The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

His uncharacteristic formality unsettled her; so did this setting, surrounded by oddities in cabinets, and by people she scarcely knew.

  She answered him with equal formality. “I don’t believe Evensong is the right school for Julian.”

  Gottfried raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Has he told you he’s unhappy, Dr. Isles?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think he’s unhappy?”

  She paused. “No.”

  “Then what is the nature of your concern?”

  “Julian has been telling me about his classmates. He says that a number of them have lost family members to violence. Is this true?”

  Gottfried nodded. “For many of our students.”

  “Many? Or most?”

  He gave a conciliatory shrug. “Most.”

  “So this is a school for victims.”

  “Oh dear, not victims,” Dr. Welliver said. “We like to think of them as survivors. They come to us with special needs. And we know exactly how to help them.”

  “Is that why you’re here, Dr. Welliver? To address their emotional needs?”

  Dr. Welliver gave her an indulgent smile. “Most schools have counselors.”

  “But they don’t keep therapists on staff.”

  “True.” The psychologist looked around the table at her colleagues. “We’re proud to say we’re unique that way.”

  “Unique because you specialize in traumatized children.” She looked around the table. “In fact, you recruit them.”

  “Maura,” said Sansone, “child protective agencies around the country send children to us because we offer what other schools can’t. A sense of safety. A sense of order.”

  “And a sense of purpose? Is that what you’re really trying to instill?” She looked around the table at the six faces watching her. “You’re all members of the Mephisto Society. Aren’t you?”

  “Maybe we could try to stay on topic?” suggested Dr. Welliver. “And focus on what we do here at Evensong.”

  “I am talking about Evensong. About how you’re using this school to recruit soldiers for your organization’s paranoid mission.”

  “Paranoid?” Dr. Welliver gave a surprised laugh. “That’s hardly a diagnosis I’d make of anyone in this room.”

  “The Mephisto Society believes that evil is real. You believe that humanity itself is under attack, and your mission is to defend it.”

  “Is that what you think we’re doing here? Training demon hunters?” Welliver shook her head in amusement. “Trust me, our role is hardly metaphysical. We help children recover from violence and tragedy. We give them structure, safety, and a superb education. We prepare them for university or whatever their goals may be. You visited Professor Pasquantonio’s class yesterday. You saw how engaged the students are, even with a subject like botany.”

  “He was showing them poisonous plants.”

  “And that’s precisely why they were interested,” said Pasquantonio.

  “Because the subtext was murder? Which plants can be used to kill?”

  “That’s your interpretation. Others would call it a class on safety. How to recognize and avoid what could harm them.”

  “What else do you teach here? Ballistics? Blood splatters?”

  Pasquantonio shrugged. “Neither would be out of place in a physics class. What is your objection?”

  “My objection is that you’re using these children to advance your own agenda.”

  “Against violence? Against the evils that men do to one another?” Pasquantonio snorted. “You make it sound like we’re pushing drugs or training gangsters.”

  “We’re helping them heal, Dr. Isles,” Lily said. “We know what it’s like to be crime victims. We help them find purpose in their pain. Just as we do.”

  We know what it’s like. Yes, Lily Saul would know; she’d lost her family to murder. And Sansone had lost his father to murder as well.

  Maura looked at the six faces and felt a chilling sense of comprehension. “You’ve all lost someone,” she said.

  Gottfried gave a mournful nod. “My wife,” he said. “A robbery in Berlin.”

  “My sister,” said Ms. Duplessis. “Raped and strangled in Detroit.”

  “My husband,” Dr. Welliver said softly, her head bowed. “Kidnapped and murdered in Buenos Aires.”

  Maura turned to Pasquantonio, who stared down in silence at the table. He did not answer the question; he didn’t need to. The answer was there, in his face. She suddenly thought of her own twin sister, murdered only a few years earlier. And Maura realized: I belong in this circle. Like them, I mourn someone lost to violence.

