Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

“Yes, I’ll be dead,” said Amalthea matter-of-factly. “And you’ll be left to wonder who your people are.”

“My people?” Maura laughed. “As if we’re some sort of tribe?”

“We are. We belong to a tribe that profits from the dead. Your father and I did. Your brother did. And isn’t it ironic that you do as well? Ask yourself, Maura, why did you choose your profession? Such a strange one to pursue. Why aren’t you a teacher or a banker? What compels you to slice open the dead?”

“It’s about the science. I want to understand why they died.”

“Of course. The intellectual answer.”

“Is there a better one?”

“It’s because of the darkness. We both share it. The difference is, I’m not afraid of it, but you are. You deal with your fear by cutting it open with your scalpels, hoping to reveal its secrets. But that doesn’t work, does it? It doesn’t solve your fundamental problem.”

“Which is?”

“That it’s inside you. The darkness is part of you.”

Maura looked into her mother’s eyes, and what she saw there made her throat suddenly go dry. Dear God, I see myself. She backed away. “I’m done here. You asked me to come and I did. Don’t send me any more letters, because I won’t answer them.” She turned. “Goodbye, Amalthea.”

“You’re not the only one I write to.”

Maura paused, about to open the cubicle door.

“I hear things. Things you might want to know.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “You don’t seem interested, but you will be. Because you’ll find another one soon.”

Another what?

Maura hovered on the verge of walking out, struggling not to be sucked back into the conversation. Don’t respond, she thought. Don’t let her trap you here.

It was her cell phone that saved her, its deep-throated buzz trembling in her pocket. Without a backward glance, she stepped out of the cubicle, yanked off the face mask, and fumbled under the isolation gown for the phone. “Dr. Isles,” she answered.

“Got an early Christmas present for you,” said Detective Jane Rizzoli, sounding far too breezy for the news she was about to deliver. “Twenty-six-year-old white female. Dead in bed, fully dressed.”

“Where?”

“We’re in the Leather District. It’s a loft apartment on Utica Street. I can’t wait to hear what you think about this one.”

“You said she’s in bed? Her own?”

“Yeah. Her father found her.”

“And is this clearly a homicide?”

“No doubt about it. But it’s what happened to her afterward that’s making Frost freak out over here.” Jane paused and added quietly, “At least, I hope she was dead when it happened.”

Through the cubicle window, Maura saw that Amalthea was watching the conversation, eyes sharp with interest. Of course she would be interested; death was their family trade.

“How soon can you get here?” said Jane.

“I’m in Framingham at the moment. It might take me a while, depending on traffic.”

“Framingham? What’re you doing out there?”

It was not a subject Maura wanted to discuss, certainly not with Jane. “I’m leaving now” was all she said. She hung up and looked at her dying mother. I’m done here, she thought. Now I never have to see you again.

Amalthea’s lips slowly curved into a smile.

By the time Maura arrived in Boston, darkness had fallen and a bone-chilling wind had driven most pedestrians indoors. Utica Street was narrow and already crowded with official vehicles, so she parked around the corner and paused to survey the deserted street. Over the last few days there’d been snow followed by a thaw followed by this bitter cold, and the sidewalk had the treacherous gleam of ice. Time to go to work. Time to put Amalthea behind me, she thought. Which was exactly what Jane had advised her to do months ago: Don’t visit Amalthea; don’t even think about her. Let the woman rot in jail .

Now it’s over and done with, thought Maura. I’ve said my goodbyes and she is finally out of my life.

She stepped out of her Lexus and the wind whipped the hem of her long black coat, piercing straight through the fabric of her woolen trousers. She walked as quickly as she dared to on the slick sidewalk, past a coffee shop and a shuttered travel agency, and turned the corner onto Utica Street, which cut like a narrow canyon between red-brick warehouses. Once this had been a district of leather workers and wholesalers. Many of those nineteenth-century buildings had been converted to loft apartments, and what had once been an industrial part of the city was now a trendy neighborhood for artists.

Maura stepped around construction rubbish, which partially blocked the street, and spied blue cruiser lights ahead, flashing like a grim homing beacon. Through the windshield she could see the silhouettes of two patrolmen sitting inside, their engine running to keep the vehicle warm. A cruiser window rolled down as she approached.

“Hey, Doc!” The patrolman grinned out at her. “You missed the excitement. The ambulance just left.” Though he looked familiar, and he clearly recognized her, she had no idea what his name was, something that happened all too frequently.

“What excitement?” she asked.

“Rizzoli was inside talking to some guy when he clutches his chest and keels over. Probably a heart attack.”

“Is he still alive?”

“He was when they drove off with him. You should’ve been here. They could’ve used a doctor.”

“Wrong specialty.” She glanced at the building. “Rizzoli still inside?”

“Yeah. Just go up the stairs. It’s a real nice apartment up there. Cool place to live, if you’re not dead.” As the window rolled up, she could hear the cops chuckling at their own humor. Ha-ha, death-scene joke. Never funny.

She paused in the biting wind to pull on shoe covers and gloves, then pushed into the building. As the door slammed shut with a bang behind her, she stopped dead in her tracks, confronted by the image of a blood-spattered girl. Hanging on the foyer wall like a macabre welcome sign was a poster for the horror film Carrie, a splash of Technicolor gore that would startle every visitor who walked in the door. A whole gallery of other movie posters adorned the red-brick wall along the stairway. As she climbed the steps she passed Day of the Triffids, The Pit and the Pendulum, The Birds, and Night of the Living Dead.

“You finally got here,” Jane called down from the second-floor landing. She pointed to Night of the Living Dead. “Imagine coming home to that happy image every night.”

“These posters all look like originals. They’re not to my taste, but they’re probably pretty valuable.”

“Come in and get a load of something else that’s not to your taste. Sure as hell not my taste anyway.”

Maura followed Jane into the apartment and paused to admire the massive wood beams overhead. The floor still had its original wide oak planks, now polished to a high gloss. Tasteful renovations had transformed what was once a warehouse into a stunning brick-walled loft that was certainly unaffordable for any starving artist.

“Way nicer than my apartment,” said Jane. “I could move right in here, but first I’d get rid of that creepy thing on the wall.” She pointed to the monstrous red eye that stared from yet another horror-movie poster. “Notice the name of the movie?”

“ I See You ?” said Maura.

“Remember that title. It could be significant,” Jane said ominously. She led Maura through an open kitchen, past a vase filled with fresh roses and lilies, a lavish touch of spring on this December night. On the black granite countertop was a florist’s card with Happy Birthday! Love, Dad written in purple ink.