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Authors: Tess Gerritsen

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“Oh, yeah. Boys.” Rizzoli laughed. “There’s
always
that.”

“It’s the real purpose of life, you know. From a
biological
point of view.”

“Sex?”

“Procreation. It’s what our genes demand. That we go
forth
and multiply. We think we’re the ones in control of our lives, and all the
time,
we’re just slaves of our DNA, telling us to have babies.”

Maura turned and was startled to see tears shimmering on
Rizzoli’s
lashes; just as quickly they were gone, dashed away by a quick swipe of her
hand.

“Jane?”

“I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping very
well.”

“There’s nothing else going on?”

“What else would there be?” The answer was too quick,
too
defensive. Even Rizzoli realized it, and she flushed. “I need to use the
bathroom,”
she said and stood up, as though eager to escape. At the door she stopped and
looked
back. “By the way, you know that book on the desk over there? The one
Camille
was reading. I looked up the name.”

“Who?”

“Saint Brigid of Ireland. It’s a biography. Funny, how
there’s
a patron saint for everything, every occasion. There’s a saint for hat
makers.
A saint for drug addicts. Hell, there’s even a saint for lost keys.”

“So whose saint is Brigid?”

“Newborns,” Rizzoli said softly. “Brigid is the
saint
of newborns.” She walked out of the room.

Maura looked down at the desk, where the book was lying. Only a
day
ago, she had imagined Camille sitting at this desk, quietly turning pages,
drawing
inspiration from the life of a young Irish woman destined for sainthood. Now a
different
picture emerged—not Camille the serene, but Camille the tormented, praying
to
St. Brigid for her dead child’s salvation.
I beg you, take him into your
forgiving
arms. Bring him into the light, though he be unbaptized. He is an innocent. He
is
without sin.

She looked around the stark room with new comprehension. The
spotless
floors, the smell of bleach and wax—it all took on new meaning. Cleanliness
as a metaphor for innocence. Camille the fallen had desperately scrubbed away
her
sins, her guilt. For months she must have realized she was carrying a child,
hidden
beneath the voluminous folds of her habit. Or did she refuse to accept reality?
Did
she deny it to herself, the way pregnant teenagers sometimes deny the evidence
of
their own swollen bellies?

And what did you do, when your child came into the world? Did
you
panic? Or did you coldly and calmly dispose of the evidence of your sin?

She heard men’s voices outside. Through the window, she saw
the
shadowy forms of two cops emerging from the building. They both paused to pull
their
coats tighter, to glance up at the snow, tumbling like glitter from the night
sky.
Then they walked out of the courtyard, and the hinges squealed as the gate shut
behind
them. She listened for other sounds, other voices, but heard nothing. Only the
stillness
of a snowy night. So quiet, she thought. As though I am the only one left in
this
building. Forgotten, and alone.

She heard a creak, and felt the whisper of movement, of another
presence
in the room. The hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stood up and she gave a
laugh.
“God, Jane, don’t sneak up on me like . . .” Turning, her voice
died
in mid-sentence.

No one was there.

For a moment she didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just
stared
at empty space. Vacant air, polished floor.
The room is haunted
was her
first
irrational thought, before logic reasserted control. Old floors often creaked,
and
heating pipes groaned. It was not a footstep but the floorboards, contracting in
the cold. There were perfectly reasonable explanations for why she had thought
someone
else was in the room.

But she still felt its presence, still sensed it watching her.

Now the hairs on her arms were standing up as well, every nerve
singing
with alarm. Something skittered overhead, like claws against wood. Her gaze shot
to the ceiling.
An animal? It’s moving away from me.

She stepped out of the room, and the panicked drumming of her own
heartbeat
almost drowned out any sounds from overhead. There it was—moving farther
down
the hallway!

Thump-thump-thump.

She followed the noise, her gaze on the ceiling, moving so fast
she
almost collided with Rizzoli, who’d just emerged from the bathroom.

“Hey,” said Rizzoli. “What’s the rush?”

“Shhh!” Maura pointed to the dark-beamed ceiling.

