“She wasn’t alone in that house, Jane. Her cousin Elijah lived there, too. It could have been him.”
“She was nineteen years old when the Sadlers vanished. She had to know what was happening in her own kitchen.”
“It doesn’t mean she’s the one who did it.”
Rizzoli looked at her. “You believe O’Donnell’s theory? About the Beast?”
“Amalthea is schizophrenic. Tell me how someone with a mind that disordered manages to kill two women, and then goes through the very logical step of burning their bodies, destroying the evidence?”
“She didn’t do that good a job of covering her tracks. She got caught, remember?”
“The police in Virginia got lucky. Catching her on a routine traffic stop wasn’t an example of brilliant detective work.” Maura stared ahead at fingers of mist curling across the empty highway. “She didn’t kill those women all by herself. There had to be someone else helping her, someone who left fingerprints in her car. Someone who’s been with her from the very beginning.”
“Her cousin?”
“Elijah was only fourteen when he buried that girl alive. What kind of boy would do something like that? What kind of man does he grow into?”
“I hate to imagine.”
“I think we both know,” said Maura. “We both saw the blood in that kitchen.”
The Lexus hummed down the road. The rain had ceased, but the air still steamed, misting over the windshield.
“If they did kill the Sadlers,” said Rizzoli, “then you’ve got to wonder …” She looked at Maura. “What did they do with Karen Sadler’s baby?”
Maura said nothing. She kept her gaze on the highway, driving straight down that road. No detours, no side trips. Just keep driving.
“You know what I’m getting at?” said Rizzoli. “Forty-five years ago, the Lank cousins killed a pregnant woman. The baby’s remains are missing. Five years later, Amalthea Lank shows up in Van Gates’s office in Boston, with two newborn daughters to sell.”
Maura’s fingers had gone numb on the steering wheel.
“What if those babies weren’t hers?” Rizzoli said. “What if Amalthea isn’t really your mother?”
TWENTY-THREE
Mattie Purvis sat in the dark, wondering how long it took a person to starve to death. She was going through her food too fast. Only six Hershey bars, half a packet of saltines, and a few strips of beef jerky were left in the grocery sack. I have to ration it, she thought. I have to make it last long enough to …
To what? Die of thirst instead?
She bit off a precious chunk of chocolate, and was sorely tempted to take a second bite, but managed to hold on to her willpower. Carefully, she rewrapped the rest of the bar for later. If I get truly desperate, there’s always the paper to eat, she thought. Paper was edible, wasn’t it? It’s made of wood, and hungry deer eat the bark off trees, so there must be some nutritional value to it. Yes, save the paper. Keep it clean. Reluctantly, she returned the partially eaten chocolate bar to the sack. Closing her eyes, she thought of hamburgers and fried chicken and all the forbidden foods she had denied herself ever since Dwayne had said that pregnant women reminded him of cows. Meaning she reminded him of a cow. For two weeks afterwards, she’d eaten nothing but salads, until one day she’d felt dizzy and had sat right down on the floor in the middle of Macy’s. Dwayne had turned red-faced as worried ladies gathered around them, asking again and again if his wife was all right. He kept waving them away while he’d hissed at Mattie to get up. Image was everything, he always liked to say, and there was Mr. BMW with his cow of a wife in her maternity stretch pants, wallowing on the floor. Yes, I am a cow, Dwayne. A big, beautiful cow carrying your baby. Now come and save us, goddamn it. Save us, save us.
A footstep creaked overhead.
She looked up as her captor approached. She had come to recognize his tread, light and cautious as a stalking cat’s. Each time he’d visited, she’d pleaded with him to release her. Each time, he had just walked away, leaving her in this box. Now her food was running low, and the water, too.
“Lady.”
She didn’t answer. Let him wonder, she thought. He’ll worry whether I’m okay and he’ll have to open the box. He has to keep me alive or he won’t get his precious ransom.
“Talk to me, lady.”
