The Mephisto Club

by Tess Gerritsen

  A hand closed around her arm.

  Gasping, she stumbled away. She found herself staring at Sansone, who had silently materialized right behind her.

  “Her car’s still in the garage,” he said.

  “Then where is she?”

  “I’m going around to the back.”

  This time she did not let him leave her sight, but followed right at his heels as he moved through the side yard, tramping through deep and unbroken snow alongside the garage. By the time they emerged in the backyard, her trousers were soaked, and melted snow had seeped into her shoes, chilling her feet. His flashlight beam skittered across shrubs and deck chairs, all covered in a velvety blanket of white. No footprints, no disturbed snow. A vine-covered wall enclosed the yard, a private space completely hidden from the neighbors. And she was here alone, with a man she scarcely knew.

  But he was not focused on her. His attention was on the kitchen door, which he could not get open. For a moment he stared at it, debating his next move. Then he looked at Maura.

  “You know Detective Rizzoli’s number?” he asked. “Call her.”

  She pulled out her cell phone and moved toward the kitchen window for more light. She was about to dial when her gaze suddenly focused on the kitchen sink, just inside the window.

  “Sansone,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “There’s blood—near the drain.”

  He took one glance, and his next move shocked her. He grabbed one of the deck chairs and hurled it against the window. Glass shattered, shards exploding into the kitchen. He scrambled inside, and seconds later the door swung open.

  “There’s blood down here on the floor, too,” he said.

  She looked down at smears of red on the cream tiles. He ran out of the kitchen, his black coat flapping behind him like a cape, moving so fast that when she reached the foot of the stairs, he was already on the second-floor landing. She stared down at more blood, swipes of it on the oak steps, along the baseboard, as though a battered limb had scraped against the wall as the body was dragged upstairs.

  “Maura!” yelled Sansone.

  She sprinted up the stairs, reached the second-floor landing, and saw more blood, like glistening ski marks down the hallway. And she heard the sound, like water gurgling in a snorkel. Even before she stepped into the bedroom, she knew what she was about to confront: not a dead victim, but one desperately fighting to live.

  Joyce O’Donnell lay on her back on the floor, eyes wide open in mortal panic, a gout of red spurting from her neck. She wheezed in air, blood rattling in her lungs, and coughed. Bright red spray exploded from her throat, spattering Sansone’s face as he crouched over her.

  “I’ll take over! Call nine-one-one!” Maura ordered as she dropped to her knees and pressed bare fingers to the slash wound. She was used to the touch of dead flesh, not living, and the blood that dribbled onto her hands was shockingly warm. ABC, she thought. Those were the first rules of life support: airway, breathing, circulation. But with one brutal slash across the throat, the attacker had compromised all three. I’m a doctor, but there’s so little I can do to save her.

  Sansone finished his call. “The ambulance is on its way. What can I do?”

  “Get me some towels. I need to stop the bleeding!”

  O’Donnell’s hand suddenly closed around Maura’s wrist, clenching it with the force of panic. The skin was so slick, Maura’s fingers slipped off the wound, releasing a fresh spurt. Another wheeze, another cough, sent spray from the incised trachea. O’Donnell was drowning. With every breath, she inhaled her own blood. It gurgled in her airway, frothed in her alveoli. Maura had examined the incised lungs of other victims whose throats had been cut; she knew the mechanism of death.

  Now I am watching it happen, and I can’t do a thing to stop it.

  Sansone dashed back into the bedroom carrying towels, and Maura pressed a wadded washcloth to the neck. The white terry cloth magically turned red. O’Donnell’s hand gripped her wrist even tighter. Her lips moved, but she could produce no words, only the rattle of air bubbling through blood.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” said Maura. “The ambulance is almost here.”

  O’Donnell began to tremble, limbs quaking as though in seizures. But her eyes were aware and fixed on Maura. Does she see it in my eyes? That I know she’s dying?

  Maura glanced up at the distant wail of a siren.

  “There it is,” said Sansone.

  “The front door’s locked!”

  “I’ll go down and meet them.” He scrambled to his feet and she heard him pounding down the stairs to the first floor.

  O’Donnell’s eyes were still awake, staring. Her lips moved faster now, and her fingers tightened to a claw. Outside, the siren’s wail drew closer, but in this room, the only sounds were the gurgling breaths of the dying woman.

  “Stay with me, Joyce!” urged Maura. “I know you can hold on!”

  O’Donnell tugged at Maura’s wrist, panicked jerks that threatened to wrench Maura’s hand from the wound. With each gasp, bright droplets sprayed from her throat in explosive bursts. Her eyes widened, as though glimpsing the darkness yawning before her. No, she mouthed. No.

  At that instant, Maura realized the woman was no longer looking at her, but at something behind her. Only then did she hear the creak of the floorboard.

  Her attacker never left the house. He’s still here. In this room.

  She turned just as the blow rushed toward her. She saw darkness swoop at her like bat’s wings, and then she went sprawling. Her face slammed to the floor and she lay stunned, her vision black. But she could feel, transmitted through the boards, the thud of escaping footsteps, like the heartbeat of the house itself, pulsing against her cheek. Pain throbbed its way into her head and grew to a steady hammering that seemed to pound nails into her skull.

