and she slapped at the sudden sting on her cheek. Stared down at the alarming smear of blood. Other mosquitoes were closing in on her in a hungry, biting cloud. She was about to retreat into her car when she spotted the golf cart approaching on the other side of the gate.

  A familiar young woman stepped out of the golf cart and waved. In her early thirties, dressed in slim blue jeans and a green windbreaker, Lily Saul looked far healthier and happier than the last time Maura had seen her. Lily’s brown hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail, was now streaked with blond, and her cheeks had a healthy glow, so different from the pale, thin face that Maura remembered from that blood-splattered Christmas when they’d met during the course of a homicide investigation. Its violent conclusion had nearly claimed both their lives. But Lily Saul, who’d spent years running from demons both real and imagined, was a canny survivor, and judging by her happy smile Lily had finally outrun her nightmares.

  “We expected you here earlier, Dr. Isles,” said Lily. “I’m glad you made it before dark.”

  “I was afraid I’d have to climb this fence,” said Maura. “There’s no cell signal out here, and I couldn’t call anyone.”

  “Oh, we knew you’d arrived.” Lily punched in a code on the gate’s security keypad. “There are motion sensors all along this road. And you probably
missed them, but there are cameras as well.”

  “That’s a lot of security for a school.”

  “It’s all about keeping our students safe. And you know how Anthony is about security. There’s never enough.” She met Maura’s gaze through the bars. “It’s not surprising he feels that way. When you consider what we’ve all been through.”

  Staring into Lily’s eyes, Maura realized the young woman’s nightmares had not entirely been laid to rest. The shadows still lingered.

  “It’s been nearly two years, Lily. Has anything else happened?”

  Lily pulled open the gate and said, ominously, “Not yet.”

  That was just the sort of statement that Anthony Sansone would make. Crime left permanent scars on survivors like Sansone and Lily, both of them haunted by violent personal tragedies. For them, the world would always be a landscape riddled with danger.

  “Follow me,” said Lily as she climbed back into the golf cart. “The castle’s another few miles up the road.”

  “Don’t you need to close the gate?”

  “It will close automatically. If you need to leave, the keypad code this week is forty-five ninety-six, for both the gate and the school’s front door. The number changes every Monday, when we announce it at breakfast.”

  “So the students know it, too.”

  “Of course. The gate isn’t here to keep us in, Dr. Isles. It’s to keep the world out.”

  Maura climbed back into the Lexus, and as she drove past the twin pillars, the gate was already starting to swing shut. Despite Lily’s assurance that the gate wasn’t meant to lock her in, the wrought-iron bars made her think of a high-security prison. It brought back the sound of clanging metal and the sight of caged faces staring at her.

  Lily’s golf cart led her down a single-lane road carved through dense woods. In the gloom of those trees, a shockingly brilliant orange fungus stood out, clinging to the trunk of a venerable oak. High in the forest canopy, birds fluttered. A red squirrel perched on a branch, its tail twitching. This deep in the Maine woods, what other creatures would emerge once darkness fell?

  The forest gave way to open sky, and a lake stretched before her. In the distance, beyond impenetrably dark waters, loomed the Evensong building. Lily had referred to it as the castle, and that was exactly what it looked like, mounted on barren granite. Constructed of that same gray rock, the walls rose up as though thrust from the hill itself.

  They drove under a stone arch into the courtyard, and Maura parked her Lexus beside a moss-covered wall. Only an hour ago, the day had been summery, but when she stepped out the air felt cold and damp. Looking up at towering granite walls, at the steeply sloping roof, she imagined bats circling the turret high overhead.

  “Don’t worry about your suitcase,” said Lily, taking it out of the Lexus trunk. “We’ll just leave it here on the steps, and Mr. Roman will bring it up to your room.”

  “Where are all the students?”

  “Most of the students and staff have left for summer break. We’re down to only two dozen kids and a skeleton crew who stay year-round. And next week you and Julian will find it really quiet around here, because we’ll be taking the rest of the kids on a field trip to Quebec. Let me give you a quick tour, then I’ll bring you to see Julian. He’s in class right now.”

  “How is he doing?” Maura asked.

  “Oh, he’s really blossomed since he got here! He’s still not crazy about classroom work, but he’s resourceful, and he notices things that everyone else misses. And he’s protective of the younger kids, always watching out for them. A true Guardian personality.” Lily paused. “It did take him a while to trust us, though. You can understand that, after what he went through in Wyoming.”

  Yes, Maura did understand. Because she and Julian had lived through it together, both of them fighting for their lives, not knowing whom to trust.

  “And you, Lily?” Maura asked. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m right where I should be. Living in this beautiful place. Teaching these amazing kids.”

  “Julian told me you built a Roman catapult in class.”

  “Yes, during our unit on siege warfare. The students really got into that one. Broke a window, unfortunately.”

