The Rizzoli & Isles Series 10-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  He gives me a respectful bow. “Sifu, I am sorry to be late. My flight from Shanghai was delayed because of weather.”

  I study his face in the candlelight and I see more than fatigue in the worry lines around his eyes. “Are there problems in Boston?”

  “I believe she knows. I feel her watching and probing. I sense her suspicion every time she looks at me.”

  “What will happen now?”

  He gives a long sigh and stares at the burning candles. “I think—I hope—that she understands. She wrote me a glowing commendation. And she wants me to work with her on another Chinatown investigation.”

  I smile at Johnny Tam. “Detective Rizzoli is not so different from us. She may not agree with the way we accomplished our objective, but I believe she understands why we did it. And she approves.”

  I touch a match to the courtyard fire pit, lighting the tinder. Flames leap up like ravenous teeth, and we feed them joss papers of spirit money. The fire consumes them, and as the smoke lifts, it carries comfort and fortune to the ghosts of those we love.

  There is one final item we must burn.

  As I pull the mask from its sack, the silvery hair reflects firelight and suddenly seems alive, as if the spirit of Sun Wukong himself has sprung from the shadows. But the mask hangs limp in my grasp, merely a dead object made of leather and monkey fur, a moldering prop that I bought years ago from a Chinese opera company. All three of us have worn the mask. All three of us have shared the role. I, while defending myself on the rooftop against a woman assassin. Bella, while saving a policewoman’s life. And Johnny last of all, when he fired the bullet into Patrick Dion’s head, completing the circle of death.

  I drop the mask into the flames. Instantly the hairs catch fire and I smell sizzling fur and charred leather. In one bright flare, the mask is consumed, returning Sun Wukong to the spirit world, where the Monkey King belongs. But he is never truly far away; when we need him most, each one of us will find him within ourselves.

  The flames die down and the three of us stare into the fire pit, seeking in those glowing ashes what we each want to see. For Bella and Johnny, it is their father’s smile of approval. They have done their filial duty; now their lives are their own.

  And what do I see in those ashes? I behold the face of my daughter, Laura, whose remains were recovered ten weeks ago from a vine-choked corner of Patrick Dion’s property. I see the face of my beloved husband, still young, his hair as black as the day we married. Though they do not age, here I linger on this earth, my health faltering, my hair turning silver, the years etching their lines ever more deeply in my face. But with every year that I grow older, I also draw closer to James and Laura, to the day when we will once again be together. So I march through the deepening shadows, serene and unafraid.

  Because I know that, at the end of my journey, they will be waiting for me.

  To Bill Haber and Janet Tamaro,

  for believing in my girls

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No novel I’ve written has been quite as personal as this one. The story was inspired by my mother’s tales of growing up in China, tales of ghosts and mysterious martial arts masters and, yes, the heroic Monkey King. So thank you, Mom, for introducing me to the wondrous world of Chinese fables.

  Thanks also to Tony Yee and Boston PD officer Tommy Yung for their insights into Boston’s Chinatown; to Halford Jones for long encouraging me to write a story about martial arts; to my son Adam Gerritsen for his help with Mandarin words and obscure firearms; to Dr. Reena Roy, associate professor at the Penn State University Forensic Science Program, for her invaluable help on primate hair analysis; to John R. Michaud, assistant professor of legal studies, and his Criminal Justice Club students at Husson University for their advice on the metal analysis of ancient swords; and to Detective Russell Grant, Boston PD, for always being willing to field my questions. Any errors I’ve made in this novel are mine, and mine alone.

  Then there’s the stalwart team that has been behind me every step of the way with advice, encouragement, and sometimes a much-needed martini: my peerless literary agent, Meg Ruley, of the Jane Rotrosen Agency; my Ballantine editor, Linda Marrow; my Trans world champion, Selina Walker; and the man who keeps me safe and sane while I’m on the road, Brian McLendon.