  She did not hear Joyce O’Donnell take her last breath.

  A hand grasped her shoulder. In sudden panic she flailed, fighting for her life, swinging blindly at her attacker.

  “Maura, stop. Maura!”

  Her hands now trapped in his, she managed only a few weak struggles. Then her vision cleared and she saw Sansone staring at her. She heard other voices and glimpsed the metallic sheen of a stretcher. Turning, she focused on two paramedics who were crouched over Joyce O’Donnell’s body.

  “I’m not getting a pulse. No respirations.”

  “This IV’s wide open.”

  “Jesus, look at all the blood.”

  “How’s the other lady doing?” The paramedic looked at Maura.

  Sansone said, “She seems okay. I think she just fainted.”

  “No,” whispered Maura. She grabbed his arm. “He was here.”

  “What?”

  “He was still here. In the room!”

  Suddenly he realized what she was saying, and he reared back with a look of shock and scrambled to his feet.

  “No—wait for the police!”

  But Sansone was already out the door.

  She struggled to sit up and swayed, her vision watery and threatening to go gray. When at last the room brightened, she saw two paramedics kneeling in Joyce O’Donnell’s blood, their equipment and discarded packaging splayed out around them. An EKG traced across the oscilloscope.

  It was a flat line.

  Jane slid into the backseat of the cruiser beside Maura and pulled the door shut. That one brief whoosh of cold air swept all the heat from the vehicle and Maura began to shake again.

  “You sure you’re feeling okay?” said Jane. “Maybe we should take you to the ER.”

  “I want to go home,” said Maura. “Can’t I go home now?”

  “Is there anything else you remember? Any other details that are coming back to you?”

  “I told you, I didn’t see a face.”

  “Just his black clothes.”

  “Black something.”

  “Something? Are we talking man or beast here?”

  “It all
happened so fast.”

  “Anthony Sansone’s wearing black.”

  “It wasn’t him. He left the room. He went down to meet the ambulance.”

  “Yeah, that’s what he says, too.”

  Jane’s face was silhouetted against the lights of the cruisers parked across the street. The usual convoy of official vehicles had arrived, and crime-scene tape now fluttered between stakes planted in the front yard. Maura had sat in this vehicle for so long, the blood on her coat had dried, turning the fabric stiff as parchment. She would have to throw out this coat; she never wanted to wear it again.

  She looked at the house, where all the lights were now blazing. “The doors were locked when we got here. How did he get in?”

  “There’s no sign of forced entry. Just that broken kitchen window.”

  “We had to break it. We saw blood in the sink.”

  “And Sansone was with you the whole time?”

  “We were together all evening, Jane.”

  “Except when he gave chase. He claims he didn’t see anyone outside. And he churned up the snow pretty good when he went searching around outside the house. Screwed up any shoe prints we might have been able to use.”

  “He’s not a suspect in this.”

  “I’m not saying he is.”

  Maura paused, suddenly thinking of something Jane had just told her. No sign of forced entry. “Joyce O’Donnell let him in.” She looked at Jane. “She let the killer into her own house.”

  “Or she forgot to lock the door.”

  “Of course she’d lock her door. She wasn’t stupid.”

  “She didn’t exactly play it safe, either. When you work with monsters, you never know which one will follow you home. These killings have always been about her, Doc. With the very first kill, he draws her attention by calling her. The second kill is right outside the home where she’s having dinner. It was all leading up to this. To the main event.”

  “Why would she let him into her home?”

  “Maybe because she thought she could control him. Think about how many prisons she’s walked into, how many people like Warren Hoyt and Amalthea Lank she’s interviewed. She gets up close and personal with them all.”

  At the mention of her mother, Maura flinched but said nothing.

  “She’s like one of those circus lion tamers. You work with the animals every day, and you start to think you’re the one in control. You expect that every time you crack the whip, they’ll jump like good little kitties. Maybe you even think they love you. Then one day you turn your back, and they’re sinking their teeth in your neck.”

  “I know you never liked her,” said Maura. “But if you’d been there—if you’d watched her die”—she looked at Jane—“she was terrified.”

  “Just because she’s dead, I’m not going to start liking her. She’s a victim now, so I owe her my best effort. But I can’t help feeling that she brought this on herself.”

  There was a rap on the glass and Jane rolled down the window. A cop peered in at them and said, “Mr. Sansone wants to know if you’re done questioning him.”

  “No, we’re not. Tell him to wait.”

  “And the ME’s packing up. You got any last questions?”

  “I’ll call him if I do.”

  Through the window, Maura saw her colleague, Dr. Abe Bristol, emerge from the house. Abe would be doing O’Donnell’s autopsy. If what he’d just seen inside had upset him, he did not show it. He paused on the porch, calmly buttoning his coat and pulling on warm gloves as he chatted with a cop. Abe didn’t have to watch her die, thought Maura. He isn’t wearing her blood on his coat.

  Jane pushed open the car door, and a fresh blast of cold air whooshed in. “C’mon, Doc,” she said, climbing out. “We’ll get you home.”

