Maura pulled latex gloves from a box on the countertop. Then she crossed to the gurney and unzipped the bag all the way open. As the plastic parted, no one said a word. What lay on that gurney silenced them all.
At four degrees Centigrade, bacterial growth is arrested, decay halted. Despite the passage of at least two weeks, the freezing temperatures of the vacant house had preserved the corpse’s soft tissues, and there was no need for menthol ointment to mask any overwhelming odors. The harsh lights revealed far worse horrors than mere putrefaction. The throat lay open and exposed by a single deep slash that had transected the trachea, slicing all the way to the cervical spine. But that fatal stroke of the blade was not what captured Maura’s gaze; she stared, instead, at the naked torso. At the multitude of crosses that had been carved on the breasts, on the abdomen. Holy symbols cut into the parchment of human skin. Blood encrusted the carvings, and countless rivulets had seeped from shallow incisions and dried in brick-red lines running down the sides of the torso.
Her gaze moved to the right arm, lying at the corpse’s side. She saw the ring of bruises, like a cruel bracelet marking the wrist. She looked up and met Jane’s gaze. For that one moment, all anger between the two women was forgotten, swept aside by the vision of Sarah Parmley’s final moments.
“This was done while she was still alive,” said Maura.
“All these cuts.” Jane swallowed. “It could have taken hours.”
Kibbie said, “When we found her, there was nylon cord around the remaining wrist and both ankles. The knots were nailed to the floor, so she couldn’t move.”
“He didn’t do this to Lori-Ann Tucker,” Maura said.
“That’s the victim in Boston?”
“She was dismembered. But she wasn’t tortured.” Maura circled to the corpse’s left side and stared down at the wrist stump. The incised flesh had dried to a leathery brown, and the soft tissues had contracted to expose the surface of cut bone.
“Maybe he wanted something from this woman,” said Jane. “Maybe there was a reason to torture her.”
“An interrogation?” said Kibbie.
“Or punishment,” said Maura, focusing on the victim’s face. She thought of the words that had been scratched on her own door. On Lori-Ann’s bedroom wall. I have sinned.
Is this the reward?
“These aren’t just random cuts,” said Jane. “These are crosses. Religious symbols.”
“He drew them on the walls, too,” said Kibbie.
Maura looked up at him. “Was there anything else on the walls? Other symbols?”
“Yeah. Lots of weird stuff. I tell you, it gave me the willies just to step in that front door. Joe Jurevich will show you when you go to the house.” He gazed at the body. “This is all there is to see here, really. Enough to tell you we’re dealing with a very sick puppy.”
Maura closed the body bag, zipping the plastic over sunken eyes, over corneas clouded by death. She would not be performing this autopsy, but she did not need a scalpel and probe to tell her how this victim had died; she had seen the answer engraved on the woman’s flesh.
They wheeled the gurney back into the refrigerator and stripped off their gloves. Standing at the sink, washing his hands, Kibbie said, “Ten years ago, when I moved to Chenango County, I thought this was God’s country. Fresh air, rolling hills. Folks who’d wave hello, feed me pie when I made a house call.” He sighed, shut off the faucet. “You can’t get away from it, can you? Big city or small town, husbands still shoot their wives, kids still smash and grab. But I never thought I’d see this kind of sick stuff.” He yanked out a paper towel and dried his hands. “Certainly not in a village like Purity. You’ll see what I mean when you get there.”
“How far is it?”
“Another hour and a half, maybe two hours. Depending on whether you want to risk your lives speeding on back roads.”
“Then we’d better get going,” said Jane, “if we want to find a motel there.”
“A motel?” Kibbie laughed. “If I were you, I’d stop in the town of Norwich instead. You’re not going to find much in Purity.”
“It’s that small?”
