The Sinner (6 page)

“So who is this guy?” asked Rizzoli. The question that
was
still on all their minds. The question Maura would have to answer, sooner or
later.

She sank the blade into flesh and watched skin part like a white
curtain.
“My ex-husband,” she said.

She cut her Y-incision, then reflected back flaps of pale skin.
Yoshima
used common pruning shears to cut through the ribs, then lifted the triangle of
ribs
and breastbone to reveal a normal heart and lungs, disease-free liver and spleen
and pancreas. The clean, healthy organs of a young woman who has abused neither
tobacco
nor alcohol, and who has not lived long enough for her arteries to narrow and
clog.
Maura made few comments as she removed organs and placed them in a metal basin,
moving
swiftly toward her next goal: the examination of the pelvic organs.

A pelvic bloc excision was a procedure she usually reserved for
fatal
rape cases, as it allowed a far more detailed dissection of those organs than
the
usual autopsy did. It was not a pleasant procedure, this coring out of pelvic
contents.
As she and Yoshima sawed through the bony pubic rami, she was not surprised to
see
Frost turn away. But Rizzoli, too, shrank from the table. No one spoke now of
the
calls from Maura’s ex-husband; no one pressed her for personal details. The
autopsy had suddenly turned too grim for conversation, and Maura was perversely
relieved
by this.

She lifted the entire bloc of pelvic organs, external genitalia,
and
pubic bone, and moved it to a cutting board. Even before she sliced into the
uterus,
she knew, just by its appearance, that her fears were already confirmed. The
organ
was larger than it should be, the fundus well above the level of the pubic bone,
the walls spongey. She slit it open, to reveal the endometrium, the lining still
thick and lush with blood.

She looked up at Rizzoli. Asked, sharply: “Did this woman
leave
the abbey at any time during the last week?”

“The last time Camille left the abbey was back in March, to
visit
her family on Cape Cod. That’s what Mary Clement told me.”

“Then you have to search the compound. Immediately.”

“Why? What are we looking for?”

“A newborn.”

This seemed to hit Rizzoli with stunning force. She stared,
white-faced,
at Maura. Then she looked at the body of Camille Maginnes, lying on the table.
“But
. . . she was a nun.”

“Yes,” said Maura. “And she’s recently given
birth.”

F
IVE

I
T WAS SNOWING
again when Maura stepped out of the
building
that afternoon, soft, lacy flakes that fluttered like white moths, to light
gently
on the parked cars. Today she was prepared for the weather, and had worn ankle
boots
with rugged soles. Even so, she was cautious as she walked across the parking
lot,
her boots slipping on the snow-dusted ice, her body braced for a fall. When she
finally
reached her car, she released a sigh of relief, and dug in her purse for her
keys.
Distracted by the search, she paid scant attention to the thud of a nearby car
door
slamming shut. Only when she heard the footsteps did she turn to face the man
who
was now approaching her. He came to within a few paces and stopped, not saying
anything.
Just stood looking at her, his hands tucked in the pockets of his leather
jacket.
Falling snowflakes settled on his blond hair, and clung to his neatly trimmed
beard.

He looked at her Lexus and said, “I figured the black one
would
be yours. You’re always in black. Always walking on the dark side. And who
else
keeps a car that neat?”

She finally found her voice. It came out hoarse. A
stranger’s.
“What are you doing here, Victor?”

“It seemed like the only way I could finally see you.”

“Ambushing me in the parking lot?”

“Is that what it feels like?”

“You’ve been sitting out here, waiting for me. I’d
call
that an ambush.”

“You didn’t leave me much choice. You weren’t
returning
any of my calls.”

“I haven’t had the chance.”

“You never sent me your new phone number.”

“You never asked.”

He glanced up at the snow, fluttering down like confetti, and
sighed.
“Well. This is like old times, isn’t it?”

“Too much like old times.” She turned to her car and
pressed
the key remote. The lock snapped open.

“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”

“I need to get going.”

“I fly all the way to Boston, and you don’t even ask
why.”

“All right.” She looked at him. “Why?”

“Three years, Maura.” He stepped closer, and she caught
his
scent. Leather and soap. Snow melting on warm skin. Three years, she thought,
and
he’s hardly changed. The same boyish tilt of his head, the same laugh lines
around his eyes. And even in December, his hair looked sun-bleached, not
artificial
highlights from a bottle, but honest blond streaks from hours spent outdoors.
Victor
Banks seemed to radiate his own gravitational force, and she was just as
susceptible
to it as everyone else. She felt the old pull drawing her toward him.

“Haven’t you wondered, just once, if it was a
mistake?”
he asked.

“The divorce? Or the marriage?”

“Isn’t it obvious which one I’m talking about?
Since
I’m standing here talking to you.”