  “We understand these children,” said Dr. Welliver. “That’s why Evensong is the best place for them. Maybe the only place for them. Because they’re one of us. We are all one family.”

  “Of victims.”

  “Not victims. We’re the ones who lived.”

  “Your students may be survivors,” said Maura, “but they’re also just children. They can’t choose for themselves. They can’t object.”

  “Object to what?” said Dr. Welliver.

  “To joining this army of yours. That’s what you think you are, an army of the righteous. You gather up the wounded and turn them into warriors.”

  “We nurture them. Give them a way to spring back from adversity.”

  “No, you keep them in a place where they’ll never be allowed to forget. By surrounding them with other victims, you take away any chance of them seeing the world the way other children do. Instead of light, they see darkness. They see evil.”

  “Because it’s there. Evil,” Pasquantonio whispered. He sat hunched in his chair, his head still bowed. “The proof of it comes from their own lives. They merely see what they already know exists.” Slowly he lifted his head and looked at her with pale and watery eyes. “As do you.”

  “No,” she said. “What I see in my work is the result of violence. This thing you call evil is merely a philosophical term.”

  “Call it what you will. These children know the truth. It’s burned into their memories.”

  Gottfried said, reasonably, “We provide them with the knowledge and skills to make a difference in the world. We inspire them to take action, just as other private schools do. Military academies teach discipline. Religious schools teach piety. College preps emphasize academics.”

  “And Evensong?”

  “We teach resilience, Dr. Isles,” Gottfried answered.

  Maura regarded the faces around the table, evangelists all. And their recruits were the wounded and vulnerable, children who had not been given a choice.

  She rose to her feet. “Julian doesn’t belong here. I’ll find another school for him.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not your decision,” said Dr. Welliver. “You don’t have legal custody of the boy.”

  “I’ll petition the state of Wyoming.”

  “I understand you had the chance to do that six months ago. You declined.”

  “Because I thought this school was the right place for him.”

  “It is the right place for him, Maura,” said Sansone. “To pull him from Evensong would be a mistake. One that you’ll regret.” Was that a warning in his voice? She tried to read his face, but like so many times before, she failed.

  “This is up to Julian, don’t you think?” Dr. Welliver said.

  “Yes, of course it is,” said Maura. “But I’m going to tell him exactly how I feel about this.”

  “Then I suggest you take the time to understand what we’re doing here.”

  “I do understand.”

  “You just got here yesterday, Dr. Isles,” Lily said. “You haven’t seen what we offer the children. You haven’t walked in our forest, seen our stables and farm, observed all the skills they’re picking up here. Everything from archery to growing their own food to learning how to survive in the wilderness. I know you’re a scientist. Shouldn’t you base your decisions on facts and not emotions?”

  This made Maura pause
, because what Lily said was true. She had not yet explored Evensong. She had no idea if there was a better alternative for Julian.

  “Give us a chance,” said Lily. “Take the time to meet our students, and you’ll see why Evensong is the one place that can help them. As an example, we’ve just taken in two new kids. Both of them have survived two separate massacres. First their parents were killed, then their foster parents. Imagine how deep their wounds must go, to be twice orphaned, twice a survivor?” Lily shook her head. “I don’t know of another school that would understand their pain the way we can.”

  Twice orphaned. Twice a survivor. “These children,” Maura said softly. “Which ones are they?”

  “The names don’t matter,” said Dr. Welliver. “What matters is that they need Evensong.”

  “I want to know who they are.” Maura’s sharp demand seemed to startle them all.

  A silence passed before Lily asked: “Why do their names make a difference?”

  “You said there were two of them.”

  “A boy and a girl.”

  “Are their cases related?”

  “No. Will came to us from New Hampshire. Claire came from Ithaca, New York. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I just performed autopsies on a family in Boston, killed in a home invasion. There was one survivor in the house, their foster child. A boy of fourteen. A boy who was orphaned two years ago when his family was massacred.” She looked around the table at the stunned faces. “He’s just like your two students. Twice orphaned. Twice a survivor.”

