Tess Gerritsen - The Mephisto Club

He bent to kiss her hair. “I have to leave,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I love you, Maura. I never thought I’d say that to a woman. But I’m saying it now.” He stroked her face and she turned away, so he wouldn’t see the tears welling in her eyes.

“Let me make you coffee,” she said, starting to sit up.

“No, you stay warm in bed. I’ll find my own way out.” Another kiss, and he rose to his feet. She heard him walk down the hall, and the front door closed.

So it had finally happened. She’d become just another cliché. Eve with her apple. The temptress luring a holy man to sin. This time, the snake that seduced them was not Satan, but their own lonely hearts. You want to find the Devil, Mr. Sansone. Just take a look at me.

Take a look at any one of us.

Outside the sky slowly lightened to a cold, bright dawn. She pushed aside sheets, and the scent of their lovemaking rose from the warm linen: the heady scent of sin. She did not shower it off, but simply pulled on a robe, stepped into slippers, and went into the kitchen to make coffee. Standing at the sink, filling the carafe, she gazed out at clematis vines crystallized in ice, at rhododendrons huddling with leaves crumpled, and did not need to look at a thermometer to know that today the cold would be brutal. She imagined Daniel’s parishioners hugging their coats as they stepped from their cars and walked toward the church of Our Lady of Divine Light, braving this Sunday chill for the uplifting words of Father Brophy. And what would he say to them this morning? Would he confess to his flock that even he, their shepherd, had lost his way?

She started the coffeemaker and went to the front door for her newspaper. Stepping outside, she was stunned by the cold. It burned her throat, stung her nostrils. She wasted no time retrieving the newspaper, which had landed on the front walkway, then turned and scurried back up the porch steps. She was just reaching for the doorknob when she suddenly froze, her gaze fixed on the door.

On the words, the symbols, scrawled there.

She spun around, frantically scanning the street. She saw sunshine glinting off icy pavement, heard only the silence of a Sunday morning.

She scrambled into the house, slammed the door shut, and rammed the dead bolt home. Then she ran for the phone and called Jane Rizzoli.

“Are you sure you didn’t hear anything last night? No footsteps on the porch, nothing out of the ordinary?” asked Jane.

Maura sat on the couch, shivering despite her sweater and wool slacks. She had not eaten breakfast, had not even poured herself a cup of coffee, but she felt not the faintest stirring of hunger. During the half hour before Jane and Frost had arrived, Maura had remained at her living room window, watching the street, attuned to every noise, tracking every car that passed. The killer knows where I live. He knows what happened last night, in my bedroom.

“Doc?”

Maura looked up. “I didn’t hear anything. The writing was just there, on my door, when I woke up. When I went outside to get my…” She flinched, her heart suddenly thudding.

Her phone was ringing.

Frost picked up the receiver. “Isles residence. This is Detective Frost. I’m sorry, Mr. Sansone, but we’re dealing with a situation here right now, and this isn’t a convenient time for you to talk to her. I’ll let her know you called.”

Jane’s gaze returned to Maura. “Are you sure that writing wasn’t already on your door when you got home last night?”

“I didn’t see it then.”

“You used the front door to enter the house?”

“Yes. Normally, I’d come in the garage. But my car’s still on Beacon Hill.”

“Did Father Brophy walk you to the door?”

“It was dark, Jane. We wouldn’t have seen the writing.” We were only focused on each other. All we had on our minds was getting to my bedroom.

Frost said, “I think I’ll check around outside. See if there are any footprints.” He went out the front door. Though he was now tramping right outside the house, the sound of his footsteps did not penetrate the double-pane windows. Last night a trespasser could have walked right past her bedroom, and she wouldn’t have heard a thing.

“Do you think he followed you home last night?” Jane asked. “From O’Donnell’s house?”

“I don’t know. He could have. But I’ve been present at all three death scenes. Lori-Ann Tucker’s. Eve Kassovitz’s. On any one of those nights, he might have seen me.”

“And followed you home.”

She hugged herself, trying to suppress her shaking. “I never noticed. I never realized I was being watched.”

“You have an alarm system. Did you use it last night?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I-I simply forgot to arm it.” I had other things on my mind.

Jane sat down in the chair across from her. “Why would he draw those symbols on your door? What do you think they mean?”

“How would I know?”

“And the message he left-it’s the same one that he left in Lori-Ann Tucker’s bedroom. Only this time, he didn’t bother to write it in Latin. This time he made sure we’d understand exactly what he meant. I have sinned. ” Jane paused. “Why direct those particular words at you?”

Maura said nothing.

“Do you think they were meant for you?” Jane’s gaze was suddenly alert, probing.

She knows me too well, thought Maura. She can see I’m not telling her the whole story. Or maybe she’s caught the whiff of lust on my skin. I should have showered before they got here; I should have washed away Daniel’s scent.

Abruptly, Maura stood up. “I can’t concentrate,” she said. “I need a cup of coffee.” She turned and headed toward the kitchen. There she busied herself, pouring coffee into mugs, reaching into the refrigerator for cream. Jane had followed her into the kitchen, but Maura avoided looking at her. She slid a steaming mug in front of Jane and then turned to the window as she sipped, delaying, as long as she could, the revelation of her shame.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” said Jane.

“I’ve told you everything. I woke up this morning and found that writing on my door. I don’t know what else to say.”

“After you left O’Donnell’s house, did Father Brophy drive you straight home?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t see any cars tailing you?”

“No.”

“Well, maybe Father Brophy noticed something. I’ll see what he remembers.”

Maura cut in. “You don’t need to talk to him. I mean, if he’d noticed anything last night, he would have told me.”

“I still have to ask him.”

Maura turned to face Jane. “It’s Sunday, you know.”

“I know what day it is.”

“He has services.”

Jane’s gaze had narrowed, and Maura felt her cheeks flame with heat.

“What happened last night?” Jane asked.

“I told you. I came straight home from O’Donnell’s house.”

“And you stayed inside for the rest of the night?”

“I didn’t leave the house.”

“Did Father Brophy?”

The question, asked so matter-of-factly, startled Maura into silence. After a moment, she sank into a chair at the kitchen table but said nothing, just stared down at her coffee.

“How long did he stay?” asked Jane. Still no emotion in her voice, still the cop, although Maura knew there was disapproval behind that question, and guilt tightened its fist around her throat.

“He stayed most of the night.”

“Till what time?”

“I don’t know. It was still dark when he left.”

“And what did you two do while he was here?”