  Most of all, thanks to my husband, Jacob, who so cheerfully endures the trials of being married to a writer. After spending all day with people who exist only in my head, I’m so grateful to have a real flesh-and-blood hero to return to.

  The Queen of the Dead had arrived.

  As medical examiner Maura Isles stepped out of her black Lexus, her appearance on that chilly afternoon matched the nickname Boston PD cops had long ago given her. Black car, black coat, black scarf. Appropriate for this winter’s day with its deepening shadows and the scent of impending snow.

  Detective Jane Rizzoli raised a gloved hand in greeting. “Hey, Doc!” she called out. “Hope you brought your flashlight.”

  Maura crossed the street to the front steps of the church and stared at the arched doorways and boarded-up windows. “St. Anthony’s? This building’s been closed for years.”

  “The victim managed to find her way in.” Jane shivered as the wind whipped her hair and flapped the hem of her coat. “Unfortunately, so did her killer.”

  “Killer?” Maura shot Jane a questioning look. “So you’ve already decided this is a homicide.”

  “When you see her body, you’ll know why.”

  Jane waited for Maura to pull on shoe covers and gloves, then she pushed open the massive oak door and they stepped inside. Though now protected from the wind, the dank interior felt colder, as if a chill radiated from the stone walls. The building had no power, and the only illumination came from a battery-operated CSU lamp glowing at the far end. In the cavernous space above, shadows hung as thick as night.

  “How was the body found?” Maura asked.

  “A passerby reported screams coming from the building and she called nine-one-one. First officer on the scene said the back door was unlocked. He came in and found the body.”

  Jane turned on her Maglite and led Maura past rows of deserted pews toward the altar, where Detective Barry Frost and three criminalists stood waiting for them. They’d formed a solemn circle around the victim, as though protecting her from any predators that lurked in the darkness. The men parted to reveal a young woman lying on the ground with head flung back, mouth agape.

  Frost said, “According to the ID, her name’s Kimberly Rayner, age seventeen.”

  No one spoke as Maura moved closer and gazed down at the swollen face. The girl’s blond hair was stringy with grease, and filth smudged her face.

  “She’s fully dressed, so it doesn’t look like a sexual assault. But see the strangulation marks?” Jane asked. She aimed her flashlight at the neck, which was arched backward, the throat exposed to reveal skin bruised by pressure marks from a killer’s pitiless grip. Death had left the girl’s face bloated, but the body was almost skeletal, the clavicles grotesquely prominent, the wrists as thin as twigs. Malnutrition had forced the girl’s own body to start devouring itself, consuming fat and muscle as it struggled to keep nutrients flowing to brain and heart.

  “Want to see what really freaked us out?” Jane asked.

  “A dead body wasn’t enough?”

  “Take a look at that.” Jane turned, and her flashlight beam landed on something that gleamed in the shadows. Something that made even the unflappable Maura Isles gasp in a startled breath.

  It was a coffin. And the lid was open.

  In the darkness above, something fluttered.

  Jane glanced up and shuddered as she spotted a shadow swooping high overhead. “There really are bats in the belfry,” she said. “We noticed them flying around earlier.”

  “Bats?” said Maura with a startled laugh. “And an open coffin?”

  “Wait. It gets better,” said Jane, crossing to the coffin. “Take a look.”

  “Pl
ease don’t tell me there’s a vampire lying in there.”

  Jane shone her light into the coffin. On the satin pillow inside were half a dozen black strands of hair. “Someone’s been lying in here. The question is, were they dead? Or just sleeping?” Jane gave a nervous laugh.

  Maura stood over the coffin, staring at the telltale strands. Suddenly she gave herself a shake, as if to cast off the spell that this place had spun around them all. “Jane, there’s a logical explanation for this.”

  “You always say that.”

  Maura turned and pointed to puddles of melted wax on the floor. “Someone’s been burning candles. And look, there’s a big cardboard box over there, with blankets. Someone’s been camping in here, that’s all. Maybe the victim.”

