Caught in the beam of Gabriel’s light, the figure shrank like a terrified animal, eyes squinting against the glare. He stared at the pale face, the spiky red hair. Just a girl, he thought. Just a scared, skinny girl.
“Mila?” he said.
Then he saw the other figure emerge from the shadows right behind the girl. Even before he saw her face, he recognized the walk, the silhouette of unruly curls.
He dropped the flashlight and ran toward his wife and daughter, arms already open and hungry to hold them. She leaned against him, shaking, her arms wrapped around Regina, just as his arms were wrapped around her. A hug within a hug, their whole family contained in the universe of his embrace.
“I heard gunshots,” he said. “I thought—”
“It was Mila,” Jane whispered.
“What?”
“She took my gun. She followed us …” Jane suddenly stiffened and looked up at him. “Where’s Peter Lukas?”
“Barsanti’s watching him. He’s not going anywhere.”
Jane released a shuddering breath and turned to face the woods. “There’ll be scavengers showing up for the body. We need to get CSU out here.”
“Whose body?”
“I’ll show you.”
Gabriel stood at the edge of the trees, staying out of the way of the detectives and the crime scene unit, his gaze fixed on the open hole that would have been the grave of his wife and daughter. Police tape had been strung around the site, and battery-powered lights glared down on the man’s body. Maura Isles, who’d been crouching over the corpse, now rose to her feet and turned to Detectives Moore and Crowe.
“I see three entry wounds,” she said. “Two in the chest, one in the forehead.”
“That’s what we heard,” said Gabriel. “Three shots.”
Maura looked at him. “How long an interval between them?”
Gabriel thought about it, and felt once again the echoes of panic. He remembered his plunge into the woods, and how, with every step, his sense of dread had mounted. “There were two in quick succession,” he said. “The third shot was about five, ten seconds after that.”
Maura was silent as her gaze swung back to the corpse. She stared down at the man’s blond hair, the powerful shoulders. A SIG Sauer lay near his right hand.
“Well,” said Crowe, “I’d call this a pretty obvious case of self-defense.”
No one said anything, not about the powder burns on the face, or the delay between the second and third shots. But they all knew.
Gabriel turned and walked back toward the house.
The driveway was now crammed with vehicles. He paused there, temporarily blinded by the flashing blue lights of cruisers. Then he spotted Helen Glasser helping the girl into the front passenger seat of her car.
“Where are you taking her?” he asked.
Glasser turned to him, her hair reflecting the cruiser lights like blue foil. “Somewhere safe.”
“Is there any such place for her?”
“Believe me, I’ll find one.” Glasser paused by the driver’s door and glanced back toward the house. “The videotape changes everything, you know. And we can turn Lukas around. He has no choice now, he’ll cooperate with us. So you see, it doesn’t all rest with the girl. She’s important, but she’s not the only weapon we have.”
“Even so, will it be enough to bring down Carleton Wynne?”
“No one’s above the law, Agent Dean.” Glasser looked at him, her eyes reflecting steel. “No one.” She slid in behind the wheel.
“Wait,” called out Gabriel. “I need to speak to the girl.”
“And we need to leave.”
“It’ll only take a minute.” Gabriel circled to the passenger side, opened the door, and peered in at Mila. She was hugging herself, shrinking against the seat as though afraid of his intentions. Just a kid, he thought, yet she’s tougher than all of us. Given half a chance, she’ll survive anything.
“Mila,” he said gently.
She gazed back with eyes that did not trust him; perhaps she would never again trust a man, and why should she? She has seen the worst we have to offer.
“I want to thank you,” he said. “Thank you for giving me back my family.”
There it was—just the wisp of a smile. It was more than he’d expected.
He closed the door, and gave a nod to Glasser. “Take him down,” he called out.
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” she said with a laugh, and she drove away, followed by a Boston PD escort.
Gabriel climbed the steps into the house. Inside he found Barry Frost conferring with Barsanti as members of the FBI’s Evidence Response Team carried out Lukas’s computer and boxes of his files. This was clearly a federal case now, and Boston PD would be ceding control of the investigation to the Bureau. Even so, thought Gabriel, how far can they take it? Then Barsanti looked at him, and Gabriel saw in his eyes the same steel he’d seen in Glasser’s. And he noticed that Barsanti was clutching the videotape. Guarding it, as though he held the Holy Grail itself.
“Where’s Jane?” he asked Frost.
“She’s in the kitchen. The baby got hungry.”
He found his wife sitting with her back to the doorway; she did not see him walk into the room. He paused behind her, watching as she cradled Regina to her breast, humming tunelessly. Jane never could carry a tune, he thought with a smile. Regina didn’t seem to mind; she lay quiet in her mother’s newly confident arms. Love is the part that comes naturally, thought Gabriel. It’s everything else that takes time. That we have to learn.
