Tess Gerritsen - The Mephisto Club

In January, the soil would be cold.

The limo climbed, winding through trees, the headlights flashing across gnarled undergrowth. She saw the brief red reflection from a rabbit’s eyes. Then the trees opened up, and they were stopped at an iron gate. A security camera glowed above an intercom. The driver rolled down his window and said, in Italian, “We have the package.”

Blinding floodlights came on, and there was a pause as the camera panned the occupants of the car. Then the gate whined open.

They drove through, followed by the Mercedes that had tailed them all the way from Rome. Only then, as Lily’s vision readjusted back to the darkness, did she see the silhouettes of statuary and clipped hedges lining the drive. And ahead, looming at the end of the gravel road, was a villa with lights blazing. She leaned forward in astonishment, staring at stone terraces and enormous urns and tall cypresses, like a row of dark spears pointing at the stars. The limo pulled up beside a marble fountain, now dry and silent for the winter. The Mercedes parked behind them, and the German stepped out and opened her door.

“Ms. Saul, shall we go into the house?”

She looked up at the two men flanking him. These people were taking no chances that she might escape. She had no choice but to go with them. She stepped out, her legs stiff from the ride, and followed the German up stone steps to the terrace. A cold wind swept leaves across her path, scattering them like ashes. Even before they’d reached the entrance, the door swung open and an elderly man stood waiting to greet them. He gave Lily only a cursory glance, then turned his attention to the German.

“The room is ready for her,” he said in Italian-accented English.

“I’ll be staying as well, if that’s all right. He’ll arrive tomorrow?”

The elderly man nodded. “A night flight.”

Who was coming tomorrow? Lily wondered. They climbed a magnificent balustrade to the second floor. As their party swept past, hanging tapestries stirred, trembling against stone walls. She had no time to ogle the artwork. They hurried her up a long hallway now, past portraits with eyes that watched her every step.

The elderly man unlocked a heavy oak door and gestured for her to enter. She stepped into a bedroom that was ponderously furnished with dark wood and thick velvets.

“This is only for tonight,” said the German.

She turned, suddenly realizing that no one had followed her into the room. “What happens tomorrow?” she said.

The door swung shut, and she heard the key turn, locking her in.

Why will no one answer a single damn question?

Alone now, she quickly crossed to the heavy drapes and yanked them aside, revealing a window secured with bars. She strained to pry them apart, pulled and pulled until her arms were exhausted, but the bars were cast iron, welded into place, and she was nothing more than flesh and bone. In frustration, she turned and stared at her velvet prison. She saw an enormous bed of carved oak, covered with a wine-red canopy. Her gaze lifted to the dark wood moldings, to carvings of cherubs and grapevines that laced across the tall ceiling. It may be a prison, she thought, but it’s also the nicest damn bedroom I’ll ever sleep in. A room fit for a Medici.

On an exquisitely inlaid table were a covered silver tray, a wineglass, and a bottle of Chianti, already uncorked. She lifted the lid and saw cold sliced meats, a salad of tomatoes and mozzarella, and unsalted Tuscan bread. She poured a glass of wine, then paused as she brought it to her lips.

Why would they poison me when it’s just as easy to fire a bullet into my head?

She drank the entire glass of wine and poured another. Then she sat down at the table and attacked the tray of food, ripping apart the bread, stuffing chunks into her mouth and washing them down with Chianti. The beef was so tender and sliced so thin, it was like cutting into butter. She devoured every sliver and drank almost the entire bottle of wine. By the time she rose from the chair, she was so clumsy she could barely stumble her way to the bed. Not poisoned, she thought. Just plain old drunk. And beyond caring what happened tomorrow. She did not even bother to undress but collapsed, fully clothed, onto the damask cover.

A voice awakened her, a man’s voice, deep and unfamiliar, calling her name. She opened one aching eye and squinted at light glaring in through the barred window. Promptly she closed her eye again. Who the hell had opened the drapes? When had the sun come up?

“Ms. Saul, wake up.”

“Later,” she mumbled.

“I didn’t fly all night just to watch you sleep. We need to talk.”

She groaned and turned over. “I don’t talk to men who won’t tell me their names.”

“My name is Anthony Sansone.”

“Am I supposed to know you?”

“This is my house.”

That made her open her eyes. She blinked away sleep and turned to see a man with silver hair gazing down at her. Even in her hungover state, she registered the fact that this was one damn good-looking guy, despite the obvious fatigue shadowing his eyes. He said he’d flown all night and she didn’t doubt it, looking at his wrinkled shirt and the dark stubble on his jaw. Sansone had not come into the room alone; the German man was there as well, standing near the door.

She sat up in bed and clutched her throbbing temples. “You really own this villa?”

“It’s been in my family for generations.”

“Lucky you.” She paused. “You sound like an American.”

“I am.”

“And that guy over there?” She lifted her head and squinted at the German. “He works for you?”

“No. Mr. Baum is a friend. He works for Interpol.”

She went very still. She dropped her gaze back to the bed, so they could not see her face.

“Ms. Saul,” he said quietly, “why do I get the feeling you’re afraid of the police?”

“I’m not.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“And I think you’re not a very good host. Locking me up in your house. Barging in here without knocking.”

“We did knock. You didn’t wake up.”

“If you’re going to arrest me, you want to tell me why?” she asked. Because now she realized what this was all about. Somehow, they’d found out what she’d done twelve years ago, and they’d tracked her down. Of all the endings she’d imagined, this was not one of them. A cold unmarked grave, yes-but the police? She felt like laughing. Oh right, arrest me. I’ve faced far worse terrors than the threat of prison.

“Is there a reason why we should arrest you?” asked Mr. Baum.

What did he expect, that she was going to blurt out a confession right here and now? They’d have to work a little harder than that.

“Lily,” said Sansone, and he sat down on the bed, an invasion of her personal space that instantly made her wary. “Are you aware of what happened in Boston a few weeks ago?”

“Boston? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Does the name Lori-Ann Tucker mean anything to you?”

Lily paused, startled by the question. Did Lori-Ann talk to the police? Is that how they found out? You promised me, Lori-Ann. You told me you’d keep it a secret.

“She was your friend, correct?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lily admitted.

“And Sarah Parmley? She was also a friend?”

Suddenly she registered the fact that he’d used the word was. Not is. Her throat went dry. This was starting to sound very bad.

“You knew both of these women?” he pressed her.

“We-we grew up together. The three of us. Why are you asking about them?”

“Then you haven’t heard.”

“I’ve been out of touch. I haven’t talked to anyone in the States for months.”