The Mephisto Club

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Thank you,” she said, and started up the steps. “I could use a cup of coffee.”

  TWELVE

  She stepped into the warmth of the front parlor. Her face was still numb from the bite of the wind. Only as she stood before the fireplace, waiting for the butler to notify Mr. Sansone, did sensation slowly creep back into her cheeks; she felt the pleasant sting of reawakened nerves, of flushing skin. She could hear the murmur of conversation in another room—Detective Crowe’s voice, pointed with questioning, answered by a softer response, barely audible. A woman’s. In the fireplace, sparks popped and smoke puffed up, and she realized these were real logs burning, that it was not the fake gas fireplace she’d assumed it was. The medieval oil painting that hung above the hearth might well be authentic as well. It was a portrait of a man wearing robes of wine-red velvet, with a gold crucifix around his neck. Though he was not young, and his dark hair was woven with silver, his eyes burned with a youthful fire. In that room’s flickering light, those eyes seemed piercingly alive.

  She shivered and turned away, strangely intimidated by the stare of a man almost certainly long dead. The room had other curiosities, other treasures to examine. She saw chairs upholstered in striped silk, a Chinese vase that gleamed with the patina of centuries, a rosewood butler’s table that held a cigar box and a crystal decanter of brandy. The carpet she stood on bore a well-worn path down its center, evidence of its age and the countless shoes that had trod across it, but the relatively untouched perimeter revealed the unmistakable quality of thick wool and the craftsmanship of the weaver. She looked down at her feet, at a tapestry of intricate vines twining across burgundy to frame a unicorn reclining beneath a bower of trees. Suddenly she felt guilty that she was standing on such a masterpiece. She stepped off it, onto the wood floor, and closer to the hearth.

  Once again, she was facing the portrait over the mantelpiece. Once again, her gaze lifted to the priest’s piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to stare straight back at her.

  “It’s been in my family for generations. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how vivid the colors still are? Even after four centuries.”

  Maura turned to face the man who had just stepped into the room. He had entered so quietly, it was as though he had simply materialized behind her, and she was too taken by surprise to know quite what to say. He was dressed in a dark turtleneck, which made his silver hair all the more striking. Yet his face looked no older than fifty. Had they merely passed each other on the street, she would have stared at him because his features were so arresting and so hauntingly familiar. She saw a high forehead, an aristocratic bearing. His dark eyes caught the flicker of firelight, so that they seemed lit from within. He had referred to the portrait as an heirloom, and she saw at once the familial resemblance between the portrait and the living man. The eyes were the same.

  He held out his hand. “Hello, Dr. Isles. I’m Anthony Sansone.” His gaze was focused with such intensity on her face that she wondered if they had met before.

  No. I certainly would have remembered a man this attractive.

  “I’m glad to finally make your acquaintance,” he said, shaking her hand. “After everything I’ve heard about you.”

  “From whom?”

  “Dr. O’Donnell.”

  Maura felt her hand go cold in his grasp, and she pulled away. “I can’t imagine why I’d be a subject of conversation.”

  “She had only good things to say about you. Believe me.”

  “That’s a surprise.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t say the same thing about her,” she said.

  He gave a knowing nod. “She can be off-putting. Until you get the chance to know her. Value her insights.”

  The door swung open so quietly, Maura did not hear it. Only the gentle clink of chinaware alerted her to the fact that the butler had stepped into the room, carrying a tray with cups and a coffeepot. He set them on an end table, regarded Sansone with a questioning look, then withdrew from the room. Not a single word had passed between them; the only communication had been that look, and the returning nod—all the vocabulary needed between two men who obviously knew each other well enough to dispense with unnecessary words.

  Sansone gestured for her to sit down, and Maura sank into an empire armchair upholstered in striped silk.

  “I apologize for confining you to the front parlor,” he said. “But Boston PD seems to have commandeered the other rooms while they conduct their interviews.” He poured coffee and handed her a cup. “I take it you’ve examined the victim?”

  “I saw her.”

  “What did you think?”

  “You know I can’t comment.”

  He leaned back in his chair, looking perfectly at ease against blue and gold brocade. “I’m not talking about the body itself,” he said. “I perfectly understand why you can’t discuss your medical findings. I was referring to the scene itself. The gestalt of the crime.”

  “You should ask the lead investigator, Detective Rizzoli.”

  “I’m more interested in your impressions.”

  “I’m a physician. Not a detective.”

  “But I’m guessing you have a special insight into what happened in my garden tonight.” He leaned forward, coal-dark eyes riveted on hers. “You saw the symbols drawn on my back door?”

  “I can’t talk about—”

  “Dr. Isles, you won’t be giving away anything. I saw the body. So did Dr. O’Donnell. When Jeremy found the woman, he came straight into the house to tell us.”

  “And then you and O’Donnell tramped outside like tourists to have a look?”

  “We’re the furthest thing from tourists.”

  “Did you stop to think about the footprints you might have destroyed? The trace evidence you’ve contaminated?”

  “We understood exactly what we were doing. We had to see the crime scene.”

  “Had to?”

