Tess Gerritsen - The Mephisto Club

“Oh, I finished my interviews with Amalthea over a month ago. I haven’t seen her since.” Slowly, O’Donnell pulled woolen gloves over long, elegant fingers. “She was doing well when I last saw her, in case you’re interested.”

“I’m not.”

“They have her working in the prison library now. She’s turned into quite the bookworm. Reads every psychology textbook she can get her hands on.” O’Donnell paused to give her glove a last tug. “If she’d ever had the chance to go to college, she could have been a star.”

Instead, my mother chose a different path. Predator. Butcher. No matter how hard Maura worked to distance herself, no matter how deeply she buried any thoughts of Amalthea, she could not look at her own reflection without seeing her mother’s eyes, her mother’s jaw. The monster peering back from the mirror.

“Her case history will take up a whole chapter in my next book,” said O’Donnell. “If you’re ever willing to sit down and talk with me, it would contribute a great deal to her history.”

“I have absolutely nothing to add.”

O’Donnell simply smiled, clearly expecting the snub. “Always worth asking,” she said, and looked at Sansone. A gaze that lingered, as though she had something more to say, but could not say it in Maura’s presence. “Good night, Anthony.”

“Shall I have Jeremy follow you home, just to be sure?”

“Absolutely not.” She flashed him a smile that struck Maura as distinctly flirtatious. “I can take care of myself.”

“These are different circumstances, Joyce.”

“Afraid?”

“We’d be crazy if we weren’t.”

She flung her scarf around her neck, a theatrical flourish to emphasize that she, for one, was not going to let something as trivial as fear slow her down. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He opened the door, letting in a whoosh of frigid air, a flurry of snowflakes that scattered like glitter across the antique carpet. “Stay safe,” he said. He waited in the doorway, watching as O’Donnell walked to her car. Only after she drove away did he close the door. Once again, he faced Maura.

“So you and your friends think you’re on the side of the angels,” said Maura.

“I believe we are.”

“Whose side is she on?”

“I know there’s no love lost between her and law enforcement. It’s her job as a defense witness to be at odds with the prosecution. But I’ve known Joyce for three years now. I know where she stands.”

“Can you really be sure?” Maura picked up her coat, which she’d left draped over a settee. He did not attempt to help her on with it; perhaps he sensed that she, unlike O’Donnell, was not in the mood to be indulged. As she buttoned her coat, she felt she was being watched by two sets of eyes. The portrait of Antonino Sansone was watching her as well, his gaze piercing the mist of four centuries, and she could not help a glance in the portrait’s direction, at the man whose actions, so many generations ago, could still make his namesake shudder.

“You say you’ve looked evil in the eye,” she said, turning back to her host.

“We both have.”

“Then you should know by now,” she said, “that it wears a pretty damn good disguise.”

She stepped out of the house and breathed in air that sparkled with frozen mist. The sidewalk stretched before her like a dark river; streetlamps cast pale islands of light. A lone Boston PD cruiser was parked across the street, engine idling, and she saw the silhouette of a patrolman sitting in the driver’s seat. She raised her hand in a wave.

He waved back.

No reason to be nervous, she thought, as she started walking. My car’s just down the street, and a cop’s nearby. So was Sansone. She glanced back and saw that he was still standing on his front steps, watching her. Nevertheless she pulled out her car keys, kept her thumb poised on the panic button. Even as she moved down the sidewalk, she scanned shadows, searching for even a flicker of movement. Only after she’d climbed into her car and locked it did she feel the tension ease from her shoulders.

Time to go home. Time for a stiff drink.

When she walked into her house, she found two new messages on her answering machine. She went into the kitchen first, to pour herself a glass of brandy, came back into the living room, sipping her drink, and pressed Play. At the sound of the first caller’s voice, she went very still.

“It’s Daniel. I don’t care how late it is when you hear this. Just call me, please. I hate to think that you and I-” A pause. “We need to talk, Maura. Call me.”

She did not move. Just stood clutching her brandy, her fingers numb around the glass as the second message played.

“Dr. Isles, it’s Anthony Sansone. I just wanted to make sure you got home safely. Give me a call and let me know, will you?”

The machine went silent. She took a breath, reached for the phone, and dialed.

“Sansone residence. This is Jeremy.”

“It’s Dr. Isles. Could you-”

“Hello, Dr. Isles. Let me get him for you.”

“Just let him know that I’m home.”

“I know that he’d like very much to talk to you himself.”

“There’s no need to disturb him. Good night.”

“Good night, Doctor.”

She hung up and hovered over the receiver, poised to make the second call.

A sharp thump on her porch made her back snap straight. She went to the front door and flipped on the porch light. Outside, the wind swirled snow fine as dust. On the porch, a fallen icicle lay in glistening shards, like a broken dagger. She turned off the light but lingered at the window and watched as a municipal truck rumbled past, scattering sand across the icy road.

She returned to the couch and stared at the phone as she drank the last of her brandy.

We need to talk, Maura. Call me.

She set down the glass, turned off the lamp, and went to bed.

July 22. Phase of the moon: First Quarter.

Aunt Amy stands at the stove stirring a pot of stew, her face as contented as a cow’s. On this overcast day, with dark clouds gathering in the western sky, she seems oblivious to the rumble of thunder. In my aunt’s world, every day is a sunny one. She sees no evil, fears no evil. She is like the livestock fattening on clover on the farm down the road, the cattle that know nothing of the slaughterhouse. She cannot see beyond the glow of her own happiness, to the precipice just beyond her feet.

She is nothing like my mother.

Aunt Amy turns from the stove and says, “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“I’ll set the table,” I offer, and she flashes me a grateful smile. It takes so little to please her. As I set the plates and napkins on the table and lay the forks tines-down, in the French way, I feel her loving gaze. She sees only a quiet and agreeable boy; she’s blind to who I really am.

Only my mother knows. My mother can trace our bloodline all the way back to the Hyksos, who ruled Egypt from the north, in the age when the God of War was sacred. “The blood of ancient hunters runs in your veins,” my mother said. “But it’s best never to speak of it, because people will not understand.”

I say little as we sit down to dinner. The family chatters enough to fill any silence. They talk about what Teddy did at the lake today, what Lily heard while at Lori-Ann’s house. What a nice crop of tomatoes they’ll be harvesting in August.

When we have finished eating, Uncle Peter says, “Who wants to go into town for ice cream?”

I am the only one who chooses to stay home.

I watch from the front door as their car drives away. As soon as it vanishes down the hill, I climb the stairs and walk into my aunt and uncle’s bedroom. I’ve been waiting for the chance to explore it. The room smells like lemon furniture polish. The bed is neatly made, but there are minor touches of disorder-my uncle’s jeans draped over a chair, a few magazines on the nightstand-to confirm that real people live in this room.