“What?”

“Listen.”

They waited, straining to hear any new sound. Except for the
pounding
of her own heart, Maura heard only silence.

“Maybe you just heard water running in the pipes,” said
Rizzoli.
“I did flush the toilet.”

“It wasn’t the pipes.”

“Well, what did you hear?”

Maura’s gaze snapped back to the antique beams running the
length
of the ceiling.
“There.”

The scrabbling sound again, at the far end of the hall.

Rizzoli stared upward. “What the hell is that? Rats?”

“No,” whispered Maura. “Whatever it is, it’s
bigger
than a rat.” She moved quietly down the corridor, Rizzoli right behind her,
approaching the spot where they had heard it last.

Without warning, a chorus of thumps drummed across the ceiling,
moving
back the way they had come.

“It’s headed into the other wing!” said Rizzoli.

With Rizzoli in the lead, they pushed through a door at the end of
the hallway, and Rizzoli flipped on the light switch. They gazed down a deserted
corridor. It was chilly in here, the air closed-in and damp. Through open
doorways,
they saw abandoned rooms and the ghostly shapes of sheet-draped furniture.

Whatever had fled into this wing was now silent, revealing no hint
of its whereabouts.

“Your team searched this end of the building?” Maura
asked.

“We made a sweep of all these rooms.”

“What’s upstairs? Above this ceiling?”

“It’s just attic space.”

“Well, something’s moving up there,” Maura said
softly.
“And it’s intelligent enough to know we were chasing it.”

 

Maura and Rizzoli crouched in the chapel’s upper gallery,
studying
the mahogany panel that Mary Clement had told them would lead to the
building’s
crawl space. Rizzoli gave the panel a gentle push; noiselessly it swung open,
and
they stared into the darkness beyond, listening for sounds of movement. A
whisper
of warmth touched their faces. The crawl space was a trap for the
building’s
rising heat, and they could feel it spilling out through the panel opening.

Rizzoli shone her flashlight into the space. They glimpsed massive
timbers and the pink matting of newly installed insulation. Electrical wires
snaked
across the floor.

Rizzoli was first to step through the opening. Maura turned on her
own flashlight and followed. The space was not tall enough for her to stand up
straight;
she had to keep her head bent to avoid the oak beams arching across the ceiling.
Their lights swept in wide arcs, carving a circle in the darkness. Beyond that
circle
was unseen frontier; Maura could feel her breaths coming too fast. The low
ceiling,
the stale air, made her feel entombed.

She almost jumped when she felt a hand touch her arm. Wordlessly,
Rizzoli
pointed to the right.

Timbers creaked under their weight as they moved through shadows,
Rizzoli
in the lead.

“Wait,” whispered Maura. “Shouldn’t you call
for
backup?”

“Why?”

“For whatever’s up here.”

“I’m not calling for backup, if all we’re hunting
down
is just some stupid raccoon. . . .” She paused, her flashlight arcing left,
then right. “I think we’re over the west wing now. It’s getting
nice
and warm up here. Turn off your flashlight.”

“What?”

“Turn it off. I want to check out something.”

Reluctantly, Maura switched off her light. So did Rizzoli.

In the sudden blackness, Maura felt her pulse throbbing.
We
can’t
see what’s around us. What might be moving toward us.
She blinked,
trying
to force her eyes to accommodate to the darkness. Then she noticed the
light—slivers
of it, shining through cracks in the floor. Here and there, a wider shaft, where
the boards had pulled apart, or where knotholes had contracted in the dry winter
air.

Rizzoli’s footsteps creaked away. Her shadowy form suddenly
dropped
to a crouch, her head bent toward the floor. For a moment she held that pose,
then
she gave a soft laugh. “Hey. It’s just like peeking into the
boys’
locker room at Revere High.”

“What are you looking at?”

“Camille’s room. We’re right above it. There’s
a knothole here.”

Maura eased her way through the darkness, to where Rizzoli was
crouched.
Dropping to her knees, Maura peered through the opening.

She was staring down directly at Camille’s desk.