  “This house isn’t just my residence. It’s also a meeting place for colleagues from around the world. The fact that violence has struck so close alarms us.”

  “It would alarm anyone to find a dead body in their garden. But most people wouldn’t troop outside with their dinner guest to look at it.”

  “We needed to know if it was merely an act of random violence.”

  “As opposed to what?”

  “A warning, meant specifically for us.” He set down his coffee cup and focused his attention so completely on her that she felt pinned to the silk-upholstered chair. “You did see the chalk symbols on the door? The eye. The three upside-down crosses?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand there was another slaying, on Christmas Eve. Another woman. Another crime scene with reverse crosses drawn on the bedroom wall.”

  She didn’t need to confirm it; this man had surely read the answer in her face. She could almost feel his gaze probing deep, and seeing too much.

  “We might as well talk about it,” he said. “I already know the pertinent details.”

  “How do you know? Who told you?”

  “People I trust.”

  She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Dr. O’Donnell being one of them?”

  “Whether you like her or not, she is an authority in her field. Look at her body of work on serial murderers. She understands these creatures.”

  “Some would say she identifies with them.”

  “On some level, you’d have to. She’s willing to crawl inside their heads. Examine every crevice.”

  The way Maura herself had felt examined by Sansone’s gaze only moments ago.

  “It takes a monster to know one,” said Maura.

  “You really believe that?”

  “About Joyce O’Donnell, yes. I do believe that.”

  He leaned even closer, and his voice dropped to an intimate murmur. “Could your dislike of Joyce be merely personal?”

  “Personal?”

  “Because she knows so much about you? About your family?”

&nbs
p; Maura stared back, stunned into silence.

  “She told us about Amalthea,” he said.

  “She had no right to.”

  “Your mother’s incarceration is a matter of public record. We all know what Amalthea did.”

  “This is my private life—”

  “Yes, and she’s one of your personal demons. I understand that.”

  “Why the hell is this of any interest to you?”

  “Because you’re of interest. You’ve looked evil in the eye. You’ve seen it in your own mother’s face. You know it’s there, in your bloodline. That’s what fascinates me, Dr. Isles—that you come from such violent stock, yet here you are, working on the side of the angels.”

  “I work on the side of science and reason, Mr. Sansone. Angels aren’t involved.”

  “All right, so you don’t believe in angels. But do you believe in their counterparts?”

  “Do you mean demons?” She gave a laugh. “Of course not.”

  He regarded her for a moment with a look of vague disappointment. “Since your religion seems to be science and reason, as you put it, how does science explain what happened in my garden tonight? What happened to that woman on Christmas Eve?”

  “You’re asking me to explain evil.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t. Neither can science. It just is.”

  He nodded. “That’s exactly right. It just is, and it’s always been with us. A real entity, living among us, stalking us. Waiting for its chance to feed. Most people aren’t aware of it, and they don’t recognize it, even when it brushes up against them, when it passes them on the street.” His voice had dropped to a whisper. In the momentary hush, she heard the crackle of flames in the hearth, the murmur of voices in the other room. “But you do,” he said. “You’ve seen it with your own eyes.”

  “I’ve only seen what every homicide cop has seen.”

  “I’m not talking about everyday crimes. Spouses killing spouses, drug dealers shooting the competition. I’m talking about what you saw in your mother’s eyes. The gleam. The spark. Not divine, but something unholy.”

  A draft moaned down the flue, scattering ashes against the fire screen. The flames shuddered, quailing before an invisible intruder. The room suddenly felt cold, as though all heat, all light, had just been sucked from it.

  “I understand perfectly,” he said, “why you wouldn’t want to talk about Amalthea. It’s a terrible bloodline to inherit.”

  “She has nothing to do with who I am,” Maura said. “She didn’t raise me. I didn’t even know she existed until a few months ago.”

  “Yet you’re sensitive about the subject.”

  She met his gaze. “I really don’t care.”

  “I find it strange that you don’t care.”

  “We don’t inherit our parents’ sins. Or their virtues.”

  “Some legacies are too powerful to ignore.” He pointed to the painting over the hearth. “Sixteen generations separate me from that man. Yet I’ll never escape his legacy. I’ll never be washed clean of the things he did.”

  Maura stared at the portrait. Once again, she was struck by the resemblance between the living man sitting beside her and the face on the canvas. “You said that painting was an heirloom.”

  “Not one that I was happy to inherit.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Monsignore Antonino Sansone. This portrait was painted in Venice in 1561. At the height of his power. Or, you might also say, at the depth of his depravity.”

  “Antonino Sansone? Your name?”

  “I’m his direct descendent.”

  She frowned at the painting. “But he—”

  “He was a priest. That’s what you’re about to say, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It would take all night to tell you his story. Another time, maybe. Let’s just say that Antonino was not a godly man. He did things to other human beings that would make you question the very meaning of—” He paused. “He’s not an ancestor I’m proud of.”

  “Yet you have his portrait hanging in your house.”

  “As a reminder.”

  “Of what?”

  “Look at him, Dr. Isles. He looks like me, don’t you think?”

  “Eerily so.”

