The Mephisto Club
Authors: Tess Gerritsen
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Thrillers, #Suspense
CONTENTS
To Neil and Mary
A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every book is a challenge to write, a seemingly impossible mountain to climb. No matter how difficult the writing may be, I have the comfort of knowing that wonderful colleagues and friends stand by me. Many thanks to my incomparable agent, Meg Ruley, and the team at Jane Rotrosen Agency. Your guidance has been the star I’ve steered by. Thanks also to my amazing editor, Linda Marrow, who can make any writer shine, to Gina Centrello, for her enthusiasm through the years, and to Gilly Hailparn for all her kind attention. And across the pond, Selina Walker at Transworld has been my unflagging cheerleader.
Finally, I must thank the one person who’s been with me the longest. My husband Jacob knows just how difficult it is to be married to a writer. Yet he’s still here.
“And destroy all the spirits of the reprobate, and the children of the Watchers, because they have wronged mankind.”
—
The Book of Enoch
X:15, ancient Jewish text, 2nd century
B.C.
ONE
They looked like the perfect family.
This was what the boy thought as he stood beside his father’s open grave, as he listened to the hired minister read platitudes from the Bible. Only a small group had gathered on that warm and buggy June day to mourn the passing of Montague Saul, no more than a dozen people, many of whom the boy had just met. For the past six months, he had been away at boarding school, and today he was seeing some of these people for the very first time. Most of them did not interest him in the least.
But his uncle’s family—they interested him very much. They were worth studying.
Dr. Peter Saul looked very much like his dead brother Montague, slender and cerebral in owlish glasses, brown hair thinning toward inevitable baldness. His wife, Amy, had a round, sweet face, and she kept darting anxious looks at her fifteen-year-old nephew, as though aching to wrap her arms around him and smother him with a hug. Their son, Teddy, was ten years old, all skinny arms and legs. A little clone of Peter Saul, right down to the same owlish glasses.
Finally, there was the daughter, Lily. Sixteen years old.
Tendrils of her hair had come loose from the ponytail and now clung to her face in the heat. She looked uncomfortable in her black dress, and she kept shifting coltishly back and forth, as though preparing to bolt. As though she’d rather be anywhere than in this cemetery, waving away buzzing insects.
They look so normal, so average,
the boy thought.
So different from me.
Then Lily’s gaze suddenly met his, and he felt a tremor of surprise. Of mutual recognition. In that instant, he could almost feel her gaze penetrating the darkest fissures of his brain, examining all the secret places that no one else had ever seen. That he’d never allowed them to see.
Disquieted, he looked away. Focused, instead, on the other people standing around the grave: His father’s housekeeper. The attorney. The two next-door neighbors. Mere acquaintances who were here out of a sense of propriety, not affection. They knew Montague Saul only as the quiet scholar who’d recently returned from Cyprus, who spent his days fussing over books and maps and little pieces of pottery. They did not really know the man. Just as they did not really know his son.
At last the service ended, and the gathering moved toward the boy, like an amoeba preparing to engulf him in sympathy, to tell him how sorry they were that he’d lost his father. And so soon after moving to the United States.
“At least you have family here to help you,” said the minister.
Family? Yes, I suppose these people are my family,
the boy thought, as little Teddy shyly approached, urged forward by his mother.
“You’re going to be my brother now,” said Teddy.
“Am I?”
“Mom has your room all ready for you. It’s right next to mine.”
“But I’m staying here. In my father’s house.”
Bewildered, Teddy looked at his mother. “Isn’t he coming home with us?”
Amy Saul quickly said, “You really can’t live all by yourself, dear. You’re only fifteen. Maybe you’ll like it so much in Purity, you’ll want to stay with us.”
“My school’s in Connecticut.”
“Yes, but the school year’s over now. In September, if you want to return to your boarding school, of course you can. But for the summer, you’ll come home with us.”
“I won’t be alone here. My mother will come for me.”
There was a long silence. Amy and Peter looked at each other, and the boy could guess what they were thinking.
His mother abandoned him ages ago.
