Tess Gerritsen - Body Double

“And that’s why they burned the bodies?”

“As you pointed out, the vanishings seem to move with the weather,” said Rizzoli. “As it turns cold, they head south. But that November, New England was caught by surprise. No one expected such an early snowfall.” She turned to O’Donnell. “There’s your Beast. Those are his footprints on that map. I think Amalthea was with him every step of the way.”

“What are you asking me to do, a psychological profile? Explain why they killed?”

“We know why they did it. They weren’t killing for pleasure, or for thrills. These are not your usual serial killers.”

“Then what was their motive?”

“Absolutely mundane, Dr. O’Donnell. In fact, their motive is probably boring to a monster hunter like you.”

“I don’t find murder boring in the least. Why do you think they killed?”

“Did you know there are no employment records for either Amalthea or Elijah? We can’t find any evidence that either of them held down a job or paid into Social Security, or filed an income tax report. They owned no credit cards, had no bank accounts. For decades, they were invisible people, living on the outermost fringes of society. So how did they eat? How did they pay for food and gas and lodging?”

“Cash, I assume.”

“But where does the cash come from?” Rizzoli turned to the map. “That’s how they made their living.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Some people catch fish, some people pick apples. Amalthea and her partner were harvesters, too.” She looked at O’Donnell. “Forty years ago, Amalthea sold two newborn daughters to adoptive parents. She was paid forty thousand dollars for those babies. I don’t think they were hers to give.”

O’Donnell frowned. “Are you talking about Dr. Isles and her sister?”

“Yes.” Rizzoli felt a twinge of satisfaction when she saw O’Donnell’s stunned expression. This woman had no idea what she was dealing with, thought Rizzoli. The psychiatrist who so regularly consorts with monsters has been taken by surprise.

“I examined Amalthea,” said O’Donnell. “I concurred with the other psychiatrists-”

“That she was psychotic?”

“Yes.” O’Donnell released a sharp breath. “What you’re showing me here-this is a different creature entirely.”

“Not insane.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what she is.”

“She and her cousin killed for money. For cold hard cash. That sounds a lot like sanity to me.”

“Possibly…”

“You get along with murderers, Dr. O’Donnell. You talk to them, spend hours with people like Warren Hoyt.” Rizzoli paused. “You understand them.”

“I try to.”

“So what kind of killer is Amalthea? Is she a monster? Or just a businesswoman?”

“She’s my patient. That’s all I care to say.”

“But you’re questioning your diagnosis right now, aren’t you?” Rizzoli pointed to the screen. “ That’s logical behavior, what you see there. Nomadic hunters, following their prey. Do you still think she’s insane?”

“I repeat, she’s my patient. I need to protect her interests.”

“We’re not interested in Amalthea. It’s the other one we want. Elijah.” Rizzoli moved closer to O’Donnell, until they were almost face-to-face. “He hasn’t stopped hunting, you know.”

“What?”

“Amalthea has been in custody for almost five years, now.” Rizzoli looked at Frost. “Show the data points since Amalthea Lank was arrested.”

Frost removed the earlier transparencies and placed a new one on the map. “The month of January,” he said. “A pregnant woman vanishes in South Carolina. In February, it’s a woman in Georgia. In March, it’s Daytona Beach.” He laid down another sheet. “Six months later, it’s happening in Texas.”

“Amalthea Lank was in prison all those months,” said Rizzoli. “But the abductions continued. The Beast didn’t stop.”

O’Donnell stared at the relentless march of data points. One dot, one woman. One life. “Where are we now in the cycle?” she asked softly.

“A year ago,” said Frost, “it reached California and began heading north again.”

“And now? Where is it now?”

“The last reported abduction was a month ago. In Albany, New York.”

“Albany?” O’Donnell looked at Rizzoli. “That means…”

“By now, he’s in Massachusetts,” said Rizzoli. “The Beast is coming to town.”

Frost turned off the overhead projector and the sudden shut-off of the fan left the room eerily silent. Though the screen was now blank, the image of the map seemed to linger, burned into everyone’s memories. The ringing of Frost’s cell phone seemed all the more startling in that quiet room.

Frost said, “Excuse me,” and left the room.

Rizzoli said to O’Donnell: “Tell us about the Beast. How do we find him?”

“The same way you’d find any other flesh-and-blood man. Isn’t that what you police do? You already have a name. Go from there.”

“He has no credit card, no bank account. He’s hard to track.”

“I’m not a bloodhound.”

“You’ve been talking to the one person closest to him. The one person who might know how to find him.”

“Our sessions were confidential.”

“Does she ever refer to him by name? Does she give any hint at all that it’s her cousin, Elijah?”

“I’m not at liberty to share any private conversations I had with my patient.”

“Elijah Lank isn’t your patient.”

“But Amalthea is, and you’re trying to build a case against her as well. Multiple charges of homicide.”

“We’re not interested in Amalthea. He’s the one I want.”

“It’s not my job to help you catch your man.”

“What about your goddamn civic responsibility?”

“Detective Rizzoli,” said Marquette.

Rizzoli’s gaze stayed on O’Donnell. “Think about that map. All those dots, all those women. He’s here, now. Hunting for the next one.”

O’Donnell’s gaze dropped to Rizzoli’s bulging abdomen. “Then I guess you’d better be careful, Detective. Shouldn’t you?”

Rizzoli watched in rigid silence as O’Donnell reached for her briefcase. “I doubt I could add much, anyway,” she said. “As you said, this killer is driven by logic and practicality, not lust. Not enjoyment. He needs to make a living, plain and simple. His chosen occupation just happens to be a little out of the ordinary. Criminal profiling won’t help you catch him. Because he’s not a monster.”

“And I’m sure you’d recognize one.”

“I’ve learned to. But then, so have you.” O’Donnell turned to the door. Stopped and glanced back with a bland smile. “Speaking of monsters, Detective, your old friend asks about you, you know. Every time I visit him.”

O’Donnell didn’t need to say his name; they both knew she was talking about Warren Hoyt. The man who continued to surface in Rizzoli’s nightmares, whose scalpel had carved the scars in her palms nearly two years ago.

“He still thinks about you,” said O’Donnell. Another smile, quiet and sly. “I just thought you’d like to know that you’re remembered.” She walked out the door.

Rizzoli felt Marquette ’s gaze, watching for her reaction. Waiting to see if she’d lose it, right there and then. She was relieved when he too walked out of the room, leaving her alone to pack up the overhead projector. She gathered up the transparencies, unplugged the machine, and wound up the cord into tight coils, all her anger directed at that cord as she wrapped it around her hand. She wheeled the projector out into the hallway and almost collided with Frost, who was just snapping his cell phone shut.