“Put me down all the time?”
A denial reflexively bubbled to her lips; then she saw his face and realized what he’d said was true. She did put him down all the time. She sighed. “I don’t really mean to.”
“So it’s not because you think I deserve it? Like I’m disgusting or something?”
“No. It’s because I’m not thinking at all. It’s a stupid habit.”
He nodded. “I have stupid habits, too. Like how I’m always using the word like.”
“Just stop it, then.”
“Let’s agree we’ll both stop it. Okay?”
“Sure. Whatever.” She turned more pages in the album, saw more photos of her handsome dad posing in different settings. At a picnic with friends under the trees. Wearing a swimsuit on a beach with palm trees. She came to a photo of both her mom and dad, their arms entwined, standing in front of the Roman Colosseum.
“Look. That’s my mom,” she said softly, stroking a finger across the image. Suddenly the scent of the perfume on that scarf cut through the fog of lost memories, and she could smell her mother’s hair, feel her mother’s hands on her face.
“She looks like you,” said Will in wonder. “She’s really beautiful.”
They were both beautiful, thought Claire, gazing hungrily at her mother and father. They must have thought the whole world was at their feet when this picture was taken. They had striking good looks and a lifetime ahead of them. And they were living in Rome. Did they ever stop to think, did they ever imagine, how prematurely their future would end?
“This was taken nineteen years ago,” said Will, noting the date that Claire’s mom had written in the album.
“They were just married then. My dad worked at the embassy. He was a political secretary.”
“In Rome? Cool. Is that where you were born?”
“My birth certificate says I was born in Virginia. I guess my mom came home to have me.”
They turned more pages, saw more images of the same handsome couple smiling at a dinner, holding up champagne glasses at a cocktail party, waving from a motorboat. Living la dolce vita, her mother used to say. The sweet life. And that’s what Claire saw in these photos, a record of what seemed to be a never-ending string of good times with colleagues and friends. But that’s what photo albums were meant to show, the best moments in life. The moments you wanted to remember, not the ones you wanted to forget.
“Look. That’s gotta be you,” said Will.
It was a photo of Claire’s mother, smiling from her hospital bed as she cradled an infant. She saw the handwritten date and said, “Yeah, that’s the day I was born. My mom said it happened really fast. She said I was in a hurry to get out and she almost didn’t make it to the hospital in time.”
Will laughed. “You’re still in a hurry to get out.”
She turned the pages, past more boring baby photos. In a stroller. In a high chair. Clutching a bottle. None of this helped her remember anything because these were all taken before her memories had been laid down. It could just as well be another child’s album.
She reached the last page. In the final two photos, Claire did not appear. These featured yet another cocktail party, another set of smiling strangers holding wineglasses. That was the burden of the diplomat’s wife, her mom used to joke. Always smiling, always pouring. Claire was about to shut the album when Will’s hand suddenly closed over hers.
“Wait,” he said. “That picture.”
“What about it?”
He took the album from her and leaned in close to study one of the party photos. It showed Claire’s dad, cocktail glass in hand, caught in midlaugh with another man. The handwritten caption said, 4TH OF JULY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, USA!
“This woman,” murmured Will. He pointed to a slim brunette standing to the right of Erskine Ward. She was wearing a low-cut green dress with a gold belt, and her gaze was fixed on Claire’s father. It was a look of unabashed admiration. “Do you know who she is?” Will asked.
“Should I?”
“Look at her. Try to remember if you’ve ever seen her.”
The harder she stared, the more familiar the woman seemed, but it was just a wisp of a memory, one she couldn’t be sure of. One that might not even exist, except through a trick of effort. “I don’t know,” she said. “Why?”
“Because I do know her.”
She frowned at him. “How could you? This is my family album.”
“And that,” he said, pointing to the woman in the photo, “is my mother.”
TWENTY-SIX
Anthony Sansone arrived at Evensong under cover of darkness, as he had before.
From her window, Maura saw the Mercedes park in the courtyard below. A familiar figure climbed out, tall and cloaked in black. As he swept past, beneath the courtyard lantern, he briefly cast a long, sinister shadow across the cobblestones and then disappeared.
She left her room and headed downstairs to intercept him. At the second-floor landing she paused and looked down into the shadowy entrance hall, where Sansone and Gottfried were speaking in hushed voices.
“… still unclear why she did it,” said Gottfried. “Our contacts are deeply troubled. There’s too much we didn’t know about her, things we should have been told.”
“You believe it was a suicide?”
“If not suicide, how do we explain …” Gottfried froze at the creak of a step. Both men turned to see Maura standing above them, on the stairs.
“Dr. Isles,” said Gottfried, instantly forcing a smile. “Having a touch of insomnia?”
“I want to hear the truth,” she said. “About Anna Welliver.”
“We’re as baffled about her death as you are.”
“This isn’t about her death. It’s about her life. You said you had no answers for me, Gottfried.” She looked at Sansone. “Maybe Anthony does.”