“She
is
coming for me,” he insisted.
Uncle Peter said, gently, “We’ll talk about it later, son.”
In the night, the boy laid awake in his bed, in his father’s town house, listening to the voices of his aunt and uncle murmuring downstairs in the study. The same study where Montague Saul had labored these past months to translate his fragile little scraps of papyrus. The same study where, five days ago, he’d had a stroke and collapsed at his desk. Those people should not be in there, among his father’s precious things. They were invaders in his house.
“He’s still just a boy, Peter. He needs a family.”
“We can’t exactly drag him back to Purity if he doesn’t want to come with us.”
“When you’re only fifteen, you have no choice in the matter. Adults have to make the decisions.”
The boy rose from bed and slipped out of his room. He crept halfway down the stairs to listen in on the conversation.
“And really, how many adults has he known? Your brother didn’t exactly qualify. He was so wrapped up in his old mummy linens, he probably never noticed there was a child underfoot.”
“That’s not fair, Amy. My brother was a good man.”
“Good, but clueless. I can’t imagine what kind of woman would dream of having a child with him. And then she leaves the boy behind for Monty to raise? I don’t understand any woman who’d do that.”
“Monty didn’t do such a bad job raising him. The boy’s getting top marks in school.”
“That’s your measurement for what makes a good father? The fact that the boy gets top marks?”
“He’s also a poised young man. Look how well he held up at the service.”
“He’s numb, Peter. Did you see a single emotion on his face today?”
“Monty was like that, too.”
“Cold-blooded, you mean?”
“No, intellectual. Logical.”
“But underneath it all, you
know
that boy has got to be hurting. It makes me want to cry, how much he needs his mother right now. How he keeps insisting she’ll come back for him, when we know she won’t.”
“We don’t know that.”
“We’ve never even met the woman! Monty just writes us from Cairo one day, to tell us he has a brand-new son. For all we know, he plucked him up from the reeds, like baby Moses.”
The boy heard the floor creak above him, and he glanced toward the top of the stairs. He was startled to see his cousin Lily staring down at him over the banister. She was watching him, studying him, as if he were some exotic creature she’d never before encountered and she was trying to decide if he was dangerous.
“Oh!” said Aunt Amy. “You’re up!”
His aunt and uncle had just come out of the study, and they were standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. Looking a little dismayed, too, at the possibility that he had overheard their entire conversation.
“Are you feeling all right, dear?” said Amy.
“Yes, Auntie.”
“It’s so late. Maybe you should go back to bed now?”
But he didn’t move. He paused on the stairs for a moment, wondering what it would be like to live with these people. What he might learn from them. It would make the summer interesting, until his mother came for him.
He said, “Aunt Amy, I’ve made up my mind.”
“About what?”
“About my summer, and where I’d like to spend it.”
She instantly assumed the worst. “Please don’t be too hasty! We have a really nice house, right on the lake, and you’d have your own room. At least come for a visit before you decide.”
“But I’ve decided to come stay with you.”
His aunt paused, temporarily stunned. Then her face lit up in a smile, and she hurried up the steps to give him a hug. She smelled like Dove soap and Breck shampoo. So average, so ordinary. Then a grinning Uncle Peter gave him an affectionate clap on the shoulder, his way of welcoming a new son. Their happiness was like a web of spun sugar, drawing him into their universe, where all was love and light and laughter.
“The kids will be so glad you’re coming back with us!” said Amy.
He glanced toward the top of the stairs, but Lily was no longer there. She had slipped away, unnoticed. I will have to keep my eye on her, he thought. Because already, she’s keeping her eye on me.
“You’re part of our family now,” said Amy.
As they walked up the stairs together, she was already telling him her plans for the summer. All the places they’d take him, all the special meals they’d cook for him when they got back home. She sounded happy, even giddy, like a mother with her brand-new baby.
Amy Saul had no idea what they were about to bring home with them.
TWO
Twelve years later.
Perhaps this was a mistake.
