Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

“The stairs lead up to three bedrooms, where the Staneks lived,” said Jane. “There’s nothing to see up there, just empty rooms. Their furniture was auctioned off years ago, to pay for the family’s legal bills.”

“Martin Stanek still has title to the place?”

“Yes, but he can’t live here because he’s a registered sex offender. And he couldn’t keep up with the property taxes, so he was forced to put the house on the market.” Jane gestured down the hallway. “They operated the daycare center at that end of the house. That’s what I want you to see.”

Maura followed Jane past a bathroom with missing floor tiles and a toilet stained with rust and stepped into what had once been the Apple Tree playroom. Wide windows faced a backyard where saplings had sprung up, the woods marching ever closer to the house. Water had seeped through the roof, and the carpet stank of mold.

“Take a look at the wall,” said Jane.

Maura turned and stared at the gallery of portraits, the faces now familiar to her.

“You recognize her, don’t you?” said Jane, pointing to an image of a serene-faced woman holding two eyeballs in her hand. “Our old friend Saint Lucy. And, look, there’s Saint Sebastian, skewered by arrows. Saint Vitalis. Saint Joan, burned at the stake. Irena Stanek taught catechism classes at her church, and she made sure the kids here learned all the saints’ days. She even had them write their names under the saints who were honored on their birthdays. Look who wrote her name under Saint Lucy.”

Maura frowned at the block letters, written in a childish hand. Cassandra Coyle .

“And there’s Timmy McDougal’s name, under Saint Sebastian. And Billy Sullivan’s under Saint Vitalis. It’s like these kids signed their own death warrants twenty years ago.”

“You can find pictures of saints in any Catholic school classroom. This doesn’t prove anything, Jane.”

“This is the house where Martin Stanek grew up. Every day, he saw this wall of saints. He knew which kid’s birthday was Saint Lucy’s day or Saint Joan’s day. And see how Irena marked the martyrs with gold stars? Hooray for you, your saint died a gruesome death! Stoning, crucifixion, flaying alive. The church’s greatest hits are right here, and Martin lived with them. Maybe he was inspired by them.”

Maura focused on the image of paired martyrs, one holding a sword. It was the same pair of martyrs she had seen in the stained-glass window in Our Lady of Divine Light. Saint Fusca and Saint Maura. Beheaded.

“And here’s the name of our fifth child witness. The one we can’t locate,” said Jane. She pointed to the name Holly Devine, printed neatly beneath the image of a man with blood streaming from his gaping mouth.

“Saint Livinus,” said Maura.

“If we don’t find Holly soon, that’s how she’s going to end up. Like poor old Saint Livinus, who had his tongue ripped out of his mouth to keep him from preaching.”

Shivering, Maura turned away from the wall of horrors. In the deepening gloom, the house had grown even colder, and she felt the chill sink deep into her bones. She went to the windows and looked at the overgrown backyard, which was now receding into shadow.

“I keep thinking about Regina,” said Jane. “What if I’d been one of the parents who sent a kid here? You do everything you can to keep your kid safe and protect her from monsters, but then you have to pay the bills and go to work. You have to trust someone with your kid.”

“You’re lucky you have your mom to watch her.”

“Yeah, but what if my mom couldn’t do it? What if I didn’t have a mom? I’m sure some of these parents didn’t have a choice, but couldn’t they sense that something was wrong about this place?”

“You say that only because you know what happened here.”

“Don’t you feel the vibes?”

“I don’t believe in vibes.”

“Only because you can’t measure them with one of your fancy scientific instruments.”

“What I can measure is temperature, and I’m cold. If there’s nothing else to see here, I’d like to—” Suddenly Maura paused, staring at the trees. “Someone’s out there.”

Jane looked out the window. “I don’t see anyone.”

“He was standing right at the edge of the woods. Facing this way.”

“I’ll take a look.”

“Wait. Don’t you think you should call for backup?”

But Jane was already running out the back door.

Maura stepped outside and saw Jane dart into a thicket of evergreens, where she was quickly swallowed up in the shadows. Maura could hear her moving through the underbrush, twigs snapping under her boots like sharp explosions.

Then silence.

“Jane?”

Heart thumping hard, Maura followed Jane’s path across the yard and plunged into the gloom of the woods. The snow hid roots and fallen branches, and she was as noisy as a buffalo as she stumbled and crashed her way among the trees. She imagined Jane sprawled in the snow, imagined a killer standing over her, about to deliver a fatal blow.

Call for backup.

She pulled the cell phone out of her pocket and with chilled fingers tapped in the code to unlock it. Then she heard a shouted command:

“Freeze! Police!”

Maura followed the sound of Jane’s voice and stumbled into a clearing, where Jane stood with her weapon drawn. Yards away stood a figure with arms raised to the sky, face hidden by the shadow of a jacket hood.

“Do you want me to call for assistance?” Maura said.

“First let’s see who we have here,” said Jane, and she barked at the figure, “State your name!”

“Can I lower my arms first?” came the calm reply. A woman.

“All right. Slowly,” said Jane.

The woman lowered her arms and pushed back the hood of her jacket. Despite the fact that a gun was pointed at her, she appeared strangely unruffled as she regarded Jane and Maura. “What’s this all about? Did I break some law just by walking around the neighborhood?”

Jane lowered her weapon and said in surprise, “It’s you.”

“I’m sorry. Have we met?”

“You were at Cassandra Coyle’s memorial service. And Timothy McDougal’s. What are you doing on this property?”

“I was looking for my dad’s dog.”

“You live around here?”

“My dad does.” The young woman pointed at the faint glow of houselights beyond the trees. “His dog got out and I’ve been searching for him. I saw your car, and I wondered if someone was trying to break into the old daycare.”

“You’re Holly Devine, aren’t you?” said Jane.

For a moment the woman didn’t answer. When she finally did, her words were barely a murmur. “I haven’t been called that name in years.”

“We’ve been trying to find you, Holly. I kept calling your father, but he refused to tell me where you were.”

“Because he doesn’t trust anyone.”

“Well, you’re going to have to trust me. Your life may depend on it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Let’s go someplace warm and I’ll tell you.”

The sound of a barking dog greeted them as they walked up the porch steps to the modest home of Earl Devine. It was a big dog, by the sound of it, and Maura hung back a few paces, imagining fur and teeth flying out at them as Holly opened the front door. The black Lab seemed far less interested in the visitors than in Holly, who knelt down to grasp its head in her hands.

“So you came home on your own, you bad boy,” she scolded. “That’s the last time I go looking for you .”

“Who are these people, Holly?” demanded a gruff voice. Earl Devine glowered from the hallway, where the lights cast a yellowish glow on his face. Judging by his clothes, which hung like drapes on his gaunt frame, he had recently lost a great deal of weight, but he faced Maura and Jane with arms flexed and hands closed in fists, as if ready to deliver blows in defense of his daughter.