She stayed silent. Nothing else has worked, she thought. Maybe this will scare him. Maybe now he’ll let me out.
A thump on the dirt. “Are you there?”
Where else would I be, you asshole?
A long pause. “Well. If you’re already dead, there’s no point digging you up. Is there?” The footsteps moved away.
“Wait! Wait!” She turned on the flashlight. Began pounding on the ceiling. “Come back, goddamn it! Come back!” She listened, heart thudding. Almost laughed with relief when she heard the creak of his approach. How pitiful was this? She was reduced to begging for his attention, like an ignored lover.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“Have you talked to my husband? When is he going to pay you?”
“How are you feeling?”
“Why don’t you ever answer my questions?”
“Answer mine first.”
“Oh, I’m feeling just dandy!”
“What about the baby?”
“I’m running out of food. I need more food.”
“You have enough.”
“Excuse me, but I’m the one down here, not you! I’m starving. How are you going to get your money if I’m dead?”
“Stay calm, lady. Rest. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Everything is so not right!”
No answer.
“Hello? Hello?” she yelled.
The footsteps were moving away now.
“Wait!” She pounded on the ceiling. “Come back!” She beat on the wood with both fists. Rage suddenly consumed her, a rage like nothing she had ever known before. She screamed, “You can’t do this to me! I’m not an animal!” She collapsed against the wall, hands bruised and throbbing, body wracked with sobs. Sobs of fury, not defeat. “Fuck you,” she said. “Fuck you. And fuck Dwayne. And fuck all the other assholes in this world!”
Exhausted, she collapsed onto her back. Drew her arm across her eyes, wiping away tears. What does he want from us? By now, Dwayne must have paid him. So why am I still down here? What is he waiting for?
The baby gave a kick. She pressed her hand against her belly, a calming touch transmitted through the skin that separated them. She felt her womb tighten, the first quiver of a contraction. Poor thing. Poor …
Baby.
She went very still, thinking. Remembering all the conversations through the air grate. Never about Dwayne. Never about money. That made no sense. If the asshole wanted money, Dwayne is the person he has to go to. But he doesn’t ask about my husband. He doesn’t talk about Dwayne. What if he hasn’t even called him? What if he hasn’t asked for any ransom at all?
Then what does he want?
The flashlight dimmed. The second set of batteries was dying. Two more fresh sets to go, and then she’d be in permanent darkness. This time she did not panic as she reached into the grocery sack and tore open a new package. I’ve done this before; I can do it again. She unscrewed the back, calmly slid out the old batteries, and inserted the new. Bright light beamed out, a temporary reprieve from the long good-night she feared was coming.
Everybody dies. But I don’t want to die buried in this box, where no one will ever find my bones.
Save the light, save the light as long as you can. She flicked off the switch and lay in the darkness as fear closed in and wrapped its tentacles tighter. No one knows, she thought. No one knows I’m here.
Stop it, Mattie. Keep it together. You’re the only one who can save yourself.
She turned onto her side and hugged herself. Heard something roll across the floor. One of the spent batteries, useless now.
What if no one knows I’ve been
kidnapped? What if no one knows I’m still alive?
She wrapped her arms around her belly and thought about every conversation she’d had with her captor. How are you feeling? That’s what he always asked, how was she feeling? As if he cared. As if anyone who stuck a pregnant woman in a box gave a damn how she was feeling. But he always asked the question, and she always pleaded with him to let her out.
He’s waiting for a different answer.
She drew her knees closer and her foot hit something that went rolling away. She sat up and turned on the flashlight. Began scrambling around for all the loose batteries. She had four old ones, plus two fresh ones still in the package. Plus the two in the flashlight. She flicked off the switch again. Save the light, save the light.
In darkness, she began to untie her shoe.
TWENTY-FOUR
Dr. Joyce P. O’Donnell walked into the homicide unit’s conference room looking as though she owned the place. Her sleek St. John’s suit had probably cost more than Rizzoli’s entire clothing budget for a year. Three-inch heels emphasized her already statuesque height. Although three cops were watching her as she sat down at the table, she revealed not a flicker of discomfort. She knew how to take control of a room, a skill that Rizzoli could not help envying, even though she despised the woman.