He placed his hands on Jane’s shoulders and bent down to kiss her hair. She looked up at him, her eyes glowing.
“Let’s go home,” she said.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Mila
The woman has been kind to me. As our car bumps along the dirt road, she takes my hand and squeezes it. I feel safe with her, even though I know she will not always be here to hold my hand; there are so many other girls to think of, other girls who are still lost in the dark corners of this country. But for now she is here with me. She is my protector, and I lean into her, hoping she will put her arm around me. But she is distracted, her gaze focused instead on the desert outside our car. A strand of her hair has fallen onto my sleeve and glitters there like a silver thread. I pluck it up and slip it into my pocket. It may be the only souvenir I will ever have to remember her by when our time together ends.
The car rolls to a stop.
“Mila,” she says, giving me a nudge. “Are we getting close? Does this area look right?”
I lift my head from her shoulder and stare out the window. We have stopped beside a dry riverbed, where trees grow stunted, tormented. Beyond are brown hills studded with boulders. “I don’t know,” I tell her.
“Does it look like the place?”
“Yes, but …” I keep staring, forcing myself to remember what I have tried so hard to forget.
One of the men in the front seat looks back at us. “That’s where they found the trail, on the other side of that riverbed,” he says. “They caught a group of girls coming through here last week. Maybe she should get out and take a look. See if she recognizes anything down there.”
“Come, Mila.” The woman opens the door and gets out, but I do not move. She reaches into the car. “It’s the only way we can do this,” she says softly. “You need to help us find the spot.” She holds out her hand. Reluctantly, I take it.
One of the men leads us through the tangle of scrub brush and trees, down a narrow trail and into the dry riverbed. There he stops and looks at me. He and the woman are both watching me, waiting for my reaction. I stare at the bank, at an old shoe lying dry and cracked in the heat. A memory shimmers, then snaps into focus. I turn and look at the opposite bank, which is cluttered with plastic bottles, and I see a scrap of blue tarp dangling from a branch.
Another memory locks in place.
This is where he hit me. This is where Anja stood, her foot bleeding
in her open-toed shoe.
Without a word, I turn and climb back up the riverbank. My heart is racing, and dread clamps its fingers around my throat, but I have no choice now. I see her ghost, flitting just ahead of me. A wisp of windblown hair. A sad, backward glance.
“Mila?” the woman calls.
I keep moving, pushing my way through the bushes, until I reach the dirt road. Here, I think. This is where the vans were parked. This is where the men waited for us. The memories are clicking faster now, like terrible flashes from a nightmare. The men, leering as we undress. The girl shrieking as she is shoved up against the van. And Anja. I see Anja, lying motionless on her back as the man who has just raped her zips up his pants.
Anja stirs, staggers to her feet like a newborn calf. So pale, so thin, just a shadow of a girl.
I follow her, the ghost of Anja. The desert is strewn with sharp rocks. Thorny weeds push up from the dirt, and Anja is running across them, stumbling on bloody feet. Sobbing, reaching toward what she thinks is freedom.
“Mila?”
I hear Anja’s panicked gasps, see the blond hair streaming loose around her shoulders. Empty desert stretches before her. If she can just run fast enough, far enough …
The gunshot cracks.
I see her pitch forward, the breath knocked out of her, and her blood spills onto warm sand. Yet she rises to her knees and crawls now across thorns, across stones that cut like shards of glass.
The second gunshot thunders.
Anja collapses, white skin against brown sand. Is this where she fell? Or was it over there? I am circling now, frantic to find the spot. Where are you, Anja, where?
“Mila, talk to us.”
I suddenly halt, my gaze fixed on the ground. The woman is saying something to me; I scarcely hear her. I can only stare at what lies at my feet.
The woman says, gently, “Come away, Mila. Don’t look.”
But I cannot move. I stand frozen as the two men crouch down. As one of them pulls on gloves and brushes away sand to reveal leathery ribs and the brown dome of a skull.
“It appears to be a female,” he says.
For a moment no one speaks. A hot wind swirls dust at our faces, and I blink against the sting. When I open my eyes again, I see more of Anja peeking out from the sand. The curve of her hip bone, the brown shaft of her thigh. The desert has decided to give her up, and now she is re-emerging from the earth.
Those who vanish sometimes come back to us.
“Come, Mila. Let’s go.”
I look up at the woman. She stands so straight, unassailable. Her silver hair gleams like a warrior’s helmet. She puts her arm around me, and together, we walk back to the car.