Dr. Maura Isles paused outside the doors of Our Lady of Divine Light, uncertain whether she should enter. The parishioners had already filed in, and she stood alone in the night as snow whispered down onto her uncovered head. Through the closed church doors she heard the organist begin playing “Adeste Fidelis,” and she knew that by now everyone would be seated. If she was going to join them, this was the time to step inside.
She hesitated, because she did not truly belong among the believers inside that church. But the music called to her, as did the promise of warmth and the solace of familiar rituals. Out here, on the dark street, she stood alone. Alone on Christmas Eve.
She walked up the steps, into the building.
Even at this late hour, the pews were filled with families and sleepy children who’d been roused from their beds for midnight Mass. Maura’s tardy arrival attracted several glances, and as the strains of “Adeste Fidelis” faded, she quickly slipped into the first empty seat she could find, near the back. Almost immediately, she had to rise to her feet again, to stand with the rest of the congregation as the entrance song began. Father Daniel Brophy approached the altar and made the sign of the cross.
“The grace and peace of God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you,” he said.
“And also with you,” Maura murmured along with the congregation. Even after all these years away from the church, the responses flowed naturally from her lips, ingrained there by all the Sundays of her childhood. “Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy.”
Although Daniel was unaware of her presence, Maura was focused only on him. On the dark hair, the graceful gestures, the rich baritone voice. Tonight she could watch him without shame, without embarrassment. Tonight it was safe to stare.
“Bring us eternal joy in the kingdom of Heaven, where he lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God forever and ever.”
Settling back onto the bench, Maura heard muffled coughs and the whimpers of tired children. Candles flickered on the altar in a celebration of light and hope on this winter’s night.
Daniel began to read. “And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people…’”
Saint Luke, thought Maura, recognizing the passage. Luke, the physician.
“‘…and this shall be a sign unto you: Ye shall find the babe wrapped in…’” He paused, his gaze suddenly pausing on Maura. And she thought:
Is it such a surprise to see me here tonight, Daniel?
He cleared his throat, looked down at his notes, and continued reading. “‘Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.’”
Although he now knew she was seated among his flock, his gaze did not again meet hers. Not during the singing of “Cantate Domino” and “Dies Sanctificatus,” not during the offertory or the liturgy of the Eucharist. As others around her rose to their feet and filed forward to receive Communion, Maura remained in her seat. If you did not believe, it was hypocrisy to partake of the Host, to sip the wine.
Then what am I doing here?
Yet she remained through the concluding rites, through the blessing and the dismissal.
“Go in the peace of Christ.”
“Thanks be to God,” the parishioners responded.
The Mass now ended, people began to file out of the church, buttoning coats, pulling on gloves as they shuffled to the exit. Maura, too, stood up and was just stepping into the aisle when she glimpsed Daniel trying to catch her attention, imploring her, silently, not to leave. She sat back down, conscious of the curious gazes of people as they filed past her pew. She knew what they saw, or what they imagined they saw: a lone woman, hungry for a priest’s words of comfort on Christmas Eve.
Or did they see more?
She did not return their looks. As the church emptied, she stared straight ahead, stoically focused on the altar. Thinking:
It’s late, and I should go home. I don’t know what good can possibly come of staying.
“Hello, Maura.”
She looked up and met Daniel’s gaze. The church was not yet empty. The organist was still packing up her sheet music, and several choir members were still pulling on their coats, yet at that moment Daniel’s attention was so centered on Maura, she might have been the only other person in the room.
“It’s been a long time since you visited,” he said.
“I suppose it has been.”
“Not since August, wasn’t it?”
So you’ve been keeping track, too.
He slid onto the bench beside her. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“It’s Christmas Eve, after all.”
“But you don’t believe.”
“I still enjoy the rituals. The songs.”
“That’s the only reason you came? To sing a few hymns? Chant a few
Amens
and
Thanks be to Gods
?”
“I wanted to hear some music. Be around other people.”
“Don’t tell me you’re all alone tonight.”
She gave a shrug, a laugh. “You know me, Daniel. I’m not exactly a party animal.”
“I just thought…I mean, I assumed…”
“What?”
“That you’d be with someone. Especially tonight.”