He tossed the paper towel into the trash can. “It’s that small.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
The motel walls were paper-thin. Lying in bed, Maura could hear Jane talking on the phone in the next room. How nice it must be, she thought, to call your husband and laugh out loud together. To share a public kiss, a hug, without first having to glance around, looking for anyone who might know you, and disapprove. Her own call to Daniel had been brief and furtive. There’d been other people talking in the background, others in the room listening to him, which was why he’d sounded so reserved. Was this how it would always be? Their private lives cut off from their public lives, and never an intersection between them? Here were the real wages of sin. Not hellfire and damnation, but heartbreak.
In the next room, Jane ended her call. A moment later, the TV came on, and then Maura heard the sound of running water in the shower. Only a wall separated them, but the barrier between them was far more formidable than wood and plaster. They’d said hardly a word since Binghamton, and now, just the sound of Jane’s TV was an escalating annoyance. Maura pulled a pillow over her head to shut out the noise, but it could not muffle the whispers of doubt in her mind. Even when Jane’s room finally fell silent, Maura lay awake and aware of the minutes, then the hours, ticking by.
It was not yet seven the next morning when she finally climbed out of bed, exhausted from her restless night, and looked out the window. The sky was a claustrophobic gray. Snow had fallen overnight, and the cars in the parking lot were blanketed in white. She wanted to go home. To hell with the bastard who wrote on her door. She wanted the comfort of her own bed, her own kitchen. But a long day still stretched ahead of her, another day of resentful silences and disapproving jibes from Jane. Just grit your teeth and get through it.
It took two cups of coffee before she felt ready to face the day. Fueled by a stale cheese Danish, compliments of the motel’s continental breakfast, she carried her overnight bag to the parking lot, where Jane already had the engine running.
“Jurevich will meet us at the house,” said Jane.
“You know how to find it?”
“He gave me directions.” Jane frowned at Maura. “Man, you look wiped out.”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“Mattress was pretty bad, huh?”
“Among other things.” Maura tossed her bag onto the backseat and pulled her door shut. They sat without speaking for a moment, the heater blowing at their knees.
“You’re still pissed at me,” said Jane.
“I’m not feeling really chatty right now.”
“I’m just trying to be a friend, okay? If I see a friend’s life going off the rails, I think it’s my duty to say something about it.”
“And I heard you.” Maura snapped on her seat belt. “Can we get going now?”
They left the town of Norwich and headed northwest, along roads slippery with newly fallen snow. Thick clouds threatened yet more snow today, and the view that Maura saw from her window was smudged in shades of gray. The cheese Danish sat like a lump of concrete in her stomach, and she leaned back, eyes closed against the nausea.
She startled awake what seemed like only moments later, to find that they were now struggling along an unplowed road, Jane’s tires churning through snow. Dense woods pressed in on both sides, and the clouds had darkened since Maura had fallen asleep.
“How much farther to Purity?” she asked.
“We already passed through the village. You didn’t miss anything.”
“You sure this is the right road?”
“These were his directions.”
“Jane, we’re going to get stuck.”
“I’ve got all-wheel drive, okay? And we can always call a tow truck.”
Maura took out her cell phone. “No signal. Good luck.”
“H
ere. This has got to be the turnoff,” said Jane, pointing to a realty sign that was half-buried in snow. “The house is for sale, remember?” She gunned the engine and the Subaru fishtailed, then the tires found purchase and they surged up the road, which now began to climb. The trees parted, giving way to a view of the house that stood on the knoll.
Jane pulled into the driveway and gazed up at a three-story Victorian towering above them. “Wow,” she murmured. “This is a pretty big place.”
Crime-scene tape fluttered on the railings of a broad covered porch. Although the clapboards were badly in need of paint, the signs of neglect could not disguise the fact that this was once a handsome home, with a view to match. They climbed out of the car and flying snow stung their faces as they mounted the steps to the porch. Peering through a window, Maura could see ghostly shapes of sheet-covered furniture but little else in the shadowy interior.
“Door’s locked,” said Jane.
“What time’s he supposed to meet us?”
“Fifteen minutes ago.”
Maura huffed out a cloudy breath. “This wind is freezing. How long are we supposed to wait?”