“It’s time, Mila,” the woman says quietly. “Time to tell me everything.”
We sit at a table, in a room with no windows. I look down at the pad of paper in front of her. It is blank, waiting for the mark of her pen. Waiting for the words that I have been afraid to say.
“I have told you everything.”
“I don’t think you have.”
“Every question you ask, I answer.”
“Yes, you’ve helped us a great deal. You’ve given us what we needed. Carleton Wynne is going to jail. He is going to pay. The whole world now knows what he did, and we thank you for that.”
“I do not know what more you want from me.”
“I want what’s locked up in there.” She reaches across the table and touches my heart. “I want to know the things you’re afraid to tell me. It will help me understand their operation, help me fight these people. It will help me save more girls, just like you. You have to, Mila.”
I blink back tears. “Or you will send me back.”
“No. No.” She leans closer, her gaze emphatic. “This is your home now, if you want to stay. You won’t be deported, I give you my word.”
“Even if …” I stop. I can no longer look her in the eye. Shame floods my face and I stare down at the table.
“Nothing that happened to you is your fault. Whatever those men did to you—whatever they made you do—they forced on you. It was done to your body. It has nothing to do with your soul. Your soul, Mila, is still pure.”
I cannot bear to meet her gaze. I continue to stare down, watching my own tears drip onto the table, and feel as if my heart is bleeding, that every tear is another part of me, draining away.
“Why are you afraid to look at me?” she asks gently.
“I am ashamed,” I whisper. “All the things you wish me to tell you …”
“Would it help if I wasn’t here in the room? If I didn’t watch you?”
I still do not look at her.
She releases a sigh. “All right, Mila, here’s what I’m going to do.” She places a tape recorder on the table. “I’m going to turn this on and leave the room. Then you can say whatever you want to. Whatever you remember. Say it all in Russian if that makes it easier. Any thoughts, any memories. Everything that’s happened to you. You’re not talking to a person, you’re just talking to a machine. It can’t hurt you.”
She rises to her feet, presses the RECORD button, and walks out of the room.
I stare at the red light glowing on the machine. The tape is slowly spinning, waiting for my first words. Waiting for my pain. I take a deep breath, close my eyes. And I begin to speak.
My name is Mila, and this is my journey.
The Mephisto Club is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by Tess Gerritsen
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Gerritsen, Tess.
The Mephisto Club: a novel / Tess Gerritsen.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Rizzoli, Jane, Detective (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Medical examiners (Law)—Fiction. 3. Satanism—Rituals—Fiction. 4. Serial murders—Fiction. 5. Boston (Mass.)—Fiction. 6. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PS3557.E687M47 2006
813’6—dc22 2006042882
www.ballantinebooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-345-49530-3
v3.0_r1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
To Neil and Mary
AC
KNOWLEDGMENTS
Every book is a challenge to write, a seemingly impossible mountain to climb. No matter how difficult the writing may be, I have the comfort of knowing that wonderful colleagues and friends stand by me. Many thanks to my incomparable agent, Meg Ruley, and the team at Jane Rotrosen Agency. Your guidance has been the star I’ve steered by. Thanks also to my amazing editor, Linda Marrow, who can make any writer shine, to Gina Centrello, for her enthusiasm through the years, and to Gilly Hailparn for all her kind attention. And across the pond, Selina Walker at Transworld has been my unflagging cheerleader.
Finally, I must thank the one person who’s been with me the longest. My husband Jacob knows just how difficult it is to be married to a writer. Yet he’s still here.
“And destroy all the spirits of the reprobate, and the children of the Watchers, because they have wronged mankind.”
—The Book of Enoch X:15, ancient Jewish text, 2nd century B.C.
ONE
They looked like the perfect family.
This was what the boy thought as he stood beside his father’s open grave, as he listened to the hired minister read platitudes from the Bible. Only a small group had gathered on that warm and buggy June day to mourn the passing of Montague Saul, no more than a dozen people, many of whom the boy had just met. For the past six months, he had been away at boarding school, and today he was seeing some of these people for the very first time. Most of them did not interest him in the least.
But his uncle’s family—they interested him very much. They were worth studying.
Dr. Peter Saul looked very much like his dead brother Montague, slender and cerebral in owlish glasses, brown hair thinning toward inevitable baldness. His wife, Amy, had a round, sweet face, and she kept darting anxious looks at her fifteen-year-old nephew, as though aching to wrap her arms around him and smother him with a hug. Their son, Teddy, was ten years old, all skinny arms and legs. A little clone of Peter Saul, right down to the same owlish glasses.
Finally, there was the daughter, Lily. Sixteen years old.
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