  TEN

  It was a strange place to meet.

  Jane stood on the sidewalk, eyeing the blacked-out windows where the words ARABIAN NIGHTS were stenciled in flaking gold letters over the painted figure of a buxom woman in harem pants. The door suddenly opened and a man stumbled out. He wobbled for a moment, squinting in the daylight, and headed unsteadily down the street, trailing the sour scent of booze.

  As Jane stepped into the establishment, an even stronger whiff of alcohol hit her full in the face. Inside, it was so dim that she could barely make out the silhouettes of two men hunched at the bar, nursing their drinks. Gaudy cushions and camel bells decorated the velvet-upholstered booths, and she half expected a belly dancer to come tinkling by with a tray of cocktails.

  “Get ya something, miss?” the bartender called out, and the two patrons swiveled around to stare at her.

  “I’m here to meet someone,” she said.

  “I’m guessing you want that guy in the back booth.”

  A voice called out: “I’m here, Jane.”

  She nodded to the bartender and headed to the back booth where her father was sitting, almost swallowed up among poufy velvet cushions. A glass of what looked like whiskey sat on the table in front of him. It wasn’t even five P.M. and he was already drinking, something she’d never seen him do before. Then again, Frank Rizzoli had recently done a lot of things she’d never thought he’d do.

  Like walk out on his wife.

  She slid onto the bench across from him and sneezed as she settled on dusty velvet. “Why the hell are we meeting here, Dad?” she asked.

  “It’s quiet. Good place to talk.”

  “This is where you hang out?”

  “Lately. You want a drink?”

  “No.” She looked at the glass in front of him. “What’s that all about?”

  “Whiskey.”

  “No, I mean what’s with drinking before five?”

  “Who the hell made up that rule, anyway? What’s so magic about five o’clock? Anyway, you know how the song goes. It’s always five o’clock somewhere. Smart man, Jimmy Buffett.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “I called in sick. So sue me.” He took a sip of whiskey but didn’t seem to enjoy it, and set the glass back down. “You don’t talk to me much these days, Jane. It hurts.”

  “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

  “I’m your father. That hasn’t changed.”

  “Yeah, but you’re like a pod person. You do things that my dad—my old dad—wouldn’t do.”

  He sighed. “Insanity.”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “No, I mean it. The insanity of lust. Fucking hormones.”

  “My old dad wouldn’t have used that word.”

  “Your old dad’s a lot wiser now.”

  “Is he?” She leaned back, and her throat itched from the dust puffing up from the velvet upholstery. “Is that why you’re trying to reconnect with me?”

  “I never cut you off. You did.”

  “It’s hard to keep connected when you’re shacked up with another woman. There were weeks when you never bothered to call, even once. To check on any of us.”

  “I didn’t dare. You were too pissed at me. And you took your mom’s side.”

  “Can you blame me?”

  “You have two parents, Jane.”

  “And one of them walked out. Broke Mom’s heart and ran off with a bimbo.”

  “Your mom doesn’t look too heartbroken to me.”

  “You know how many months it took for her to get to this point? How many nights she spent crying her eyes out? While you were out partying with what’s-her-face, Mom was trying to figure out how to survive on her own. And she did it. I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s landed on her feet and is doing fine. Great, in fact.”

  Those words seemed to hit him as hard as if she’d actually thrown a punch. Even in the gloom of that cocktail lounge she could see his face crumple, his shoulders fold forward. His head dropped into his hands, and she heard what sounded like a sob.

  “Dad? Dad.”

  “You gotta stop her. She can’t marry that man, she can’t.”

  “Dad, I—” Jane glanced down at the cell phone vibrating on her belt. A quick glance told her it was a Maine area code, a number she didn’t recognize. She let it go to voice mail and refocused on her father. “Dad, what’s going on?”