I am. I’m with you.
They both fell silent as the organist came walking up the aisle, carrying her tote bag of music. “Good night, Father Brophy.”
“Good night, Mrs. Easton. Thank you for the lovely performance.”
“It was a pleasure.” The organist cast a final, probing glance at Maura, then continued toward the exit. They heard the door swing shut, and they were finally alone.
“So why has it been so long?” he asked.
“Well, you know the death business. It never lets up. One of our pathologists had to go into the hospital for back surgery a few weeks ago, and we’ve had to cover for him. It’s been busy, that’s all.”
“You can always pick up the phone and call.”
“Yes, I know.” He could, too, but he never did. Daniel Brophy would never step one foot over the line, and perhaps that was a good thing—she was struggling with enough temptation for them both.
“So how have you been?” she asked.
“You know about Father Roy’s stroke last month? I’ve stepped in as police chaplain.”
“Detective Rizzoli told me.”
“I was at that Dorchester crime scene a few weeks ago. The police officer who was shot. I saw you there.”
“I didn’t see you. You should have said hello.”
“Well, you were busy. Totally focused as usual.” He smiled. “You can look so fierce, Maura. Did you know that?”
She gave a laugh. “Maybe that’s my problem.”
“Problem?”
“I scare men away.”
“You haven’t scared me.”
How could I
? She thought.
Your heart isn’t available for breaking.
Deliberately she glanced at her watch and rose to her feet. “It’s so late, and I’ve already taken up too much of your time.”
“It’s not as if I have any pressing business,” he said as he walked with her toward the exit.
“You have a whole flock of souls to look after. And it
is
Christmas Eve.”
“You’ll notice I have nowhere else to go tonight, either.”
She paused and turned to face him. They stood alone in the church, breathing in the scents of candle wax and incense, familiar smells that brought back a childhood of other Christmases, other Masses. The days when stepping into a church provoked none of the turmoil she was now feeling. “Good night, Daniel,” she said, turning toward the door.
“Will it be another four months until I see you again?” he called out after her.
“I don’t know.”
“I’ve missed our talks, Maura.”
Again she hesitated, her hand poised to push open the door. “I’ve missed them, too. Maybe that’s why we shouldn’t have them anymore.”
“We haven’t done anything to be ashamed of.”
“Not yet,” she said softly, her gaze not on him, but on the heavy carved door, which stood between her and escape.
“Maura, let’s not leave it like this between us. There’s no reason we can’t maintain some sort of—” He stopped.
Her cell phone was ringing.
She fished it out of her purse. At this hour, a ringing phone could not mean anything good. As she answered the call, she felt Daniel’s eyes on her, felt her own jittery reaction to his gaze.
“Dr. Isles,” she said, her voice unnaturally cool.
“Merry Christmas,” said Detective Jane Rizzoli. “I’m kind of surprised you’re not at home right now. I tried calling there first.”
“I came to midnight Mass.”
“Geez, it’s already one
A.M.
Isn’t it over yet?”
“Yes, Jane. It’s over, and I’m about to leave,” said Maura, in a tone of voice that cut off any more queries. “What have you got for me?” she asked. Because she already knew that this call was not a simple hello, but a summons.
“Address is two-ten Prescott Street, East Boston. A private residence. Frost and I got here about a half hour ago.”
“Details?”
“We’re looking at one vic, a young woman.”
“Homicide?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”
“You’ll see when you get here.”
She disconnected and found Daniel still watching her. But the moment for taking risks, for saying things they both might come to regret, had passed. Death had intervened.
“You have to go to work?”
“I’m covering tonight.” She slipped the phone back into her purse. “Since I don’t have any family in town, I volunteered.”
“On this of all nights?”
“The fact that it’s Christmas doesn’t make much difference to me.”
She buttoned up her coat collar and walked out of the building, into the night. He followed her outside, and as she tramped through freshly fallen snow to her car, he stood watching her from the steps, his white vestments flapping in the wind. Glancing back, she saw him raise his hand in a good-bye wave.
He was still waving as she drove away.