“You waited a long time to tell me.” She turned back to
her
car.

“You haven’t remarried.”

She paused. Looked back at him. “Have you?”

“No.”

“Then I guess we’re both equally hard to live
with.”

“You didn’t stay around long enough to find out.”

She laughed. A bitter, distasteful sound in that white silence.
“You
were the one who was always heading for the airport. Always running off to save
the
world.”

“I’m not the one who ran from the marriage.”

“I’m not the one who had the affair.” She turned
and
yanked open the car door.

“Goddamn it, can you just wait?
Listen
to me.”

His hand closed around her arm, and she was startled by the anger
she
felt transmitted in that grasp. She stared at him, a cold look that told him he
had
gone too far.

He released her arm. “I’m sorry. Jesus, this isn’t
the
way I wanted it to go.”

“What were you expecting?”

“That there’d be something left between us.”

And there was, she thought. There was too much, and that’s
why
she couldn’t let this conversation go on any longer. She was afraid that
she’d
be sucked in again. She could already feel it happening.

“Look,” he said. “I’m only in town for a few
days.
I have a meeting tomorrow at the Harvard School of Public Health, but after
that,
I have no plans. It’s almost Christmas, Maura. I thought we could spend the
holidays together. If you’re free.”

“And then you’ll just go flying off again.”

“At least we could catch up on things. Couldn’t you take
a few days off?”

“I have a job, Victor. I can’t just leave it.”

He glanced at the building, and gave a disbelieving laugh. “I
don’t know why you’d even want a job like that.”

“The dark side, remember? That’s me.”

He looked at her, and his voice softened. “You haven’t
changed.
Not a bit.”

“Neither have you, and that’s the problem.” She
slid
into her car and pulled the door shut.

He rapped on the window. She looked at him, gazing in at her,
snowflakes
glistening on his lashes, and she had no choice but to roll down the glass and
continue
the conversation.

“When can we talk again?” he asked.

“I have to go now.”

“Later, then. Tonight.”

“I don’t know when I’ll get home.”

“Come on, Maura.” He leaned close. Said softly,
“Take
a chance. I’m staying at the Colonnade. Call me.”

She sighed. “I’ll think about it.”

He reached in and squeezed her arm. Again, the scent of him
stirred
warm recollections, of nights they had slept beneath crisp sheets, legs twined
around
each other. Of long, slow kisses, and the taste of fresh lemons and vodka. Two
years
of marriage leave indelible memories, both good and bad, and at that moment,
with
his hand on her arm, it was the good memories that dominated.

“I’ll wait for your call,” he said. Already
presuming
he had won.

Does he think it’s so easy? she wondered as she drove out of
the
parking lot and headed toward Jamaica Plain. One smile, one touch, and all is
forgiven?

Her tires suddenly skittered across the ice-crusted road, and she
gripped
the wheel, her attention instantly focused on regaining control of the car. She
had
been so agitated, she hadn’t realized how fast she was going. The Lexus
fishtailed,
tires spinning, searching for purchase. Only when she had steered it back into a
straight line did she allow herself to breathe again. To be angry again.

First you break my heart. Then you almost get me killed.

An irrational thought, but there it was. Victor inspired
irrational
thoughts.

By the time she pulled up across the street from Graystones Abbey,
she felt wrung out by the drive. She sat for a moment in the car, wrestling her
emotions
under control.
Control
was the word she lived by. Once she stepped out of
the
car, she was a public person, visible to law enforcement and to the press. They
expected
her to appear calm and logical, and so she would. Much of the job was simply
looking
the part.

She stepped out, and this time she crossed the road with
confidence,
her boots gripping the road. Police cars lined the street, and two TV news crews
sat in their vans, waiting for some breaking development. Already, the wintry
light
was fading into evening.

She rang the gate bell, and a nun appeared, black habit emerging
from
the shadows. The nun recognized Maura and admitted her without a word of
conversation
passing between them.

Inside the courtyard, dozens of footprints had churned the snow.
It
was a different place than on the morning Maura first walked in. Today, all
semblance
of tranquility was disrupted by the search now under way. Lights shone in all
the
windows, and she could hear men’s voices echoing from archways. Stepping
into
the entrance hall, she smelled the scent of tomato sauce and cheese, unpleasant
odors
that conjured up memories of the bland and leathery lasagna that had been served
so often in the cafeteria of the hospital where she’d trained as a medical
student.

She glanced into the dining room and saw the sisters seated at the
rectory table, silently eating their evening meal. She saw tremulous hands lift
unsteady
forks to toothless mouths, and saw milk dribble down wrinkled chins. For most of
their lives, these women had lived behind walls, growing old in seclusion. Did
any
of them harbor regrets about what they had missed, what lives they might
otherwise
have lived, had they simply walked out the gate and never returned?

