Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

Now there are only four of us left.

“Goodbye, Sarah,” I murmur. Then I start the car and drive back to Boston.

Even monsters were mortal.

The woman lying on the other side of the window might appear to be as human as all the other patients in this intensive-care unit, but Dr. Maura Isles knew only too well that Amalthea Lank was indeed a monster. Behind the cubicle window was the creature who stalked Maura’s nightmares, who cast a shadow over Maura’s past, and whose face foretold Maura’s future.

Here is my mother.

“We’d heard that Mrs. Lank had a daughter, but we didn’t realize you were right down the road in Boston,” said Dr. Wang. Was that a note of criticism she heard in his voice? Disapproval that she’d neglected her filial duties and failed to turn up at the bedside of her dying mother?

“She is my biological mother,” said Maura, “but I was just an infant when she gave me up for adoption. I learned about her only a few years ago.”

“You’ve met her, though?”

“Yes, but I haven’t spoken to her since...” Maura paused. Since I swore I’d have nothing more to do with her . “I didn’t know she was in the ICU until the nurse called me this afternoon.”

“She was admitted here two days ago, after she developed a fever and her white count crashed.”

“How low is it?”

“Her neutrophil count — that’s a specific type of white blood cell — is only five hundred. It should be triple that.”

“I assume you’ve started empiric antibiotics?” She saw him blink in surprise and said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Wang. I should have mentioned that I’m a physician. I work for the medical examiner’s office.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize.” He cleared his throat and instantly shifted to the far-more-technical language they shared as medical doctors. “Yes, we started antibiotics right after we drew blood cultures. About five percent of patients on her chemotherapy regimen get febrile neutropenia.”

“Which chemo regimen is she on?”

“Folfirinox. It’s a combination of four drugs, including fluorouracil and leucovorin. According to one French study, Folfirinox definitely prolongs life for patients with metastatic pancreatic cancer, but they have to be closely monitored for fevers. Fortunately, the prison nurse at Framingham stayed on top of that.” He paused, searching for a way to pose a delicate question. “I hope you don’t mind me asking this.”

“Yes?”

He looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the subject he was about to broach. It was far easier to discuss blood counts and antibiotic protocols and scientific data, because facts were neither good nor evil; they did not invite judgment. “Her medical record from Framingham doesn’t mention the reason why she’s in prison. All we were told is that Mrs. Lank is serving a life term with no chance of parole. The guard assigned to watch her insists that his prisoner stay handcuffed to the bed rail, which seems pretty barbaric to me.”

“That’s simply their protocol for hospitalized prisoners.”

“She’s dying of pancreatic cancer, and anyone can see how frail she is. She’s certainly not going to jump up and escape. But the guard told us she’s far more dangerous than she looks.”

“She is,” said Maura.

“Why was she sent to prison?”

“Homicides. Multiple.”

He stared through the window at Amalthea. “ That lady?”

“Now you understand the reason for the handcuffs. And for the guard stationed outside her cubicle.” Maura glanced at the uniformed officer who sat by the doorway, monitoring their conversation.

“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Wang. “This must be difficult for you, knowing that your mother—”

“Is a murderer? Yes.” And you don’t know the worst of it. You don’t know about the rest of the family.

Through the cubicle window, Maura saw Amalthea’s eyes slowly open. One bony finger beckoned to her, a gesture as chilling as the command of Satan’s claw. I should turn and leave now, she thought. Amalthea did not deserve anyone’s pity or kindness. But Maura did share a bond with this woman, a bond that went as deep as their molecules. If only by DNA, Amalthea Lank was her mother.

The male guard kept a close eye on Maura as she donned an isolation gown and mask. This would be no private visit; the guard would be observing their every look, every gesture, and the inevitable gossip would surely make the rounds of this hospital. Dr. Maura Isles, the Boston medical examiner whose scalpel had sliced open countless cadavers, who regularly followed in the wake of the Grim Reaper, was the daughter of a serial killer. Death was their family business.

Amalthea looked up at Maura with eyes as black as chips of obsidian. Oxygen hissed softly through her nasal prongs, and on the monitor above the bed, a cardiac rhythm blipped across the screen. Proof that even someone as soulless as Amalthea possessed a heart.

“You came to see me after all,” whispered Amalthea. “After you swore you never would.”

“They told me you’re critically ill. This may be our last chance to talk, and I wanted to see you while I still could.”

“Because you need something from me?”

Maura gave a disbelieving shake of the head. “What would I need from you ?”

“It’s how the world works, Maura. All sensible creatures seek an advantage. Everything we do is out of self-interest.”

“That may be how it is for you. Not for me.”

“Then why did you come?”

“Because you’re dying. Because you keep writing me, asking me to visit. Because I like to think I have some sense of compassion.”

“Which I don’t have.”

“Why do you think you’re handcuffed to that bed?”

Amalthea grimaced and closed her eyes, her mouth suddenly tightening in pain. “I suppose I deserved that,” she murmured. Sweat glistened on her upper lip and for a moment she lay perfectly still, as though any movement, even drawing a breath, was excruciating. The last time Maura had seen her, Amalthea’s black hair was thick and generously streaked with silver. Now only a few wisps clung to her scalp, the last survivors of a brutal round of chemotherapy. The flesh of her temples had wasted away, and her skin sagged like a collapsing tent over the jutting bones of her face.

“You look like you’re in pain. Do you need morphine?” Maura asked. “I’ll call the nurse.”

“No.” Amalthea slowly released a breath. “Not yet. I need to be awake. I need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“About you, Maura. Who you are.”

“I know who I am.”

“Do you, really?” Amalthea’s eyes were dark and fathomless. “You’re my daughter. You can’t deny it.”

“But I’m nothing like you.”

“Because you were raised by the kind and respectable Mr. and Mrs. Isles in San Francisco? Because you went to the best schools, had the finest education? Because you work on behalf of truth and justice?”

“Because I didn’t slaughter two dozen women. Or were there more? Were there other victims that didn’t show up in your final tally?”

“That all happened in the past. I want to talk about the future.”

“Why bother? You won’t be here.” It was a heartless thing to say, but Maura was not in the mood to be charitable. Suddenly she felt manipulated, lured here by a woman who knew exactly which puppet strings to pull. For months, Amalthea had been sending her letters. I’m dying of cancer. I’m your only blood relative. This will be your last chance to say goodbye. Few words held more power than last chance . Let that opportunity pass, and what followed might be a lifetime of regret.