Tess Gerritsen's Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Her name was Isabella,” said Sansone. “This was painted a month before her marriage. The portrait required quite a bit of restoration. There were scorch marks on the canvas. It was lucky to survive the fire that destroyed her home.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Yes, she was. To her great misfortune.”

  Maura frowned at him. “Why?”

  “She was married to Nicolo Contini, a Venetian nobleman. By all accounts it was a very happy marriage, until”—he paused—“until Antonino Sansone destroyed their lives.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “That’s the man in the portrait? In the other room?”

  He nodded. “My distinguished ancestor. Oh, he was able to justify all his actions in the name of rooting out the Devil. The church sanctioned it all—the torture, the bloodletting, the burnings at the stake. The Venetians in particular were quite expert at torture and creative at devising ever more brutal instruments to extract confessions. No matter how outlandish the accusations, a few hours in the dungeon with Monsignore Sansone would make almost anyone plead guilty to his charges. Whether the accusation was practicing witchcraft, or casting spells against your neighbors, or consorting with the Devil, confessing to any and all of it was the only way to make the pain stop, to be granted the mercy of death. Which, in itself, was not so merciful, since most of them were burned alive.” He gazed around the room, at the portraits. The faces of the dead. “All these people you see here suffered at his hand. Men, women, children—he made no distinction. It’s said he awakened each day, eager for the task, that he cheerfully fortified himself with a hearty morning meal of bread and meat. Then he’d don his blood-splattered robes and go to work, rooting out heretics. On the street outside, even through thick stone walls, passersby could hear the screams.”

  Maura’s gaze circled the room, taking in the faces of the doomed, and she imagined these same faces bruised and contorted in pain. How long had they resisted? How long had they clung to the hope of escape, a chance to live?

  “Antonino defeated them all,” he said. “Except for one.” His gaze was back on the woman with the luminous eyes.

  “Isabella survived?”

  “Oh, no. No one survived his attentions. Like all the others, she died. But she was never conquered.”

  “She refused to confess?”

  “Or submit. She had only to implicate her husband. Renounce him, accuse him of sorcery, and she might have lived. Because what Antonino really wanted wasn’t her confession. He wanted Isabella herself.”

  Her beauty was her misfortune. That’s what he’d meant.

  “A year and a month,” he said. “That’s how long she survived in a cell without heat, without light. Every day, another session with her torturer.” He looked at Maura. “I’ve seen the instruments from those times. I can’t imagine any version of Hell that could be worse.”

  “And he never defeated her?”

  “She resisted until the end. Even when they took away her newborn baby. Even when they crushed her hands, scourged the skin from her back, wrenched apart her joints. Every brutality was meticulously recorded in Antonino’s personal journals.”

  “You’ve actually seen those journals?”

  “Yes. They’ve been passed down through our family. They’re stored in a vault now, with other unpleasant heirlooms from that era.”

  “What a horrible legacy.”

  “That’s what I meant when I told you we had common interests, common concerns. We both inherited poisoned blood.”

  Her gaze was back on Isabella’s face, and suddenly she registered something that he had said only moments ago. They took away her newborn baby.

  She looked at him. “You said she had a baby in prison.”

  “Yes. A son.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He was placed in the care of a local convent, where he was raised.”

  “But he was the son of a heretic. Why was he allowed to live?”

  “Because of who his father was.”

  She looked at him with stunned comprehension. “Antonino Sansone?”

  He nodded. “The boy was born eleven months into his mother’s imprisonment.”

  A child of rape, she thought. So this is the Sansone bloodline. It goes back to the child of a doomed woman.

  And a monster.

  She gazed around the room at the other portraits. “I don’t think I’d want these portraits hanging in my home.”

  “You think it’s morbid.”

  “Every day, I’d be reminded. I’d be haunted by how they died.”

  “So you’d hide them in a closet? Avoid even looking at them, the way you avoid thinking about your mother?”

  She stiffened. “I have no reason to think about her. She has no part in my life.”

  “But she does. And you do think about her, don’t you? You can’t avoid it.”