  “In fact, we could be brothers. That’s why he’s hanging there. To remind me that evil has a human face, maybe even a pleasant face. You could walk past that man, see him smile back at you, and you’d never imagine what he’s thinking about you. You can study a face all you want, but you never really know what lies beneath the mask.” He leaned toward her, his hair reflecting firelight like a silvery helmet. “They look just like us, Dr. Isles,” he said softly.

  “They? You make it sound like a separate species.”

  “Maybe they are. Throwbacks to an ancient era. All I know is, they are not like us. And the only way to identify them is to track what they do. Follow the bloody trail, listen for the screams. Search for what most police departments are too overwhelmed to notice: the patterns. We look beyond the background noise of everyday crimes, of routine bloodshed, to see the hot spots. We watch for the footprints of monsters.”

  “Who do you mean by we?”

  “The people who were here tonight.”

  “Your dinner guests.”

  “We share a belief that evil isn’t just a concept. It’s real, and it has a physical presence. It has a face.” He paused. “At some time in our lives, we’ve each seen it in the flesh.”

  Maura’s eyebrow lifted. “Satan?”

  “Whatever name you want to use.” He shrugged. “There’ve been so many names, dating back to the ancients. Lucifer, Abigor, Samael, Mastema. Every culture has its name for evil. My friends and I have each personally brushed up against it. We’ve seen its power, and I’ll admit it, Dr. Isles. We’re scared.” His gaze met hers. “Tonight, more than ever.”

  “You think this killing in your garden—”

  “It has to do with us. With what we do here.”

  “Which is?”

  “We monitor the work of monsters. Around the country, around the world.”

  “A club of armchair detectives? That’s what it sounds like to me.” Her gaze moved back to the portrait of Antonino Sansone, which was no doubt worth a fortune. Just a glance around this drawing room told her that this man had money to burn. And the time to waste on eccentric interests.

  “Why was that woman killed in my garden, Dr. Isles?” he said. “Why choose my house, on this particular evening?”

  “You think it’s all about you and your club?”

  “You saw the chalk drawings on my door. And the drawings at the Christmas Eve slaying.”

  “And I have no idea what any of them mean.”

  “The upside-down crosses are common satanic symbols. But what interests me is the chalk circle in Lori-Ann Tucker’s house. The one drawn on her kitchen floor.”

  There was no point denying the facts; this man already knew the details. “So what does the circle mean?”

  “It could be a ring of protection. Another symbol taken from satanic rituals. By drawing that circle, Lori-Ann may have been trying to shield herself. She may have been trying to control the very forces she was calling from the darkness.”

  “Wait. You think the victim drew it, to ward off the devil?” Her tone of voice left no doubt what she thought of his theory: utter nonsense.

  “If she did draw it, then she had no idea who—or what—she was summoning.”

  The fire suddenly fluttered, flames reaching up in a bright claw. Maura turned as the inner door swung open and Dr. Joyce O’Donnell emerged. She paused, clearly surprised to see Maura. Then her attention shifted to Sansone.

  “Lucky me. After two hours of questions, Boston’s finest finally decided to let me go home. You throw a hell of a dinner party, Anthony. This is one evening you’ll never be able to top.”

  “Let’s hope I never do,” said Sansone. “Let me get your coat.” He rose and
pushed open a wooden panel, exposing a hidden closet. He held up O’Donnell’s fur-trimmed coat and she slipped her arms into the sleeves with feline grace, her blond hair brushing across his hands. Maura saw familiarity in that momentary contact, a comfortable dance between two people who knew each other well.

  Perhaps very well.

  As she buttoned, O’Donnell’s gaze settled on Maura. “It’s been a while, Dr. Isles,” she said. “How is your mother?”

  She always goes straight for the jugular. Don’t let her see she’s drawn blood.

  “I have no idea,” said Maura.

  “You haven’t been back to see her?”

  “No. But you probably already know that.”

  “Oh, I finished my interviews with Amalthea over a month ago. I haven’t seen her since.” Slowly, O’Donnell pulled woolen gloves over long, elegant fingers. “She was doing well when I last saw her, in case you’re interested.”

  “I’m not.”

  “They have her working in the prison library now. She’s turned into quite the bookworm. Reads every psychology textbook she can get her hands on.” O’Donnell paused to give her glove a last tug. “If she’d ever had the chance to go to college, she could have been a star.”

  Instead, my mother chose a different path. Predator. Butcher. No matter how hard Maura worked to distance herself, no matter how deeply she buried any thoughts of Amalthea, she could not look at her own reflection without seeing her mother’s eyes, her mother’s jaw. The monster peering back from the mirror.

  “Her case history will take up a whole chapter in my next book,” said O’Donnell. “If you’re ever willing to sit down and talk with me, it would contribute a great deal to her history.”

  “I have absolutely nothing to add.”

  O’Donnell simply smiled, clearly expecting the snub. “Always worth asking,” she said, and looked at Sansone. A gaze that lingered, as though she had something more to say, but could not say it in Maura’s presence. “Good night, Anthony.”

  “Shall I have Jeremy follow you home, just to be sure?”