The dislike was clearly mutual. O’Donnell cast one icy glance at Rizzoli, then her gaze moved on past Barry Frost, before she finally turned her full attention on Lieutenant Marquette, the homicide unit’s ranking officer. Of course she would focus on Marquette; O’Donnell didn’t waste her time with underlings.
“This is an unexpected invitation, Lieutenant,” she said. “I don’t often get asked to Schroeder Plaza.”
“Detective Rizzoli was the one who suggested it.”
“Even more unexpected, then. Considering.”
Considering we play for opposite teams, thought Rizzoli. I catch the monsters; you defend them.
“But as I told Detective Rizzoli on the phone,” O’Donnell continued, “I can’t help you unless you help me. If you want me to help you find the Beast, you have to share what information you have.”
In answer, Rizzoli slid a folder to O’Donnell. “That’s what we know about Elijah Lank so far.” She saw the eager gleam in the psychiatrist’s eyes as she reached for the folder. This was what O’Donnell lived for: a glimpse of a monster. A chance to get close to the beating heart of evil.
O’Donnell opened the file. “His high school record.”
“From Fox Harbor.”
“An IQ of 136. But only average grades.”
“Your classic underachiever.” Capable of great things if he applies himself, one teacher had written, not realizing where Elijah Lank’s achievements would take him. “After his mother died, he was raised by his father, Hugo. The father never held down a job for long. Apparently spent most of his days with a bottle, and died of pancreatitis when Elijah was eighteen.”
“And this is the same household Amalthea grew up in.”
“Yeah. She came to live with her uncle when she was nine, after her mother died. No one even knows who her father was. So there you have the Lank family of Fox Harbor. A drunk uncle, a sociopathic cousin, and a girl who grows up schizophrenic. Just your nice wholesome American family.”
“You called Elijah sociopathic.”
“What else would you call a boy who buries his classmate alive, just for the fun of it?”
O’Donnell turned to the next page. Anyone else reading that file would wear an expression of horror, but the look on her face was one of fascination.
“The girl he buried was only fourteen,” said Rizzoli. “Alice Rose was the new kid in school. She was also hearing impaired, which is why the other kids tormented her. And probably why Elijah chose her. She was vulnerable, easy prey. He invited her up to his house, then led her through the woods to a pit he’d dug. He threw her inside, covered the hole with boards, and piled rocks on top. When questioned about it later, he said the whole thing was a prank. But I think he honestly meant to kill her.”
“According to this report, the girl came out of it unharmed.”
“Unharmed? Not exactly.”
O’Donnell looked up. “But she did survive it.”
“Alice Rose spent the next five years of her life being treated for severe depression and anxiety attacks. When she was nineteen, she climbed into a bathtub and slit her wrists. As far as I’m concerned, Elijah Lank is responsible for her death. She was his first victim.”
“Can you prove there are others?”
“Forty-five years ago, a married couple named Karen and Robert Sadler vanished from Kennebunkport. Karen Sadler was eight months pregnant at the time. Their remains were found just last week, in that same plot of land where Elijah buried Alice Rose alive. I think the Sadlers were Elijah’s kills. His and Amalthea’s.”
O’Donnell had gone very still, as though she was holding her breath.
“You’re the one who first suggested it, Dr. O’Donnell,” said Lieutenant Marquette. “You said Amalthea had a partner, someone she’d called the Beast. Someone who helped her kill Nikki and Theresa Wells. That’s what you told Dr. Isles, isn’t it?”
“No one else believed my theory.”
“Well, now we do,” said Rizzoli. “We think the Beast is her cousin, Elijah.”
O’Donnell’s eyebrow lifted in amusement. “A case of killing cousins?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time that cousins have killed together,” pointed out Marquette.