  “I sure as hell don’t hang her portrait in my living room.” She set down her wineglass on the table. “This is a bizarre form of ancestor worship you’re practicing. Displaying the family torturer in the front parlor, like some kind of icon, someone you’re proud of. And here in the dining room, you keep a gallery of his victims. All these faces staring at you, like a trophy collection. It’s the kind of thing a—”

  A hunter would display.

  She paused, staring down at her empty glass, aware of the silence in the house. Five place settings were on the table, yet she was the only guest who’d arrived, perhaps the only guest who’d actually been invited.

  She flinched as he brushed her arm and reached for her empty glass. He turned to refill it, and she stared at his back, at the outline of muscles beneath the black turtleneck shirt. Then he turned to face her, wineglass held out. She took it, but did not sip, though her throat had suddenly gone dry.

  “Do you know why these portraits are here?” he asked quietly.

  “I just find it…strange.”

  “I grew up with them. They hung in my father’s house, and in his father’s house. So did the portrait of Antonino, but always in a separate room. Always in a place of prominence.”

  “Like an altar.”

  “In a way.”

  “You honor that man? The torturer?”

  “We keep his memory alive. We never allow ourselves to forget who—and what—he was.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this is our responsibility. A sacred duty the Sansones accepted generations ago, starting with Isabella’s son.”

  “The child born in prison.”

  He nodded. “By the time Vittorio reached adulthood, Monsignore Sansone was dead. But his reputation as a monster had spread, and the Sansone name was no longer an advantage, but rather a curse. Vittorio could have fled from his own name, denied his own bloodline. Instead he did quite the opposite. He embraced the Sansone name, as well as the burden.”

  “You talked about a sacred duty. What sort of duty?”

  “Vittorio took a vow to atone for what his father did. If you look at our family crest, you’ll see the words: Sed libera nos a malo.”

  Latin. She frowned at him. “Deliver us from evil.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what, exactly, are Sansones expected to do?”

  “Hunt the Devil, Dr. Isles. That’s what we do.”

  For a moment she didn’t respond. He can’t possibly be serious, she thought, but his gaze was absolutely steady.

  “You mean figuratively, of course,” she finally said.

  “I know you don’t believe he actually exists.”

  “Satan?” She couldn’t help but laugh.

  “People have no trouble believing that God exists,” he said.

  “That’s why it’s called faith. It requires no proof, because there is none.”

  “If one believes in the light, one has to believe in the darkness as well.”

  “But you’re talking about a supernatural being.”

  “I’m talking about evil, disti
lled to its purest form. Manifested in the shape of real flesh-and-blood creatures, walking among us. This isn’t about the impulsive kill, the jealous husband who’s gone over the edge, or the scared soldier who mows down an unarmed enemy. I’m talking about something entirely different. People who look human, but are the farthest thing from it.”

  “Demons?”

  “If you want to call them that.”

  “And you really believe they exist, these monsters or demons or whatever you call them?”

  “I know they do,” he said quietly.

  The ringing of the doorbell startled her. She glanced toward the front parlor, but Sansone made no move to answer the bell. She heard footsteps, and then the butler’s voice speaking in the foyer.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Felway. May I take your coat?”

  “I’m a little bit late, Jeremy. Sorry.”

  “Mr. Stark and Dr. O’Donnell haven’t arrived yet, either.”

  “Not yet? Well, I feel better then.”

  “Mr. Sansone and Dr. Isles are in the dining room, if you’d like to join them.”

  “God, I could really use a drink.”

  The woman who swept into the room was as tall as a man and looked just as formidable, her square shoulders emphasized by a tweed blazer with leather epaulets. Although her hair was streaked with silver, she moved with the vigor of youth and the assurance of authority. She didn’t hesitate, but crossed straight to Maura.

  “You must be Dr. Isles,” she said, and gave Maura a matter-of-fact handshake. “Edwina Felway.”

  Sansone handed the woman a glass of wine. “How’re the roads out there, Winnie?”

  “Treacherous.” She took a sip. “I’m surprised Ollie isn’t here already.”

  “It’s just eight o’clock now. He’s coming with Joyce.”

  Edwina’s gaze was on Maura. Her eyes were direct, even intrusive. “Has there been any progress on the case?”

  “We haven’t talked about that,” said Sansone.