“Let me see if I can get a signal.” Jane frowned at her cell phone. “One bar. That might do it.”
“I’m going to sit in the car.” Maura went down the steps and was just about to open the door when she heard Jane say, “There he is now.”
Turning, Maura saw a red Jeep Cherokee driving up the road. Following right behind it was a black Mercedes. The Cherokee parked next to Jane’s Subaru and a man with crew-cut hair stepped out, dressed for the weather in a voluminous down jacket and heavy boots. He held out a gloved hand to Maura, and she saw a humorless face, chilly gray eyes.
“Detective Rizzoli?” he asked.
“No, I’m Dr. Isles. You must be Detective Jurevich.”
He nodded as they shook hands. “I’m with the Chenango County Sheriff’s Office.” He glanced at Jane, who was coming down the porch steps to meet him. “You’re Rizzoli?”
“Yeah. We just got here a few minutes…” Jane stopped, her gaze suddenly freezing on the black Mercedes, on the man who had just stepped out of it. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“He predicted you’d react that way,” said Jurevich.
Anthony Sansone strode toward them, black coat flapping in the wind. He nodded to Jane, a curt greeting that acknowledged the obvious: that she did not welcome him. Then his gaze fixed on Maura. “You’ve already seen the body?”
She nodded. “Last night.”
“Do you think we’re dealing with the same killer?”
“What’s with this word we?” Jane cut in. “I wasn’t aware you worked in law enforcement, Mr. Sansone.”
Unruffled, he turned to face her. “I won’t get in your way.”
“This is a crime scene. You shouldn’t even be here.”
“I don’t believe Chenango County is in your jurisdiction. This is up to Detective Jurevich.”
Jane looked at Jurevich. “You’re giving him access?”
Jurevich gave a shrug. “Our crime scene unit’s already processed this house. There’s no reason he can’t walk through it with us.”
“So now it’s a public tour.”
“This has been cleared through the sheriff’s office, by special request.”
“Whose request?”
Jurevich glanced at Sansone, whose face revealed nothing.
“We’re wasting time out here,” said Sansone. “I’m sure we’d all like to get out of this wind.”
“Detective?” pressed Jane.
“If you have any objections,” said Jurevich, clearly unhappy at being caught in the middle, “you can take it up with the Department of Justice. Now, why don’t we get inside before we all freeze?” He climbed the steps to the porch, with Sansone right behind him.
Jane stared after them and said softly, “What’s his pull, anyway?”
“Maybe you should just ask him,” said Maura, and she started up the steps. Jurevich had already unlocked the front door, and she followed the men into the house. Inside, she found it scarcely warmer, but at least they were now sheltered from the wind. Jane came in behind her and closed the door. After the glare of the snow, it took a moment for Maura’s eyes to adjust to the interior gloom. Looking through a doorway into the front parlor, she saw sheet-draped furniture and the dull gleam of wood floors. Pale winter light shone in through the windows, casting the room in shades of gray.
Jurevich pointed to the bottom of the stairs. “You can’t see them, but Luminol turned up lots of bloody smears on these steps and in this foyer. Looks like he wiped up after himself as he left the house, so any footwear evidence is pretty indistinct.”
“You went over the whole house with Luminol?” asked Jane.
“Luminol, UV, alternate light source. We checked every room. There’s a kitchen and dining room through that doorway. And a study beyond the parlor. Except for the shoe prints here in the foyer, nothing very interesting turned up on the first floor.” He faced the stairway. “All the action took place upstairs.”
“You said this house was vacant,” said Sansone. “How did the killer get in? Was there any sign of forced entry?”
“No, sir. Windows were shut tight. And the realtor swears she always locks the front door when she leaves.”
“Who has a key?”
“Well, she does. And she says it never leaves her office.”
“How old is the lock?”
“Ah, geez, I don’t know. It’s probably twenty years old.”
“I assume the owner has a key, too.”