  “Or the guy who slept in that coffin. Wherever he is now.”

  Maura crossed back to the body. “It’s too dark in here for me to properly examine her. We need to get her to the morgue for autopsy.” She began dialing her cell phone. “This is Dr. Isles. We have a body to transport …”

  One of the criminalists muttered: “Maybe we should drive a stake through her heart first. Just to be sure.”

  The chill had deepened, and Jane could see her own breath in the darkness, a ghostly cloud that dissipated into the shadows. Kimberly Rayner should be in high school, thought Jane, looking down at the body. A seventeen-year-old girl should be flirting with boys and applying to college and dreaming about her future. Not lying dead on an icy stone floor.

  “Detective Rizzoli?” one of the criminalists called out. “I found a shoe print.” Jane crossed to where he was crouched, his flashlight aimed at the muddy track. “Looks like a man’s size eight or nine. Too big to be the victim’s.”

  With her flashlight pointed to the floor, Jane followed the tracks backward until she reached a door—not the one the responding patrolman had entered. No, someone else had entered the building this way. The door hung ajar, and she felt icy wind seep through the opening.

  Pushing through, she found herself outside, in an overgrown side yard littered with the debris of autumn leaves. The crack of a branch made her head snap up. She aimed her flashlight toward the sound.

  A pair of eyes glowed back at her.

  In an instant Jane had her weapon out and pointed. “Boston PD! Identify yourself!” she commanded.

  A black-clad figure sprang out of the bushes and fled.

  “Halt!” Jane yelled, but the figure hurtled away. Jane took off after it, her shoes cracking through ice-encrusted mud. Her quarry was a spidery shadow, swooping in and out of sight, like something not quite solid. Not quite human.

  Behind her, she heard Frost yell: “Rizzoli?”

  She didn’t stop to answer him but kept up the pursuit. The figure ahead was moving fast—too fast. Her legs pumped harder, muscles burning. The air was so cold, it seemed to sear her throat. She saw the figure clamber over a fence and drop out of sight.

  She scrambled over it, too, felt wood splinters bite into her hand. She dropped hard on the other side, and pain shot up her shins. She was standing in an enclosed yard. Where is he, where? Frantically she scanned the shadows, looking for some telltale flicker of movement.

  Did something just slink into that shed?

  Clutching her weapon in both hands, she approached the shed doorway. Inside was only blackness, so thick it seemed solid. She inched forward and stood on the threshold, trying to peer inside. Seeing nothing.

  A sound in the darkness raised the hairs on the back of her neck. The sound of quick, desperate breaths. They didn’t come from the shed, but behind her.

  She swung around and spotted her quarry, crouched and cowering in the shadows. It was garbed all in black. As she shone her flashlight in the eyes, the arms came up, shielding the face from the glare.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “I’m nobody.”

  “Show yourself! Stand up!”

  Slowly, the figure rose to its feet and lowered its spindly arms. The face that stared back at her was an unearthly white; the hair gleamed jet black. The same color as the hairs they’d found on the coffin pillow.

  “Man, he sure looks like a vampire,” said Barry Frost, staring through the one-way mirror at the pale young man sitting in the interview room.

  The subject was eighteen years old and his name was Lucas Henry. Transpose the first and last names and it became ominously familiar: Henry Lucas. Did his mother realize she’d named her kid after one of the most prolific serial killers of all time? But the boy in the next room looked more frightened than dangerous. He sat huddled at the table, a black forelock drooping over his white brow. With his jutting cheekbones and his deeply sunken eyes, he looked like a living skeleton. Multiple studs pierced his lips, nose, and God knew what other parts of his body—so many studs that he’d set off the metal detector when they’d brought him into Boston PD headquarters.

  “Why the heck do kids poke holes in their skin?” said Frost. “I never understood that.”

  “It’s a Goth thing. You know, death, pain, oblivion.” Jane snorted. “All that fun stuff.”

  “He’s sure not having any fun.”