  “Really? But it’s the one thing on all our minds.”

  “I can’t discuss it,” said Maura. “I’m sure you understand why.”

  Edwina looked at Sansone. “You mean she hasn’t agreed yet?”

  “Agreed to what?” asked Maura.

  “To join our group, Dr. Isles.”

  “Winnie, you’re a bit premature. I haven’t fully explained—”

  “The Mephisto Foundation?” said Maura. “Is that what you’re talking about?”

  There was a silence. In the other room, a phone began to ring.

  Edwina suddenly laughed. “She’s one step ahead of you, Anthony.”

  “How did you know about the foundation?” he asked, looking at Maura. Then he gave a knowing sigh. “Detective Rizzoli, of course. I hear she’s been asking questions.”

  “She’s paid to ask questions,” said Maura.

  “Is she finally satisfied that we’re not suspects?”

  “It’s just that she doesn’t like mysteries. And your group is very mysterious.”

  “And that’s why you accepted my invitation tonight. To find out who we are.”

  “I think I have found out,” said Maura. “And I think I’ve heard enough to make a decision.” She set down her glass. “Metaphysics doesn’t interest me. I know there’s evil in the world, and there always has been. But you don’t need to believe in Satan or demons to explain it. Human beings are perfectly capable of evil all by themselves.”

  “You aren’t in the least bit interested in joining the foundation?” asked Edwina.

  “I wouldn’t belong here. And I think I should leave now.” She turned to find Jeremy standing in the doorway.

  “Mr. Sansone?” The manservant was holding a portable phone. “Mr. Stark just called. He’s quite concerned.”

  “About what?”

  “Dr. O’Donnell was supposed to pick him up, but she hasn’t appeared yet.”

  “When was she supposed to be at his house?”

  “Forty-five minutes ago. He’s been calling, but she doesn’t answer either her home phone or her cell.”

  “Let me try her number.” Sansone took the phone and dialed, drumming the table as he waited. He disconnected, dialed again, his fingers tapping faster. No one in the room spoke; they were all watching him, listening to the accelerating rhythm of his fingers. The night Eve Kassovitz died, these people had sat in this very room, not realizing that Death was right outside. That it had found its way into their garden, and had left its strange symbols on their door. This house had been marked.

  Perhaps the people inside it were marked as well.

  Sansone hung up.

  “Shouldn’t you call the police?” asked Maura.

  “Oh, Joyce may simply have forgotten,” said Edwina. “It seems a little premature to ask the police to rush in.”

  Jeremy said, “Would you like me to drive over and check Dr. O’Donnell’s house?”

  Sansone stared for a moment at the phone. “No,” he finally said. “I’ll go. I’d rather you stayed here, just in case Joyce calls.”

  Maura followed him into the parlor, where he grabbed his overcoat from the closet. She, too, pulled on her coat.

  “Please stay and have dinner,” he said, reaching for his car keys. “There’s no need for you to rush home.”

  “I’m not going home,” she said. “I’m coming with you.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Joyce O’Donnell’s porch light was on, but no one answered the door.

  Sansone tried the knob. “It’s locked,” he said, and took out his cell phone. “Let me try calling her one more time.”

  As he dialed, Maura backed away from the porch and stood on the walkway, gazing up at O’Donnell’s house, at a second-floor window that cast its cheery glow into the night. Faintly, she heard a phone ringing inside. Then, once again, silence.

  Sansone disconnected. “Her answering machine picked up.”

  “I think it’s time to call Rizzoli.”

  “Not yet.” He produced a flashlight and headed along the shoveled walkway toward the side of the house.

  “Where are you going?”

  He continued toward the driveway, black coat melting into the shadows. The beam of his light skimmed across flagstones and disappeared around the corner.

  She stood alone in the front yard, listening to the rattle of dead leaves in the branches above her. “Sansone?” she called out. He didn’t answer. She heard only the pounding of her own heart. She followed him around the corner of the house. There she halted in the deserted driveway, the shadow of the garage looming before her. She started to call his name again, but something silenced her: the creeping awareness of another presence watching her, tracking her. She turned and quickly scanned the street. She saw a scrap of windblown paper tumble down the road like a fluttering wraith.

  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.