Sansone sighed. “I suppose it is time to be honest with you. I owe you that much, Maura. Come, let’s talk in the library.”
“Then I’ll say good night to you both,” said Gottfried, and he turned to the stairs. There he paused and looked back at Sansone. “Anna’s gone, but that doesn’t break our promise to her. Remember that, Anthony.” He climbed the steps, disappearing into shadow.
“What does that mean?” Maura asked.
“It means there are some things I cannot tell you,” he said as they entered the gloomy passage leading to the library.
“What’s the point of all the secrecy?”
“The point is trust. Anna revealed things to us under the strictest confidence. Details we’re unable to share.” He paused at the end of the passageway. “But now we wonder if even we knew the truth about her.”
During the day, sunlight flooded the library’s Palladian windows and gleamed on polished wood tables. But now shadows cloaked the room, transforming alcoves into dark little caves. Anthony switched on a single desk lamp, and in intimate gloom they sat facing each other across a table. All around them loomed rows and rows of bookcases in scholarly formation, two millennia’s worth of knowledge. But it was this man she now struggled to read, a man as unknowable as a closed book.
“Who was Anna Welliver?” Maura asked. “I saw her autopsy. Her body is covered with old scars from torture. I know her husband was murdered, but what happened to Anna?”
He shook his head. “Will it always be this way between us?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why can’t we have normal conversations, like other people? About the weather, the theater? Instead we talk about your work, not the most pleasant of subjects. But I suppose that is what keeps bringing us together.”
“Death, you mean?”
“And violence.” He leaned forward, his eyes as intense as lasers. “We’re so much alike, you and I. There’s a darkness in you, and that’s the bond we share. We both understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That the darkness is real.”
“I don’t want to see the world that way,” she said.
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“But you see the evidence every time a corpse lands on your autopsy table. You know the world isn’t all sunshine, and so do I.”
“And that’s what we bring to this friendship, Anthony? Doom and gloom?”
“I sensed it in you the first time we met. It runs deep in you, because of who you are.”
Who I am. Queen of the dead. The daughter of monsters. The darkness extended as deep as the blood in her veins, because it was the same blood that ran in her mother Amalthea, a killer who would spend the rest of her life in prison.
His gaze was so intent that she could not bear to maintain eye contact. She focused, instead, on his briefcase. They had known each other for almost two years, yet with just a look, he could still throw her off balance and make her feel like a specimen under glass, examined and exposed.
“I’m not here to talk about myself,” she said. “You promised you’d tell me the truth about Anna.”
He nodded. “What I can tell you, anyway.”
“Did you know that she was a victim of torture?”
“Yes. And we knew she was still deeply haunted by what happened to her and her husband in Argentina.”
“Yet you hired her. Brought her onto your staff as a counselor to vulnerable children.”
“The Evensong school board hired her.”
“You must have personally approved it.”
He nodded. “Based on her references, her academic qualifications. Her dedication to crime victims. And she was one of us.”
“A member of the Mephisto Society.”
“She, too, was personally scarred by violence. Twenty-two years ago, Anna and her husband were working for an international firm in Argentina when they were abducted. Both Anna and her husband were tortured. Her husband, Frank, was executed. The killers were never captured. That experience taught Anna that justice is unreliable. That monsters are always with us. She left the company she’d been working for, went back to graduate school, and become a counselor for crime victims. Sixteen years ago, she joined us.”
“You’re not exactly in the Yellow Pages. How did she learn about the society?”
“The way all our members do. Through an intermediary.”
“She was recruited?”
“Her name was proposed to the society by a member who served in law enforcement. Anna came to his attention because of her excellent work as a counselor. He knew that she’d lost her husband to violence. That she was especially effective with childhood victims, and she had multiple contacts within law enforcement and child protective agencies around the country.” He lifted the briefcase he’d carried into the library and set it on the table. “After I got news of her death, I reviewed her membership file.”
“Every member has a file?”
“Compiled at the time of proposal. I’ve redacted the sensitive information, but here’s what I can share with you.”
“I can’t be trusted with the complete file?”
“Maura.” He sighed. “Even though I trust you, some information can be shared only among members.”
“Then why show this to me at all?”
“Because you’ve made yourself part of the investigation. You attended the autopsy. You requested a comprehensive tox screen on Anna’s blood, so I assume you have doubts it was a suicide. When you raise questions, I listen. Because I know how good you are at your job.”
“I have no evidence yet to support my doubts.”
“But something’s triggered your instincts. Something in your subconscious has picked up details that you’re not even aware of yet. It’s telling you something is wrong.” He leaned closer, studying her face. “Am I correct?”
She thought of the empty sugar bowl. And the baffling phone conversation between Jane and Anna. She looked down at the file that Sansone had slid to her, and opened the folder.
The first page was a photo of Anna, before her hair had turned silver. It was taken sixteen years earlier, when she’d been proposed for the society. As always, she wore a modest dress with long sleeves and high collar, a wardrobe choice that made her seem eccentric, but which Maura now understood was meant to hide the scars of torture. Nothing in Anna’s smile, in her eyes, spoke of old torments or a future suicide.
