The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  Jane could feel the pounding of her own heart. She stared at the barn wall, at the carving of the stick figure wielding the sword. It’s not a sword. It’s a scythe.

  “Rizzoli?” said Frost.

  She said, “I think we know our killer’s name.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Beneath the Basilica di San Clemente, the sound of rushing water echoed from the blackness. Lily shone her flashlight through the iron grate that barred the way into the tunnel, her beam revealing ancient brick walls and the faint glimmer of moving water far below.

  “There’s a subterranean lake under this basilica,” she said. “And you can see the underground river here, which never stops flowing. Beneath Rome is another world, a vast underworld of tunnels and catacombs.” She gazed at the rapt faces staring at her through the gloom. “When you return to the surface, when you walk the streets, think about that, about all the dark and secret places that lie right beneath your feet.”

  “Can I get a closer look at the river?” one of the women asked.

  “Yes, of course. Here, I’ll hold the light while you each get a peek through the grate.”

  One by one, the people in her tour group took turns squeezing in beside Lily to peer into the tunnel. There was nothing much to see, really. But when you travel all the way to Rome, for perhaps your once-in-a-lifetime visit, it’s a tourist’s duty to look. Today, Lily had only six on the tour, two Americans, two Brits, and a pair of Germans. Not such a good haul; she wouldn’t be taking home much in the way of tips. But what could one expect on a chilly Thursday in January? The tourists in Lily’s group were the only visitors in the labyrinth at the moment, and she allowed them to take their time as they each pressed against the metal grate, their crackling raincoats brushing against her. Damp air whooshed up from the tunnel, musty with the smell of mold and wet stone: the scent of ages long past.

  “What were these walls, originally?” asked the German man. Lily had pegged him as a businessman. In his sixties, he spoke excellent English and wore an expensive Burberry coat. But his wife, Lily suspected, was not so fluent in English, as the woman had said scarcely a word all morning.

  “These are the foundations of homes that were here in Nero’s time,” said Lily. “The great fire of A.D. 64 reduced this neighborhood to charred rubble.”

  “Is that the fire when Nero fiddled while Rome burned?” the American man asked.

  Lily smiled, for she’d heard that question dozens of times before and could almost always predict who in the group would ask it. “Actually, Nero didn’t fiddle. The violin wasn’t invented yet. While Rome burned, he was said to have played the lyre and sung.”

  “And then he blamed the fire on the Christians,” the man’s wife added.

  Lily shut off the flashlight. “Come, let’s move on. There’s a lot more to see.”

  She led the way into the shadowy labyrinth. Aboveground, traffic was roaring on busy streets, and vendors were selling postcards and trinkets to tourists wandering the ruins of the Coliseum. But here, beneath the basilica, there was only the sound of the eternally rushing water and the rustle of their coats as they moved down the gloomy tunnel.

  “This type of construction is called opus reticulatum,” said Lily, pointing to the walls. “It’s masonry work that alternates bricks with tufa.”

  “Two-fer?” It was the American man again. The stupid questions were always his. “Is that, like, stronger than one-fer?” Only his wife laughed, a high, annoying whinny.

  “Tufa,” said the Englishman, “is actually compacted volcanic ash.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what it is,” said Lily. “It was used quite often as a building block in Roman homes.”

  “How come we never heard of this tufa stuff before?” the American woman asked her husband, implying that, since they did not know about it, it could not possibly exist.

  Even in the gloom, Lily could see the Englishman’s eyes roll upward. She responded with an amused shrug.

  “You’re American, right?” the woman asked Lily. “Miss?”

  Lily paused. She did not like this personal question. “Actually,” she lied, “I’m Canadian.”

  “Did you know what tufa was before you became a guide? Or is that, like, just a European word?”

  “Many Americans aren’t familiar with the word,” Lily said.

  “Well okay, then. It’s just a European thing,” the woman said, satisfied. If Americans didn’t know it, it couldn’t possibly be important.

  “What you’re seeing here,” said Lily, quickly moving on with the tour, “is what’s left of the villa of Titus Flavius Clemens. In the first century A.D., this was a secret meeting place for Christians, before they were openly accepted. It was still an early cult then, just gaining popularity among the wives of noblemen.” She turned on her flashlight again, using the beam to direct their attention. “Now, we’re moving into the most interesting section of these ruins. This part was uncovered only in 1870. Here we’ll see a secret temple for pagan rituals.”

  They crossed the passageway, and Corinthian columns loomed ahead in the shadows. It was the temple antechamber, lined with stone benches, decorated with ancient frescoes and stucco. They wandered deeper into the sanctuary, past two shadowy niches, the site of initiation rites. In the world above, the passing centuries had altered streets and skylines, but in this ancient grotto, time had frozen. Here, still, was the carving of the god Mithras slaying the bull. Here, still, the gentle rush of water whispered from the shadows.