She straightened, a chill suddenly running its cold fingers up her
spine.
Whatever was up here could see me, in that room. It was watching me.

Thump-thump-thump.

Rizzoli spun around so fast, her elbow slammed into Maura.

Maura fumbled to turn on her flashlight, her beam jerking in all
directions
as she hunted for whoever—whatever—was in this crawlspace with them.
She
caught glimpses of feathery cobwebs, of massive crossbeams, hanging low
overhead.
It was so warm up here, the air close and stifling, and the sense of suffocation
fed her panic.

She and Rizzoli had instinctively moved into defensive positions,
back
to back, and Maura could feel Rizzoli’s tense muscles, could hear her rapid
breathing as they both scanned the darkness. Searching for the gleam of eyes, a
feral
face.

So swiftly did Maura scan her surroundings, she missed it in the
first
sweep of her flashlight. It was only as she brought it back that the farthest
reach
of her beam rippled across an irregularity on the rough-planked floor. She
stared,
but did not believe what she was looking at.

She took a step toward it, her horror mounting as she moved
closer,
as her beam began to pick up other, similar forms lying nearby. So many of them
.
. .

Dear god, it’s a graveyard. A graveyard of dead infants.

The flashlight beam wavered. She, whose scalpel hand had always
been
rock-steady at the autopsy table, could not stop shaking. She came to a stop,
her
beam shining directly down on a face. Blue eyes glittered back at her, shiny as
marbles.
She stared, slowly grasping the reality of what she was seeing.

And she laughed. A startled bark of a laugh.

By now, Rizzoli was right beside her, flashlight playing over the
pink
skin, the kewpie mouth, the lifeless gaze. “What the hell,” she said.
“It’s
just a friggin’ doll.”

Maura waved her beam at the other objects lying nearby. She saw
smooth
plastic skin, plump limbs. The sparkle of glass eyes stared back at her.
“They’re
all dolls,” she said. “A whole collection of them.”

“See how they’re lined up, in a row? Like some kind of
weird
nursery.”

“Or a ritual,” said Maura softly. An unholy ritual in
God’s
sanctuary.

“Oh, man. Now you’ve got
me
spooked.”

Thump-thump-thump.

They both whirled, flashlights slicing the darkness, finding
nothing.
The sound had been fainter. Whatever had been inside the crawlspace with them
was
now moving away, retreating far beyond the reach of their lights. Maura was
startled
to see that Rizzoli had drawn her weapon; it had happened so quickly, she had
not
even noticed it.

“I don’t think that’s an animal,” Maura said.

After a pause, Rizzoli said: “I don’t think so
either.”

“Let’s get out of here. Please.”

“Yeah.” Rizzoli took in a deep breath, and Maura heard
the
first tremolo of fear. “Yeah, okay. Controlled exit. We take it one step at
a time.”

They stayed close together as they moved back the way they’d
come.
The air grew cooler, damper; or maybe it was fear that chilled Maura’s
skin.
By the time they neared the panel doorway, she was ready to bolt straight out of
the crawlspace.

They stepped through the panel opening, into the chapel gallery,
and
with the first deep breaths of cold air, her fear began to dissipate. Here in
the
light, she felt back in control. Able, once again, to think logically. What had
she
seen, really, in that dark place? A row of dolls, nothing more. Plastic skin and
glass eyes and nylon hair.

“It wasn’t an animal,” Rizzoli said. She was
crouched
down, staring at the gallery floor.

“What?”

“There’s a footprint here.” Rizzoli pointed to
smudges
of powdery dust. The tread mark of an athletic shoe.

Maura glanced down behind her own shoes, and saw that she too had
tracked
dust onto the gallery. Whoever left that footprint had fled the crawlspace just
ahead
of them.

“Well, there’s our creature,” said Rizzoli, and she
shook her head. “Jesus. I’m glad I never took a shot at it. I’d
hate
to think . . .”

Maura stared at the footprint and shuddered. It was a
child’s.