“True,” O’Donnell said. “Kenneth Bianchi and Angelo Buono—the Hillside Stranglers—they were cousins.”
“So there’s a precedent,” said Marquette. “Cousins as killing partners.”
“You didn’t need me to tell you that.”
“You knew about the Beast before anyone else did,” said Rizzoli. “You’ve been trying to find him, to contact him through Amalthea.”
“But I haven’t succeeded. So I don’t see how I can help you find him. I don’t even know why you asked me here, Detective, since you have so little regard for my research.”
“I know Amalthea talks to you. She wouldn’t say a word to me when I saw her yesterday. But the guards told me she does talk to you.”
“Our sessions are confidential. She’s my patient.”
“Her cousin isn’t. He’s the one we want to find.”
“Well, where was his last known location? You must have some information you can start with.”
“We have almost none. Nothing on his whereabouts in decades.”
“Do you even know that he’s alive?”
Rizzoli sighed. Admitted: “No.”
“He’d be nearly seventy years old now, wouldn’t he? That’s getting a little geriatric for a serial killer.”
“Amalthea is sixty-five,” said Rizzoli. “Yet no one ever doubted that she killed Theresa and Nikki Wells. That she crushed their skulls, soaked their bodies in gasoline, and lit them on fire.”
O’Donnell leaned back in her chair and regarded Rizzoli for a moment. “Tell me why Boston PD is even pursuing Elijah Lank. These are old murders—not even your jurisdiction. What’s your interest in this?”
“Anna Leoni’s murder may be tied in.”
“How?”
“Just before she was murdered, Anna was asking a lot of questions about Amalthea. Maybe she learned too much.” Rizzoli slid another file to O’Donnell.
“What’s this?”
“You’re familiar with the FBI’s National Crime Information Center? It maintains a searchable database of missing persons from across the country.”
“Yes, I’m aware of NCIC.”
“We submitted a search request using the key words female and pregnant. That’s what we got back from the FBI. Every case they have in their database, back to the 1960s. Every pregnant woman who’s vanished in the continental U.S.”
“Why did you specify pregnant women?”
“Because Nikki Wells was nine
months pregnant. Karen Sadler was eight months pregnant. Don’t you find that awfully coincidental?”
O’Donnell opened the folder and confronted pages of computer printouts. She looked up in surprise. “There are dozens of names in here.”
“Consider the fact that thousands of people go missing every year in this country. If a pregnant woman vanishes every so often, it’s only a blip against that bigger background; it won’t raise any red flags. But when one woman a month vanishes, over a forty-year span, then the total numbers start to add up.”
“Can you link any of these missing persons cases to Amalthea Lank or her cousin?”
“That’s why we called you. You’ve had over a dozen sessions with her. Is there anything she’s told you about her travels? Where she’s lived, where she’s worked?”
O’Donnell closed the folder. “You’re asking me to breach patient-doctor confidentiality. Why would I?”
“Because the killing isn’t over. It hasn’t stopped.”
“My patient can’t kill anyone. She’s in prison.”
“Her partner isn’t.” Rizzoli leaned forward, closer to the woman she so thoroughly despised. But she needed O’Donnell now, and she managed to quell her revulsion. “The Beast fascinates you, doesn’t he? You want to know more about him. You want to get inside his head, know what makes him tick. You like hearing all the details. That’s why you should help us. So you can add one more monster to your collection.”
“What if we’re both wrong? Maybe the Beast is just a figment of our imaginations.”
Rizzoli looked at Frost. “Why don’t you turn on that overhead projector?”
Frost rolled the projector into position and flipped on the power switch. In this age of computers and PowerPoint slide shows, an overhead projector felt like Stone Age technology. But she and Frost had opted for the quickest, most straightforward way to make their case. Frost now opened a folder and took out multiple transparencies on which they’d recorded data points in various colors of marker ink.
Frost slid a sheet onto the overhead projector. A map of the U.S. appeared on the screen. Now he overlaid the map with the first transparency. Six black dots were added to the image.
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 116