Continuing down the hall, she heard men’s voices, foreign and
startling in that house of women. Two cops waved at her in recognition.

“Hey, Doc.”

“Have you found anything?” she asked.

“Not yet. We’re calling it quits for the night.”

“Where’s Rizzoli?”

“Upstairs. The dormitory.”

Climbing the stairway, Maura saw two more members of the search
party
on their way down—police cadets, who looked scarcely old enough to be out
of
high school. A young man, his face still spotty with acne, and a woman, wearing
that
aloof mask that so many female cops seemed to adopt as a matter of
self-preservation.
They both dropped their gazes in respect when they recognized Maura. It made her
feel old, watching these youngsters deferentially step aside to let her pass.
Was
she so intimidating that they didn’t see the woman beneath, with her bundle
of insecurities? She had perfected the act of invincibility, and she played the
part
even now. She dipped her head in polite greeting, her gaze moving swiftly past
them.
Aware, even as she climbed the stairs, that they were watching her.

She found Rizzoli in Sister Camille’s room, sitting on the
bed
with her shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

“Looks like everyone’s going home but you,” said
Maura.

Rizzoli turned to look at her. Her eyes were dark and deeply
hollowed,
and there were lines of fatigue in her face that Maura had never seen before.

“We haven’t found a thing. We’ve been searching
since
noon. But it takes time, combing through every closet, every drawer. Then
there’s
the field and the gardens out back—who knows what’s underneath the
snow?
She could have wrapped it up and just thrown it in the trash a few days ago.
Could
have handed it to someone outside the gate. We could spend days looking for
something
that may or may not be here.”

“What does the Abbess say about it?”

“I haven’t told her what we’re looking for.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want her to know.”

“She might be able to help.”

“Or she might take steps to make sure we
don’t
find
it. You think this archdiocese needs any more scandals? You think she wants the
world
to know that someone in this order killed her own baby?”

“We don’t know that the child’s dead. We just know
it’s
missing.”

“And you’re absolutely sure of your autopsy
findings?”

“Yes. Camille was in the advanced stages of pregnancy. And
no,
I don’t believe in immaculate conception.” She sat down on the bed
beside
Rizzoli. “The father may be key to the attack. We have to identify
him.”

“Yeah, I was just thinking about that word. Father. As in
priest.”

“Father Brophy?”

“Good-looking man. Have you seen him?”

Maura remembered the brilliant blue eyes that had gazed at her
across
the fallen cameraman. Remembered how he had strode through the abbey gate like a
black-robed warrior, to challenge that wolf pack of reporters.

“He had repeated access,” said Rizzoli. “He said
Mass.
He heard confession. Is there anything more intimate than sharing your secrets
in
a confession booth?”

“You’re implying the sex was consensual.”

“I’m just saying, he’s a good-looking guy.”

“We don’t know that the baby was conceived in this
abbey.
Didn’t Camille visit her family, back in March?”

“Yeah. When her grandmother died.”

“It’s the right time frame. If she conceived in March,
she’d
be in her ninth month of pregnancy now. It could have happened during that visit
home.”

“And it could have happened right here. Inside these
walls.”
Rizzoli gave a cynical snort. “So much for that vow of chastity.”

They sat without talking for a moment, both of them gazing at the
crucifix
on the wall. How flawed we humans are, thought Maura. If there is a god, why
does
he hold us to such unattainable standards? Why does he demand goals we can never
reach?

Maura said, “I wanted to be a nun, once.”

“I thought you didn’t believe.”

“I was only nine years old. I’d just found out I was
adopted.
My cousin let the cat out of the bag, one of those nasty revelations that
suddenly
explained everything. Why I didn’t look like my parents. Why I didn’t
have
any baby pictures. I spent the whole weekend crying in my room.” She shook
her
head. “My poor parents. They didn’t know what to do, so they took me
to
the movies to cheer me up. We saw the
Sound of Music
, only seventy-five
cents,
because it was an old movie.” She paused. “I thought Julie Andrews was
beautiful. I wanted to be just like Maria. In the convent.”

“Hey, Doc. You want to hear a secret?”

“What?”

“So did I.”

Maura looked at her. “You’re kidding.”

“I may have been a catechism dropout. But who can resist the
pull
of Julie Andrews?”

At that, they both laughed, but it was uneasy laughter that
quickly
stuttered into silence.

“So what made you change your mind?” Rizzoli asked.
“About
being a nun?”

Maura rose to her feet and wandered over to the window. Looking
down
at the dark courtyard, she said: “I just grew out of it. I stopped
believing
in things I couldn’t see or smell or touch. Things that couldn’t be
scientifically
proved.” She paused. “And I discovered boys.”