  “My car’s still parked on Beacon Hill.”

  “You can worry about your car later. I’ve got you a ride.” Jane turned and called out, “Father Brophy, She’s ready to leave.”

  Only then did Maura notice him, standing in the shadows across the street. He walked toward them, a tall silhouette whose face took on flickering features only as he moved into the cruisers’ dancing lights. “Are you sure you’re feeling well enough?” he asked as he helped her out of the car. “You don’t want to go to the hospital?”

  “Please, just drive me home.”

  Although he offered his arm for support, she didn’t take it, but kept her hands in her pockets as they walked to his car. She could feel the gazes of police officers watching them. There go Dr. Isles and that priest, together again. Was there anyone who hadn’t noticed, hadn’t wondered about them?

  There’s not a damn thing worth wondering about.

  She slid into his front seat and stared straight ahead as he started the engine. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You know I’d do this for you in a heartbeat.”

  “Did Jane call you?”

  “I’m glad she did. You need a friend to drive you home tonight. Not some cop you hardly know.” He pulled away from the curb and the garish lights of emergency vehicles faded behind them. “You came too close tonight,” he said softly.

  “Believe me, I wasn’t trying to.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone into that house. You should have called the police.”

  “Can we not talk about it?”

  “Is there anything we can still talk about, Maura? Or is this how it’s going to be from now on? You won’t visit me, you won’t answer my calls?”

  She finally looked at him. “I’m not getting younger, Daniel. I’m forty-one, my only marriage was a spectacular disaster, and I have a knack for getting into hopeless affairs. I want to be married. I want to be happy. I can’t afford to waste time on relationships that go nowhere.”

  “Even if the friendship, the feelings, are real?”

  “Friendships are broken all the time. So are hearts.”

  “Yes,” he said, and sighed. “That’s true.” They drove for a moment in silence. Then he said, “I never meant to break your heart.”

  “You haven’t.”

  “But I have hurt you. I know that.”

  “We’ve hurt each other. We had to.” She paused, and said bitterly, “It’s what your almighty God demands, isn’t it?” Her words were meant to wound, and by his sudden silence she knew they had found their mark. He said nothing as they approached her neighborhood, as he pulled into her driveway and shut off the engine. He sat for a moment, then turned to her.

  “You’re right,” he said. “My God demands too damn much.” And he pulled her toward him.

  She should have resisted; she should have pushed him away and stepped out of his car. But she didn’t, because for too long she had wanted this embrace, this kiss. And more, much more. This was crazy; this could never turn out right. But neither common sense, nor his God, stood between them now.

  Lead us not into temptation. They kissed their way from the car to her front door. Deliver us from evil. Futile words, a mere sand castle standing against the relentless tide. They stepped into the house. She did not turn on the light, and as they stood in the shadowy foyer, the darkness seemed to magnify the harsh sound of their breathing, the rustle of wool. She shed the bloodstained coat and it fell to the floor in a puddle of black. Only the faint glow from the windows lit the hallway. There were no lights to illuminate their sin, no other eyes to witness their fall from grace.

  She led the way to the bedroom. To her bed.

  For a year they had been circling in this dance, every step inching them to this moment. She knew this man’s heart, and he knew hers, but his flesh was a stranger’s never before touched, never tasted. Her fingers brushed across warm skin and traced down the curve of his spine, all of it new territory that she was hungry to explore.

  The last of their clothes slithered off; the last chance to turn back slipped away. “Maura,” he whispered as he pressed kisses to her neck, her breasts. “My Maura.” His words were soft as a prayer, not to his Lord, but to her.
She felt no guilt at all as she welcomed him into her arms. It was not her vow that was broken, not her conscience that would suffer. Tonight, God, for this moment, he’s mine, she thought, reveling in her victory as Daniel groaned against her, as she wrapped her legs around him, tormented him, urged him on. I have what you, God, can never give him. I take him from you. I claim him. Go ahead and call in all your demons; I don’t give a damn.

  Tonight, neither did Daniel.

  When at last their bodies found release, he collapsed into her arms. For a long time they lay silent. By the light through her windows she could see the faint gleam of his eyes, staring at the darkness. Not asleep, but thinking. Perhaps regretting. As the moments passed, she could stand the silence no longer.

  “Are you sorry?” she finally asked.

  “No,” he whispered. His fingers slid along her arm.

  “Why am I not convinced?”

  “Do you need to be?”

  “I want you to be glad. What we did is natural. It’s human.” She paused and said with a sigh, “But maybe that’s just a poor excuse for sin.”

  “That’s not what I’m thinking about at all.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his breath warming her hair. “I’m thinking about what happens next.”

  “What do you want to happen?”

  “I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s your choice.”

  “My choice,” he said softly. “It’s like having to choose between breathing in and breathing out.” He rolled onto his back. For a moment, he was silent. “I think I told you, once,” he said, “how I came to take my vows.”

  “You said your sister was dying. Leukemia.”

  “And I made a bargain. A deal with God. He delivered, and Sophie’s alive now. I kept my side of the bargain as well.”