  They climbed stone steps and came to a doorway so tall it could have admitted a giant. Lily punched in the security code again. The massive wooden door swung open easily with just a push, and they stepped across the threshold into a hall where soaring archways were framed in old timbers. Hanging overhead was an iron chandelier, and set in the arch above it, like a multicolored eye, was a circular stained-glass window. On this gloomy afternoon, it admitted only a faintly muddy glow.

  Maura stopped at the foot of a massive stairway and admired the tapestry hanging on the wall, a faded image of two unicorns resting in a bower of vines and fruit trees. “This really is a castle,” she said.

  “Built around 1835 by a megalomaniac named Cyril Magnus.” Lily gave a disgusted shake of the head. “He was a railroad baron, big-game hunter, art collector, and all-around mean bastard, according to most accounts. This was built as his private castle. Designed in the Gothic style that he admired during his trips to Europe. The granite was quarried fifty miles from here. The timbers are good old Maine oak. When Evensong purchased this property thirty years ago, it was still in pretty good shape, so most of what you see here is original. Over the years, Cyril Magnus kept adding to the building, which makes it a little confusing to navigate. Don’t be surprised if you get lost.”

  “That tapestry,” said Maura, pointing to the weaving of the unicorns. “It actually looks medieval.”

  “It is. It comes from Anthony’s villa in Florence.”

  Maura had seen the treasure trove of sixteenth-century paintings and Venetian furniture that Sansone kept in his Beacon Hill residence. She had no doubt that his villa in Florence would be as grand as this building, and the art even more impressive. But these were not the warm, honey-hued walls of Tuscany; here the gray stone radiated a chill that even a sunny day would not dispel.

  “Have you been there yet?” Lily asked. “To his home in Florence?”

  “I haven’t been invited,” said Maura. Unlike you, obviously.

  Lily gave her a thoughtful look. “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time,” she said, and turned toward what looked like a paneled wall. She pushed against one of the panels; it swung open to reveal a doorway. “This is the passage to the library.”

  “Are you trying to hide the books?”

  “No, it’s just one of the peculiar features of this building. I think old Cyril Magnus liked surprises, because it’s not the only door in this house that’s disguised as something else.” Lily led her down a windowless corridor, the gloom accentuated by dark wood paneling. At the far end, they emerged into a room where tall arched windows admitted the last gray light of day. Maura stared up in wonder at gallery upon gallery of bookshelves that soared three stories to a domed ceiling where the plaster had been decorated with a painting of fluffy clouds in a blue sky.

  “This is the beating heart of Evensong,” said Lily. “This library. Anytime, day or night, the students are welcome to come in here and pull any book from the shelves, as long as they promise to treat it with respect. And if they can’t find what they’re looking for in the library …” Lily crossed to a door and opened it, revealing a room with a dozen computers. “As a last resort, there’s always Dr. Google.” She shut the door again with a look of distaste. “But really, who wants the Internet when the real treasures are right here.” She gestured to three stories of books. “The collected wisdom of centuries, under one roof. It makes me salivate, just looking at them.”

  “Spoken like a true teacher of the classics,” said Maura as she scanned the titles. Napoleon’s Women. Lives of the Saints. Egyptian Mythology. She paused as one title caught her eye, stamped in gold on dark leather. Lucifer. The book seemed to call to her, demanding her attention. She pulled out the volume and stared at
the worn leather cover, with its tooled illustration of a crouching demon.

  “We believe that no knowledge is off limits,” said Lily quietly.

  “Knowledge?” Maura slid the book back on the shelf and looked at the young woman. “Or superstition?”

  “It helps to understand both, don’t you think?”

  Maura walked down the room, past rows of long wooden tables and chairs, past a series of globes, each representing the world as known in a different age. “As long as you don’t teach it as fact,” she said, stopping to examine a globe from 1650, the continents misshapen, vast territories unknown and unexplored. “It’s superstition. Myth.”

  “Actually, we teach them your belief system, Dr. Isles.”

  “My belief system?” Maura looked at her in puzzlement. “Which one would that be?”

  “Science. Chemistry and physics, biology and botany.” She glanced at the antique grandfather clock. “Which is where Julian is right now. And his class should just be ending.”

  They left the library, returning through that dark-paneled corridor to the entrance hall, and climbed the massive stairway. As they passed beneath the tapestry, Maura saw it flutter against the stone wall, as if a draft had just swept into the building, and the unicorns seemed to come alive, trembling beneath the lushly fruited trees. The steps curved past a window, and Maura paused to admire the view of wooded hills in the distance. Julian had told her his school was surrounded by forest, that it was miles from the nearest village. Only now did she see how isolated Evensong truly was.

  “Nothing can reach us here.” The voice, so soft, startled her by its nearness. Lily stood half hidden in the shadow of the archway. “We grow our own food. Raise chickens for eggs, cows for milk. Heat with our own wood. We don’t need the outside world at all. This is the first place I’ve truly felt safe.”