Maura turned the page to a dry compilation of biographical data. Born in Berlin to a US Army officer and his wife. Earned a degree in psychology from George Washington University in DC and married to Franklin Welliver. Along with her husband, she worked for an international headhunting firm with offices in Mexico, Chile, and Argentina.
She turned the page and saw newspaper articles about the couple’s abduction and Franklin’s subsequent murder in Argentina. A second clipping stated that the killers were never apprehended.
“Anna personally experienced the failure of justice,” said Sansone. “That made her one of us.”
“Not the sort of membership qualification anyone wants to have.”
“None of us joined the society because we wanted to, the way you want to join a country club. We were each compelled to join because of personal tragedies that left us angry or hopeless or in despair. We understand what ordinary people don’t.”
“Evil.”
“That’s one word for it.” He pointed to the file. “Certainly Anna understood. After her husband’s death, she quit her job and returned to the US to go back to school. Earned her degree in counseling. In her own way, she was trying to fight evil, by working with the families of victims. We offered her the chance to be even more effective, to reshape a whole generation of lives. Not just as a counselor, but as our admissions scout. With her contacts within child protective agencies and law enforcement, she could identify prospective students all over the country.”
“By trawling through murder cases? Targeting the wounded?”
“We’ve had this conversation before, Maura. I know you don’t approve.”
“Because it smacks of recruitment for your cause.”
“Look at Julian and how he’s blossomed. Tell me this school hasn’t been good for him.”
She didn’t respond because she had no rebuttal. Evensong was exactly where Julian should be. In just these few months he’d gained both muscle and confidence.
“Anna knew he would do well here,” said Sansone. “If you judged him only by his school records in Wyoming, no one would consider him a promising candidate. He was failing half his classes, getting into fights, committing petty crimes. But Anna saw in his file that he was a survivor. She knew he’d kept you alive in those mountains for no other reason but compassion. And that’s how she knew he was a student we wanted.”
“So she made that decision?”
“Anna’s approval was key. She handpicked half the students you see here.” He paused and added: “Including Claire Ward and Will Yablonski.”
She considered that last piece of information for a moment. Thought about the meeting that she and Jane had held in Anna’s office about these three children, and whether there was a connection among them. Anna had told them it was merely a coincidence, and not worth pursuing. Yet on the day Anna died, she had been studying the files of those same three children.
The room was so quiet Maura could hear her own heartbeat. The silence magnified the sound of approaching footsteps, and she turned as four figures emerged from the shadows and walked into the glow of the lamp.
“We need to talk to you,” said Julian. Beside him stood three companions. The three. Will and Teddy and Claire, the trio whose tragedies seemed to have no end to them.
Although it was approaching eleven P.M., and these children should all be in bed, Sansone regarded them with the same respect he’d give any adult. “What do you have on your mind, Julian?” he asked.
“The Jackals had a meeting this morning, about Dr. Welliver,” the boy said. “And these three members have since uncovered a lead. But we need your help to pursue it.”
Maura sighed. “Julian, I know you want to be helpful, but it’s late. Mr. Sansone and I have t
hings to—”
“We want to see our files,” Claire cut in. “We want to know everything the police know about us and our parents. All the reports.”
“I don’t have that information, Claire.”
“But you can get it, right? Or Detective Rizzoli can.”
“These are ongoing investigations. Which means that information isn’t meant for the public.”
“We’re not the public,” said Claire. “This is about us, about our lives, and we have a right to know.”
“Yes, you do have a right to know, when you get older. But these are official documents, and there are details that you might not understand.”
“Because we’re too young to handle the truth? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? That thirteen-year-olds can’t possibly deal with it. It’s like you have no idea who we are, or what we’ve been through.”
“I do know, Claire,” Maura said quietly. “I understand.”
“Understand what? She got shot in the head? That’s what you know about me, but you have no idea what that really means. Waking up in a hospital, not remembering how you got there. Not knowing your mom and dad are dead. Feeling like you’ll never again be able to read a whole book or sleep through the night or even hold on to a single damn thought.” She pressed her hand to her head. “When they blasted this hole in my skull, they blew up my life, too. I’ll never be like everyone else. I’ll always be the weirdo. So don’t tell me you know me, or anything about me.”
The boys, stunned by that outburst, stared at her in astonishment. Perhaps even admiration.
“I’m sorry,” said Maura. “You’re absolutely right, Claire, I don’t know.” She looked at Will and Teddy. “Just like I don’t know what your lives have been like, not really. I cut open bodies and see what’s inside, but that’s all I can do. You three, well, you’ll just have to tell me what the files can’t. About your lives and who you are.”
“Like Claire says, we’re the weirdos,” said Will, and Teddy gave a sad nod of agreement. “We’re the ones no one wants to be around. It’s like everyone can sense we’re bad luck, and they don’t want anything to do with us, in case it rubs off.” Will’s head drooped. “And they end up dead, like Dr. Welliver.”
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 300