  “When Christ was born,” said Lily, “the cult of Mithras was already ancient; he was worshipped for centuries by the Persians. Now, let’s consider the life story of Mithras, what the Persians believed about him. He was God’s messenger of truth. He was born in a cave at the winter solstice. His mother, Anahita, was a virgin, and his birth was attended by shepherds bearing gifts. He had twelve disciples who accompanied him as he traveled. He was buried in a tomb, and later rose from the dead. And every year, his rising is celebrated as a rebirth.” She paused for dramatic effect, looking around at their faces. “Does any of this sound familiar?”

  “That’s Christian gospel,” said the American woman.

  “Yet centuries before Christ, this was already part of Persian lore.”

  “I’ve never heard of this.” The tourist looked at her husband. “Have you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then perhaps you should visit the temples at Ostia,” said the Englishman. “Or the Louvre. Or the Frankfurt Archaeological Museum. You might find it educational.”

  The American woman turned to him. “You don’t need to be patronizing.”

  “Trust me, madam. Nothing our delightful guide here has told us is either shocking or untrue.”

  “Now you know as well as I do that Christ was not some Persian guy in a funny hat who kills bulls.”

  Lily said, “I only wanted to point out the interesting parallels in the iconography.”

  “What?”

  “Look, it’s not that important, really,” said Lily, hoping, desperately, that the woman would just let it go, realizing, too, that any hope she had of a generous tip from the American couple had long since vanished. “It’s just mythology.”

  “The Bible isn’t mythology.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “What does anyone really know about the Persians, anyway? I mean, where’s their holy book?” The other tourists said nothing, just stood around looking uncomfortable.

  Let it go. It’s not worth an argument.

  But the woman wasn’t finished yet. Since stepping aboard the tour van that morning, she had complained about everything to do with Italy and Italians. Rome traffic was chaotic, not like in America. The hotels were too expensive, not like in America. The bathrooms were so small, not like in America. And now, this final irritation. She had walked into the Basilica di San Clemente to view one of the earliest Christian meeting places, and instead was getting an earful of pagan propaganda.
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br />   “How do we know what the Mithrans really believed?” she asked. “Where are they now?”

  “Exterminated,” said the Englishman. “Their temples were destroyed long ago. What do you think happened after the church claimed that Mithras was the spawn of Satan?”

  “That sounds like rewritten history to me.”

  “Who do you suppose did all the rewriting?”

  Lily cut in. “This is where our tour ends. Thank you all very much for your attention. Feel free to linger here if you’d like. The driver will be waiting for you in the van when you’re ready to leave. He’ll take you all back to your hotels. If you have any other questions, I’d be happy to answer them.”

  “I think you should let tourists know ahead of time,” the American woman said.

  “Ahead of time?”

  “This tour was called ‘The Dawn of Christianity.’ But it’s not history. It’s pure mythology.”

  “Actually,” sighed Lily, “it is history. But history isn’t always what we’ve been told.”

  “And you’re an expert?”

  “I have a degree in”—Lily paused. Careful—“I’ve studied history.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “I’ve also worked in museums around the world,” Lily answered, too annoyed now to be cautious. “In Florence. Paris.”

  “And now you’re a tour guide.”

  Even in that chilly subterranean room, Lily felt her face go hot. “Yes,” she said, after a long silence. “I’m just a tour guide. Nothing else. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go check on our driver.” She turned and headed back into the labyrinth of tunnels. She certainly would not be getting any tips today, so they could damn well find their own way back upstairs.

  She climbed from the Mithraeum, with each step moving forward in time, ascending to the Byzantine foundations. Here, beneath the current Basilica di San Clemente, were the abandoned hallways of a fourth-century church that had lain hidden for eight centuries, buried beneath the medieval church that later replaced it. She heard voices approaching, speaking French. It was another tour group, on their descent to the Mithraeum. They came through the narrow corridor, and Lily moved aside to let the three tourists and their guide pass. As their voices faded, she paused beneath crumbling frescoes, suddenly feeling guilty that she had abandoned her own group. Why had she let the comments of one ignorant tourist so upset her? What was she thinking?

  She turned, and froze as she confronted the silhouette of a man standing at the far end of the corridor.

  “I hope she did not upset you too much,” he said. She recognized the voice of the German tourist and released a breath, all her tension instantly gone.

  “Oh, it’s all right. I’ve had worse things said to me.”

  “You did not deserve it. You were only explaining the history.”

  “Some people prefer their own version of history.”

  “If they don’t like to be challenged, then they should not come to Rome.”

  She smiled, a smile he probably could not see from the far end of the murky tunnel. “Yes, Rome has a way of challenging us all.”

  He moved toward her, stepping slowly, as though approaching a skittish deer. “May I offer a suggestion?”

  Her heart sank. So he had his criticisms, too. And what would his be? Couldn’t she satisfy anyone today?

  “An idea,” he said, “for a different sort of tour, something that would almost certainly draw a different group of visitors.”

  “What would the theme be?”

  “You are familiar with biblical history.”

  “I’m not an expert, but I have studied it.”

  “Every travel agency offers tours of the holy sites, for tourists like our American friends, people who wish to walk in the footsteps of the saints. But some of us aren’t interested in saints or holy sites.” He had moved close beside her in the tunnel, so close that she could smell the scent of pipe tobacco on his clothes. “Some of us,” he said softly, “seek the unholy.”