  “It was a mistake. If I could just turn back the clock …”

  “I thought you were engaged to what’s-her-name.”

  He took a deep breath. “Sandie called it off. And she kicked me out.”

  Jane didn’t say a word. For a moment, the only sounds were the clink of ice cubes and the rattle of the cocktail shaker at the bar.

  Head drooped, he murmured into his chest. “I’m staying at a cheap hotel around the corner from here. That’s why I asked you to meet me here, ’cause this is where I hang out now.” He gave a disbelieving laugh. “The fucking Arabian Nights cocktail lounge!”

  “What happened between you two?”

  He raised his eyes to hers. “Life. Boredom. I don’t know. She said I couldn’t keep up with her. That I was acting like an old fart, wanting my dinner cooked every night, and what was she, the maid?”

  “Maybe now you appreciate Mom.”

  “Yeah, well, nobody beats your mom’s cooking, that’s for damn sure. So maybe I was unfair, expecting Sandie to measure up. But she didn’t have to twist the knife, you know? Calling me old.”

  “Ouch. That’s gotta sting.”

  “I’m only sixty-two! Just ’cause she’s fourteen years younger doesn’t make her some spring chicken. But that’s how she sees me, too old for her. Too old to be worth …” He dropped his head in his hands again.

  Lust fades and then you see your new and exciting lover in the harsh light of day. Sandie Huffington must have woken up one morning, looked at Frank Rizzoli, and noticed the lines in his face, the sag of his jowls. When the hormones were spent, what was left was sixty-two years old, and going flabby and bald. She’d snagged another woman’s husband and now she wanted to throw back the catch.

  “You gotta help me,” he said.

  “You need money, Dad?”

  His head snapped up. “No! I’m not asking for that! I got a job, why would I need your money?”

  “Then what do you need?”

  “I need you to talk to your ma. Te
ll her I’m sorry.”

  “She should hear that from you.”

  “I tried to tell her, but she doesn’t want to hear me out.”

  Jane sighed. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell her.”

  “And … and ask her when I can come home.”

  She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

  “What’s that look on your face?”

  “You expect Mom to let you move back in?”

  “Half the house is mine.”

  “You’ll kill each other.”

  “A bad idea to have your parents together again? What kind of thing is that for a daughter to say?”

  She took a deep breath, and when she spoke, it was slowly and clearly. “So you want to go back to Mom and be the way you were before. Is that what you’re saying?” She rubbed her temples. “Holy shit.”

  “I want us to be a family again. Her, me, you and your brothers. Christmas and Thanksgiving together. All those great times, great meals.”

  Mostly the great meals.

  “Frankie’s on board,” he said. “He wants it to happen. So does Mike. I just need you to talk to her, because she listens to you. You tell her to take me back. Tell her it’s the way things were meant to be.”

  “What about Korsak?”

  “Who gives a shit about him?”

  “They’re engaged. They’re planning the wedding.”

  “She’s not divorced yet. She’s still my wife.”

  “It’s only a matter of paperwork.”

  “It’s a matter of family. A matter of what’s right. Please, Jane, talk to her. And we can go back to being the Rizzolis again.”

  The Rizzolis. She thought about what that meant. A history. All the holidays and birthdays, together. Memories shared by no one else but them. There was a sacredness to that, something that should not be easily cast aside, and she was sentimental enough to mourn what had been lost. Now it could be reconstructed and made whole, Mom and Dad together again, as they’d always been. Frankie and Mike wanted it. Her dad wanted it.

  And her mother? What did she want?

  She thought of the pink taffeta bridesmaid’s dress that Angela had so happily presented to her. Remembered the last time she and Gabriel had gone to her mother’s house for dinner, when Angela and Korsak had giggled like teenagers and played footsie under the table. She looked across at her father and could not remember him ever playing footsie. Or giggling. Or slapping Angela’s butt. What she saw was a tired and beaten man who’d gambled on a flaky blonde and lost. If I were Mom, would I take him back?