Tess Gerritsen - Vanish

“We don’t know.”

“There must have been a reason for doing this. Something she knew.”

“We don’t even know who she was. Five Jane Does. None of these victims match any missing persons report.”

“How can we not know anything about them?” She looked at her husband.

Gabriel shook his head. “They’re ghosts, Jane. No names, no identities.”

“What about the house?”

“It was rented out at the time to a Marguerite Fisher.”

“Who’s that?”

“There’s no such woman. It’s a fictitious name.”

“Jesus. This is like going down a rabbit hole. Nameless victims. Renters who don’t exist.”

“But we do know who owns that house,” said Gabriel. “A company called KTE Investments.”

“Is that significant?”

“Yes. It took Leesburg PD a month to track it down. KTE is an off-the-books subsidiary of the Ballentree Company.”

Cold fingers seemed to stroke up the back of Jane’s neck. “Joseph Roke again,” she murmured. “He talked about Ballentree. About Ashburn. What if he wasn’t crazy at all?”

They all fell silent as the waitress returned with the coffeepot. “Don’t you like your apple crisp, Detective?” she asked, noting Jane’s scarcely touched dessert.

“Oh, it’s great. But I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought.”

“Yeah, no one seems to have an appetite,” the waitress said as she reached across to fill Gabriel’s cup. “Just a lot of coffee drinkers sitting around in here this afternoon.”

Gabriel glanced up. “Who else?” he asked.

“Oh, that guy over…” The waitress paused, frowning at the empty booth nearby. She shrugged. “Guess he didn’t like the coffee,” she said, and walked away.

“Okay,” Jane said quietly. “I’m starting to freak out, guys.”

Moore quickly swept up the folders and slid them into a large envelope. “We should leave,” he said.

They walked out of Doyle’s, emerging into the hot glare of afternoon. In the parking lot they paused beside Moore ’s car, scanning the street, the nearby vehicles. Here we are, two cops and an FBI agent, she thought, yet all three of us are jumpy. All three of us are reflexively scoping out the area.

“What happens now?” asked Jane.

“As far as Boston PD’s concerned, it’s hands off,” said Moore. “I’ve been ordered not to rattle this particular cage.”

“And those files?” She glanced at the envelope Moore was carrying.

“I’m not even supposed to have these.”

“Well, I’m still on maternity leave. No one’s issued me any orders.” She took the envelope from Moore.

“Jane,” said Gabriel.

She turned toward her Subaru. “I’ll see you at home.”

“Jane.”

As she climbed in behind the wheel, Gabriel swung open the passenger door and slid in beside her. “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he said.

“Do you?”

“You saw what they did to that woman’s hands. That’s the kind of people we’re dealing with.”

She stared out the window, watching Moore step into his car and drive away. “I thought it was over,” she said softly. “I thought, okay, we survived, so let’s get on with our lives. But it’s not over.” She looked at him. “I need to know why it all happened. I need to know what it means.”

“Let me do the digging. I’ll find out what I can.”

“And what should I do?”

“You just got out of the hospital.”

She put her key in the ignition and started the engine, setting off a blast of hot air from the AC vent. “I didn’t have major surgery,” she said. “I just had a baby.”

“That’s reason enough for you to stay out of it.”

“But this is what’s bothering me, Gabriel. This is why I can’t sleep!” She sank back against the seat. “This is why the nightmare doesn’t go away.”

“It takes time.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it.” She gazed, once again, at the parking lot. “I’m starting to remember more things.”

“What things?”

“Pounding. Yelling, gunfire. And then the blood on my face…”

“That’s the dream you told me about.”

“And I keep having it.”

“There would have been noises and shouting. And there was blood on you-Olena’s blood. Nothing you remember is surprising.”

“But there’s something else. I haven’t told you about it, because I’ve been trying to remember. Just before Olena died, she tried to tell me something.”

“Tell you what?”

She looked at Gabriel. “She said a name. Mila. She said: ‘Mila knows.’ ”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

Gabriel’s gaze suddenly turned toward the street. He tracked the progress of a car as it slowly cruised past, then rounded the corner, and glided out of sight.

“Why don’t you go home?” he said.

“What about you?”

“I’ll be there in a while.” He leaned over to kiss her. “Love you,” he said, and climbed out.

She watched him walk to his own car, parked a few stalls away. Saw him pause as he reached in his pocket, as though trying to locate his keys. She knew her husband well enough to recognize the tension in his shoulders, to note his quick glance around the parking lot. She seldom saw him rattled, and now it made her anxious, knowing that he was on edge. He started his engine and sat waiting for her to leave first.

Only as she left the parking lot did he pull out. He trailed her for a few blocks. He’s watching to see if I’m being followed, she thought. Even after he’d finally peeled away, she found herself glancing in the mirror, though she could think of no reason for anyone to follow her. What did she know, really? Nothing that Moore or anyone else in the homicide unit didn’t already know. Just the memory of a whisper.

Mila. Who is Mila?

She glanced over her shoulder at Moore ’s envelope, which she’d tossed on the backseat. She did not look forward to examining those crime scene photos again. But I need to get beyond the horror, she thought. I need to know what happened in Ashburn.

Maura Isles was up to her elbows in blood. Pausing in the anteroom, Gabriel watched through the glass partition as Maura reached into the abdomen, lifted out loops of intestine, and plopped them into a basin. He saw no distaste in her face as she dug through the mound, just the quiet concentration of a scientist probing for some detail out of the ordinary. At last she handed Yoshima the basin, and was reaching once again for her knife when she noticed Gabriel.

“I’ll be another twenty minutes,” she said. “You can come in, if you want.”

He pulled on shoe covers and a gown to protect his clothes and stepped into the lab. Though he tried to avoid looking at the body on the table, it was there between them, impossible to ignore. A woman with skeletal limbs and skin hanging like loose crepe over the jutting bones of her pelvis.

“History of anorexia nervosa. Found dead in her apartment,” said Maura, answering his unspoken question.

“She’s so young.”

“Twenty-seven. EMTs said all she had in her refrigerator was a head of lettuce and Diet Pepsi. Starvation in the land of plenty.” Maura reached into the abdomen to dissect the retroperitoneal space. Yoshima, in the meantime, had moved to the head, to incise the scalp. As always, they worked with a minimum of conversation, knowing each other’s needs so well that words did not seem necessary.

“You wanted to tell me something?” said Gabriel.

Maura paused. In her hand she cupped a single kidney, like a lump of black gelatin. She and Yoshima exchanged a nervous glance. At once, Yoshima started up the Stryker saw, and the noisy whine almost covered Maura’s answer.