  “Let’s go make his night even more enjoyable.”

  As Jane and Frost walked in, Lucas snapped straight in his chair, eyes wide with apprehension. Despite his grotesque piercings and the black leather jacket with the death’s-head decal, Lucas looked like just a scared kid. A kid who may have wrapped his skinny hands around Kimberly Rayner’s throat and squeezed the life out of her.

  Jane sat down across from him. Noticed that the boy’s eyes, heavily rimmed with black eyeliner, were bloodshot from crying. “Are you sure you don’t want an attorney?” she asked.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

  “I take it that’s a no.”

  “She was alive when I left her. I swear it.”

  “Tell us how you came to know Kimberly Rayner.”

  The boy took a deep breath. “I first met her a few months ago, when we were both hanging out in Harvard Square. We recognized each other immediately.”

  “I thought that was the first time you met.”

  “What I mean is, I knew at once what she was. And she knew what I was.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Different. We’re different from other kids. From everyone else.”

  “Every kid thinks he’s different.”

  “I mean really different.”

  “Like how?”

  He took a breath. “We’re not human,” he said.

  There was a long silence. Frost, standing in the corner, rolled his eyes.

  “Funny,” said Jane. “You look human to me.”

  “That’s just on a superficial level. But if you examine my cells, if you look at them under a microscope, you’ll see that I’m different. Since I was just a kid, I’ve known that I wasn’t like everyone else. I don’t need food like you do. I can survive perfectly well on just air and …”

  “Wait, don’t tell me,” Jane said. “Blood?”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re mocking me.” Oh, you think?

  “Are you telling us you’re a vampire?” asked Frost, managing to keep his face perfectly serious.

  Lucas looked at him. “If that’s what you want to call us. We’re a subspecies of human, nocturnal and hemophagic. That means we devour blood.”

  “Yeah, I got that. So whose blood do you devour?”

  “We don’t kill people, if that’s your question. We’re the pacifist branch of our subspecies. Sometimes volunteers will donate a few tubes to feed us.”

  “Volunteers?”

  “Friends. Classmates. Or someone will smuggle out a bag or two from the local blood bank. But mostly, we consume animal blood. You can buy it, you know, from any good butcher shop.” He sat up, puffing out his thin chest. “It gives us superhuman strength.”

  Jane looked at the anemically pale face, eyes sunken in hollow sockets, and thought: What he’s got
is a superhuman case of the crazies. “So Kimberly Rayner was a vampire, too?”

  “Yes. A few weeks ago, she ran away from home. I invited her to crash with me, in the church.”

  “You slept together in that coffin?”

  “No! We were, like, totally platonic. I found an old shipping carton for her to sleep in. To block out the light.”

  “I thought vampires were supposed to be immortal. So what happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. I woke up, and she was screaming. She was rolling around on the floor, saying her stomach hurt. Even though it was still daylight, I went out to get her some Pepto-Bismol. When I got back, about an hour later, there was a police car parked at the church.” His head drooped. “I didn’t know she was dead.”

  “How about telling us what really happened?” Jane said.

  “I told you.”

  Jane leaned closer, her gaze hard on the boy.

  “Here’s how I think it went. You wanted sex. Or maybe you wanted a taste of her blood. Or maybe something ticked you off, and you attacked her. And she started screaming.”

  “No, that’s not how it—”

  “She wouldn’t shut up, so you grabbed her by the throat, just to quiet her down. She kept screaming, and you pressed harder. And harder. And suddenly she wasn’t screaming anymore.” Jane paused and said quietly: “It was an accident, wasn’t it? Isn’t that how it happened?”

  “You’ll never get me to say that, because it’s not true.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Detective Darren Crowe stuck his head in the room. “Hey, Rizzoli, the girl’s father just arrived. I’ll have him wait in—”

  A man suddenly shoved past Detective Crowe, into the room, and stood staring at Lucas Henry. “You freak,” he said. And he lunged at the boy.