Tess Gerritsen - The Keepsake

“I was scared. I didn’t ask questions.”

“And she never gave you answers?”

“We ran, that’s all. I know it doesn’t make sense now, but that’s what we did. We left town in a panic. And after you do that, you can’t go to the police. You look guilty just because you ran.”

“You’re right, Josephine. Your mother does look pretty damn guilty. The man she killed was shot in the back of the head. It didn’t look like self-defense to the San Diego police. It looked like a cold-blooded murder.”

“She did it to protect me. ”

“Then why didn’t she call the police? What was she running from?” Jane leaned in even closer, getting right into the woman’s face. “I want the truth, Josephine!”

The breath seemed to whoosh out of Josephine’s lungs. Shoulders sagging, she hung her head in defeat. “Prison,” she whispered. “My mother was running from prison.”

This was what they’d been waiting for. This was the explanation. Jane could see it in the young woman’s posture, could hear it in the conquered voice. Josephine knew the battle was lost, and she was finally handing over the spoils: the truth.

“What crime did she commit?” asked Jane.

“I don’t know the details. She said I was just a baby when it happened.”

“Did she steal something? Kill someone?”

“She wouldn’t talk about it. I didn’t even find out about it until that night in San Diego. When she told me why we couldn’t call the police.”

“And you just packed up and left town with her because she told you to be a good little girl?”

“What would you expect me to do?” Josephine’s head lifted, defiance in her eyes. “She was my mother and I loved her.”

“Yet she told you she committed a crime.”

“Some crimes are justified. Sometimes you have no choice. Whatever she did, she had a reason for it. My mother was a good person.”

“Who was running from the law.”

“Then the law is wrong. ” She stared at Jane, refusing to concede an inch. Refusing to accept that her mother was capable of evil. Could a parent ask for a more loyal child? It might be misguided loyalty, blind loyalty, but there was something to admire here, something that Jane herself would want from her own daughter.

“So your mother dragged you from town to town, from name to name,” said Jane. “And where was your father in all this?”

“My father died in Egypt, before I was born.”

“Egypt?” Jane arched forward, her attention riveted on the young woman. “Tell me more.”

“He was from France. One of the archaeologists at the dig.” Josephine’s lips turned up in a wistful smile. “She said he was brilliant and funny. And most of all, kind. That’s what she liked most about him, his kindness. They planned to get married, but there was an awful accident. A fire.” She swallowed. “Gemma was burned as well.”

“Gemma Hamerton was with her in Egypt?”

“Yes.” At the mention of Gemma, Josephine blinked away a sudden flash of tears. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? My fault she’s dead.”

Jane looked at Frost, who appeared just as startled by this information as she was. Though he had been silent so far through the interview, now he could not resist asking a question.

“This excavation you mentioned, where your parents met. Where was it in Egypt?”

“Near Siwa Oasis. It’s in the western desert.”

“What were they looking for?”

Josephine shrugged. “They never found it.”

“It?”

“The lost army of Cambyses.”

In the silence that followed, Jane could almost hear the puzzle pieces click into place. Egypt. Cambyses. Bradley Rose. She turned to Frost. “Show her his photo.”

Frost pulled the snapshot from the file folder that he’d brought into the room and handed it to Josephine. It was the image that Professor Quigley had lent them, the photo taken at Chaco Canyon of a young Bradley staring at the camera lens, his eyes pale as a wolf’s.

“Do you recognize this man?” asked Frost. “It’s an old picture. He’d be about forty-five now.”

Josephine shook her head. “Who is he?”

“His name is Bradley Rose. Twenty-seven years ago he was in Egypt, too. At the same archaeological dig where your mother worked. She would have known him.”

Josephine frowned at the photo, as though struggling to see something about that face that she could recognize. “I’ve never heard that name. She never mentioned him.”

“Josephine,” said Frost, “we think this is the man who’s been stalking you. The man who attacked you two nights ago. And we have reason to believe this is the Archaeology Killer.”

She looked up, startled. “He knew my mother?”

“They were at the same excavation. They must have known each other. It could explain why he’s now fixated on you. Your photo appeared twice in The Boston Globe, remember? Back in March, soon after you were hired by the museum. And then a few weeks ago, just before the CT scan of Madam X. Maybe Bradley saw the resemblance. Maybe he looked at your photo and saw your mother’s face. Do you look like her?”

Josephine nodded. “Gemma said I look exactly like my mother.”

“What was your mother’s name?” asked Jane.

For a moment, Josephine didn’t respond, as though that particular secret had been buried so long, she could not even remember it. When she finally did answer, it came out so softly that Jane had to lean forward to hear it.

“Medea. Her name was Medea.”

“The name on the cartouche,” said Frost.

Josephine stared down at the photo. “Why didn’t she tell me about him? Why have I never heard his name?”

“Your mother seems to be the key to everything,” said Jane.

“The key to what drives this man to kill. Even if you don’t know about him, he certainly knows about you, and he’s probably been in your life for some time, right on the periphery of your vision. Maybe he drove past your building every day. Or sat on the bus you rode to work. You just haven’t noticed him. When we get you back to Boston, we’re going to need a list of every place you frequent. Every café, every bookstore.”

“But I’m not going back to Boston.”

“You have to come back. We can’t protect you otherwise.”

Josephine shook her head. “I’m better off somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

“This man tracked you all the way here. You think he can’t repeat that trick?” Jane’s voice was quiet and relentless. “Let me tell you what Bradley Rose does to his victims. He cripples them first, so they can’t escape. The way he’s crippled you. The way he crippled Madam X. For a while, he kept her alive. He kept her someplace where no one could hear her. He held her captive for weeks, and God knows what he did to her during that time.” Jane’s voice was softer, almost intimate. “And even when she died, she remained his possession. He preserved her as a keepsake. She became part of his harem, Josephine, a harem of dead souls.” She added, softly: “You’re his next victim.”

“Why are you doing this?” Josephine cried. “You think I’m not already scared enough?”

“We can keep you safe,” said Frost. “Your locks have already been replaced, and every time you leave your building, we’ll arrange an escort. Someone will go with you, anywhere you need to go.”

“I don’t know.” Josephine hugged herself, but it was not enough to still her shaking. “I don’t know what to do.”

“We know who the killer is,” said Jane. “We know how he operates, so the advantage is all ours.”

Josephine was silent as she considered her choices. Run or fight. There were no in-betweens, no half measures.

“Come back to Boston,” said Jane. “Help us put an end to it.”