“She hasn’t been back to Purity in years. I hear she’s living somewhere in Europe. We haven’t been able to reach her.” Jurevich nodded at the sheet-draped furniture. “There’s a thick layer of dust on everything. You can see no one’s lived here for a while. Damn shame, too. A house this solidly built was meant to last a century, and this one just sits here empty. The caretaker comes up once a month to check on it. That’s how he found the body. He saw Sarah Parmley’s rental car parked out front, and then he found the front door unlocked.”
“Have you checked out the caretaker?” asked Jane.
“He’s not a suspect.”
“Why not?”
“Well, to start off with, he’s seventy-one years old. And he just got out of the hospital three weeks ago. Prostate surgery.” Jurevich looked at Sansone. “See what men have to look forward to?”
“So we’ve got a number of unanswered questions,” said Sansone. “Who unlocked the front door? Why did the victim drive up here in the first place?”
“The house is for sale,” said Maura. “Maybe she saw the realty sign. Maybe she drove up out of curiosity.”
“Look, it’s all speculation,” said Jurevich. “We’ve talked and talked about this, and we just don’t know why she came up here.”
“Tell us more about Sarah Parmley,” said Sansone.
“She grew up in Purity. Graduated from the local high school. But like too many other kids, she couldn’t find anything to keep her here, so she moved out to California and stayed. The only reason she came back to town was because her aunt died.”
“From what?” asked Sansone.
“Oh, it was an accident. Took a tumble down the stairs and broke her neck. So Sarah flew back for the memorial service. She stayed at a motel near town and checked out the day after the funeral. And that’s the last time anyone saw her. Until Saturday, when the caretaker found her car here.” He looked up at the stairs. “I’ll show you the room.”
Jurevich led the way. Halfway up the stairs, he halted and pointed to the wall. “This is the first one we noticed,” he said. “This cross, here. It’s the same symbol he cut all over her body. Looks like it’s drawn in some kind of red chalk.”
Maura stared at the symbol and her fingers went numb inside her gloves. “This cross is upside down.”
“There are more of them upstairs,” said Jurevich. “A lot more.
” As they continued toward the second-floor landing, other crosses appeared on the wall. At first it was just a sparse scattering of them. Then, in the gloomy upstairs hallway, the crosses multiplied like an angry infestation massing along the corridor, swarming toward a doorway.
“In here, it gets bad,” said Jurevich.
His warning made Maura hesitate outside the room. Even after the others had walked through, she paused on the threshold, bracing herself for whatever awaited her on the other side of the doorway.
She stepped through, into a chamber of horrors.
It was not the dried lake of blood on the floor that captured her gaze; it was the handprints covering every wall, as though a multitude of lost souls had left their bloody testament as they’d passed through this room.
“These prints were all made with the same hand,” said Jurevich. “Identical palm prints and ridge lines. I don’t think our killer was stupid enough to leave his own.” He looked at Jane. “I’m willing to bet these were all made with Sarah Parmley’s severed hand. The one that turned up at your crime scene.”
“Jesus,” murmured Jane. “He used her hand like some kind of rubber stamp.”
With blood as his ink, thought Maura, her gaze traveling the walls. How many hours did he spend in this room, dipping the hand in that pool of blood, pressing it to the wall like a child with a stamp kit? Then her gaze focused on the nearest wall, on writing that had been obscured by the overlying handprints. She moved closer, staring at the words that tracked across the wall. It was Latin, and the same three words were repeated again and again. She followed the text as it circled the room in an unbroken line, continuing through corners, like a serpent coiling ever more tightly around them.
Abyssus abyssum invocat abyssus abyssum invocat abyssus abyssum invocat…
Their meaning suddenly dawned on her and she took a step back, chilled to the marrow.
“Hell calls to Hell,” Sansone murmured. She had not noticed that he’d moved right beside her.
“Is that what it means?” asked Jane.
“That’s the literal meaning. It also has another.”
“Hell calls to Hell sounds ominous enough.”
Tess Gerritsen's Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle Page 176