  She went absolutely still.

  “You have read the Book of Revelation?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “You know of the Beast.”

  She swallowed. Yes.

  “And who is the Beast?” he asked.

  Slowly she backed away. “Not a he, but an it. It’s…a representation of Rome.”

  “Ah. You know the scholarly interpretation.”

  “The Beast was the Roman Empire,” she said, still backing away. “The number 666 was a symbol for the emperor Nero.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, toward the exit, and saw no one barring her escape.

  “Or do you believe he’s real?” he pressed. “Flesh and blood? Some say the Beast lies here, in this city. That he’s biding his time, waiting. Watching.”

  “That—that’s for philosophers to decide.”

  “You tell me, Lily Saul. What do you believe?”

  He knows my name.

  She spun around to flee. But someone else had magically materialized in the tunnel behind her. It was the nun who had admitted Lily’s group into the underground passage. The woman stood very still, watching her. Blocking her way.

  His demons have found me.

  Lily made her choice in an instant. She lowered her head and slammed straight into the woman, sending her sprawling backward in a swoop of black fabric. The nun’s hand clawed at her ankle as Lily stumbled forward, kicking free.

  Get to the street!

  She was at least three decades younger than the German. Once outside, she could outrun him. Lose him in the crowds milling near the Coliseum. She scrambled up the steps, bursting through a door into the stunning brightness of the upper basilica, and ran toward the nave. Toward the exit. She managed only a few steps across the brilliant mosaic floor when, in horror, she slid to a halt.

  From behind marble columns, three men emerged. They said nothing as they closed in, drawing the trap shut. She heard a door slam behind her and footsteps approach: the German and the nun.

  Why are there no other tourists? No one around to hear me scream?

  “Lily Saul,” said the German.

  She turned to face him. Even as she did so, she knew the other three men were moving in even more tightly behind her. So this is where it ends, she thought. In this holy place, beneath the gaze of Christ on the cross. She did not ever imagine it would happen in a church. She’d thought it would be in a dark alley, perhaps, or in a dreary hotel room. But not here, where so many had looked up to the light.

  “We’ve finally found you,” he said.

  She straightened, her chin lifting. If she had to face the Devil, she’d damn well do it with her head high.

  “So where is he?” the German asked.

  “Who?”

  “Dominic.”

  She stared at him. This question she had not expected.

  “Where is your cousin?” he said.

  She shook her head in bewilderment. “Isn’t he the one who sent you?” she asked. “To kill me?”

  Now the German looked startled. He gave a nod to one of the men standing behind Lily. She flinched in surprise as her arms were yanked behind her, as handcuffs snapped shut over her wrists.

  “You will come with us,” the German said.

  “Where?”

  “A safe place.”

  “You mean…you’re not going to—”

  “Kill you? No.” He crossed toward the altar and opened a hidden panel. Beyond was a tunnel that she had never known existed. “But someone else very well may.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Lily stared through the limousine’s tinted windows as the Tuscan countryside glided past. Five months ago, she had traveled south down this very road, but under different circumstances, in a rattling truck driven by an unshaven man whose only goal had been to get inside her pants. That night she had been hungry and exhausted, her feet sore from trudging half the night. Now she was on the s
ame road, but heading north, back toward Florence, not a weary hitchhiker this time, but traveling in style. Everywhere she looked, in the backseat of the limo, she saw luxury. The upholstery was black leather, supple as human skin. The seat pocket in front of her held a surprising range of newspapers: today’s issues of the International Herald Tribune, the London Times, Le Figaro, and Corriere della Sera. Warm air whispered from heating vents, and in a refreshment rack were bottles of sparkling water and wine and a selection of fresh fruits, cheese and crackers. But comfortable though it was, it was still a prison, for she could not unlock the door. Shatterproof glass separated her from the driver and his companion in the front seat. For the past two hours, neither man had bothered to glance back at her. She couldn’t even be sure they were human. Maybe they were just robots. All she’d seen was the backs of their heads.

  She turned and looked through the rear window at the Mercedes following them. She saw the German man stare back at her through his windshield. She was being escorted north by three men in two very expensive cars. These people had resources, and they knew what they were doing. What chance did she have against them?

  I don’t even know who they are.

  But they knew who she was. As careful as she’d been all these months, somehow these people had managed to track her down.

  The limo took a turn off the highway. So they were not going all the way to Florence. Instead they were headed into the countryside, climbing the gentle hills of Tuscany. Daylight was almost gone, and in the thickening dusk she saw bare grapevines huddled on windswept slopes and crumbling stone houses, long abandoned. Why take this road? There was nothing out here except farms gone fallow.

  Maybe that was the point. Here there’d be no witnesses.

  She had wanted to believe the German when he’d said he was taking her to a safe place, had wanted it so badly that she had let herself be temporarily lulled by a little luxury, a comfortable ride. Now, as the limo slowed down and turned onto a private dirt road, she felt her heart battering against her ribs, felt her hands turn so slick she had to wipe them on her jeans. It was dark enough now. They’d take her on a short walk into the fields and put a bullet in her brain. With three men, it would be quick work, digging the grave, rolling in the body.