Tess Gerritsen - The Mephisto Club

“Do you mean demons ?” She gave a laugh. “Of course not.”

He regarded her for a moment with a look of vague disappointment. “Since your religion seems to be science and reason, as you put it, how does science explain what happened in my garden tonight? What happened to that woman on Christmas Eve?”

“You’re asking me to explain evil.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t. Neither can science. It just is. ”

He nodded. “That’s exactly right. It just is, and it’s always been with us. A real entity, living among us, stalking us. Waiting for its chance to feed. Most people aren’t aware of it, and they don’t recognize it, even when it brushes up against them, when it passes them on the street.” His voice had dropped to a whisper. In the momentary hush, she heard the crackle of flames in the hearth, the murmur of voices in the other room. “But you do,” he said. “You’ve seen it with your own eyes.”

“I’ve only seen what every homicide cop has seen.”

“I’m not talking about everyday crimes. Spouses killing spouses, drug dealers shooting the competition. I’m talking about what you saw in your mother’s eyes. The gleam. The spark. Not divine, but something unholy.”

A draft moaned down the flue, scattering ashes against the fire screen. The flames shuddered, quailing before an invisible intruder. The room suddenly felt cold, as though all heat, all light, had just been sucked from it.

“I understand perfectly,” he said, “why you wouldn’t want to talk about Amalthea. It’s a terrible bloodline to inherit.”

“She has nothing to do with who I am,” Maura said. “She didn’t raise me. I didn’t even know she existed until a few months ago.”

“Yet you’re sensitive about the subject.”

She met his gaze. “I really don’t care.”

“I find it strange that you don’t care.”

“We don’t inherit our parents’ sins. Or their virtues.”

“Some legacies are too powerful to ignore.” He pointed to the painting over the hearth. “Sixteen generations separate me from that man. Yet I’ll never escape his legacy. I’ll never be washed clean of the things he did.”

Maura stared at the portrait. Once again, she was struck by the resemblance between the living man sitting beside her and the face on the canvas. “You said that painting was an heirloom.”

“Not one that I was happy to inherit.”

“Who was he?”

“Monsignore Antonino Sansone. This portrait was painted in Venice in 1561. At the height of his power. Or, you might also say, at the depth of his depravity.”

“Antonino Sansone? Your name?”

“I’m his direct descendent.”

She frowned at the painting. “But he-”

“He was a priest. That’s what you’re about to say, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It would take all night to tell you his story. Another time, maybe. Let’s just say that Antonino was not a godly man. He did things to other human beings that would make you question the very meaning of-” He paused. “He’s not an ancestor I’m proud of.”

“Yet you have his portrait hanging in your house.”

“As a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“Look at him, Dr. Isles. He looks like me, don’t you think?”

“Eerily so.”

“In fact, we could be brothers. That’s why he’s hanging there. To remind me that evil has a human face, maybe even a pleasant face. You could walk past that man, see him smile back at you, and you’d never imagine what he’s thinking about you. You can study a face all you want, but you never really know what lies beneath the mask.” He leaned toward her, his hair reflecting firelight like a silvery helmet. “They look just like us, Dr. Isles,” he said softly.

“They? You make it sound like a separate species.”

“Maybe they are. Throwbacks to an ancient era. All I know is, they are not like us. And the only way to identify them is to track what they do. Follow the bloody trail, listen for the screams. Search for what most police departments are too overwhelmed to notice: the patterns. We look beyond the background noise of everyday crimes, of routine bloodshed, to see the hot spots. We watch for the footprints of monsters.”

“Who do you mean by we ?”

“The people who were here tonight.”

“Your dinner guests.”

“We share a belief that evil isn’t just a concept. It’s real, and it has a physical presence. It has a face. ” He paused. “At some time in our lives, we’ve each seen it in the flesh.”

Maura’s eyebrow lifted. “Satan?”

“Whatever name you want to use.” He shrugged. “There’ve been so many names, dating back to the ancients. Lucifer, Abigor, Samael, Mastema. Every culture has its name for evil. My friends and I have each personally brushed up against it. We’ve seen its power, and I’ll admit it, Dr. Isles. We’re scared.” His gaze met hers. “Tonight, more than ever.”

“You think this killing in your garden-”

“It has to do with us. With what we do here.”

“Which is?”

“We monitor the work of monsters. Around the country, around the world.”

“A club of armchair detectives? That’s what it sounds like to me.” Her gaze moved back to the portrait of Antonino Sansone, which was no doubt worth a fortune. Just a glance around this drawing room told her that this man had money to burn. And the time to waste on eccentric interests.

“Why was that woman killed in my garden, Dr. Isles?” he said. “Why choose my house, on this particular evening?”

“You think it’s all about you and your club?”

“You saw the chalk drawings on my door. And the drawings at the Christmas Eve slaying.”

“And I have no idea what any of them mean.”

“The upside-down crosses are common satanic symbols. But what interests me is the chalk circle in Lori-Ann Tucker’s house. The one drawn on her kitchen floor.”

There was no point denying the facts; this man already knew the details. “So what does the circle mean?”

“It could be a ring of protection. Another symbol taken from satanic rituals. By drawing that circle, Lori-Ann may have been trying to shield herself. She may have been trying to control the very forces she was calling from the darkness.”

“Wait. You think the victim drew it, to ward off the devil?” Her tone of voice left no doubt what she thought of his theory: utter nonsense.

“If she did draw it, then she had no idea who-or what-she was summoning.”

The fire suddenly fluttered, flames reaching up in a bright claw. Maura turned as the inner door swung open and Dr. Joyce O’Donnell emerged. She paused, clearly surprised to see Maura. Then her attention shifted to Sansone.

“Lucky me. After two hours of questions, Boston’s finest finally decided to let me go home. You throw a hell of a dinner party, Anthony. This is one evening you’ll never be able to top.”

“Let’s hope I never do,” said Sansone. “Let me get your coat.” He rose and pushed open a wooden panel, exposing a hidden closet. He held up O’Donnell’s fur-trimmed coat and she slipped her arms into the sleeves with feline grace, her blond hair brushing across his hands. Maura saw familiarity in that momentary contact, a comfortable dance between two people who knew each other well.

Perhaps very well.

As she buttoned, O’Donnell’s gaze settled on Maura. “It’s been a while, Dr. Isles,” she said. “How is your mother?”

She always goes straight for the jugular. Don’t let her see she’s drawn blood.

“I have no idea,” said Maura.

“You haven’t been back to see her?”

“No. But you probably already know that.”