 

S
IX

G
RACE
O
TIS SAT
at the convent dining
table,
shaking her head. “She’s only seven years old. You can’t trust
anything
she says. She lies to me all the time.”

“We’d like to talk to her anyway,” said Rizzoli.
“With
your permission, of course.”

“Talk to her about what?”

“What she was doing up in the crawl space.”

“Did she damage something, is that it?” Grace glanced
nervously
at Mother Mary Clement, who had been the one to summon Grace from the kitchen.
“She’ll
be punished, Reverend Mother. I’ve tried to keep track of her, but
she’s
always so quiet about her mischief. I never know where she’s gone off to .
.
.”

Mary Clement placed a gnarled hand on Grace’s shoulder.
“Please.
Just let the police speak to her.”

Grace sat for a moment, looking unsure. Evening cleanup in the
kitchen
had left her apron stained with grease and tomato sauce, and strands of dull
brown
hair had worked free from her ponytail and hung limp about her sweating face. It
was a raw, worn face that had probably never been beautiful, and it was further
marred
by lines of bitterness. Now, while others awaited her decision, she was the one
in
control, the one who held power, and she seemed to relish it. To be drawing out
the
decision as long as possible while Rizzoli and Maura waited.

“What are you afraid of, Mrs. Otis?” Maura asked
quietly.

The question seemed to antagonize Grace. “I’m not afraid
of anything.”

“Then why don’t you want us to speak to your
daughter?”

“Because she’s not reliable.”

“Yes, we understand that she’s only seven—”

“She lies.” The words shot out like the snap of a whip.
Grace’s
face, already unattractive, took on an even uglier cast. “She lies about
everything.
Even silly things. You can’t believe what she says—any of it.”

Maura glanced at the Abbess, who gave a bewildered shake of her
head.

“The girl has usually been quiet and unobtrusive,” said
Mary
Clement. “That’s why we’ve allowed Grace to bring her into the
abbey
while she works.”

“I can’t afford a baby sitter,” cut in Grace.
“I
can’t afford anything, really. It’s the only way I can manage to work
at
all, if I keep her here after school.”

“And she just waits here for you?” asked Maura.
“Until
you’re done for the day?”

“What am I supposed to do with her? I have to work, you know.
It’s not as if they let my husband stay there for free. These days, you
can’t
even die unless you have money.”

“Excuse me?”

“My husband. He’s a patient in St. Catherine’s
Hospice.
Lord knows how long he’ll have to be there.” Grace shot a glance at
the
Abbess, sharp as a poison dart. “I work here, as part of the
arrangement.”
Clearly not a happy arrangement, Maura thought. Grace could not be much older
than
her mid-thirties, but it must seem to her that her life was already over. She
was
trapped by obligations, to a daughter for whom she clearly had little affection;
to a husband who took too long to die. For Grace Otis, Graystones Abbey was no
sanctuary;
it was her prison.

“Why is your husband in St. Catherine’s?” Maura
asked
gently.

“I told you. He’s dying.”

“Of what?”

“Lou Gehrig’s disease. ALS.” Grace said it without
emotion,
but Maura knew the terrible reality behind that name. As a medical student, she
had
examined a patient with amyotrophic lateralizing sclerosis. Though completely
awake
and aware and able to feel pain, he could not move because his muscles had
wasted
away, reducing him to little more than a brain trapped in a useless body. As she
had examined his heart and lungs and palpated his abdomen, she had felt his gaze
on her, and had not wanted to meet it, because she knew the despair she would
see
in his eyes. When she’d finally walked out of his hospital room, she had
felt
both relief as well as a twinge of guilt—but only a twinge. His tragedy was
not hers. She was just a student, passing briefly through his life, under no
obligation
to share the burden of his misfortune. She was free to walk away, and she had.

Grace Otis could not. The result was etched in resentful lines in
her
face, and in the prematurely gray streaks in her hair. She said, “At least
I’ve
warned you. She’s not reliable. She tells stories. Sometimes they’re
ridiculous
stories.”

“We understand,” said Maura. “Children do
that.”

“If you want to talk to her, I need to be in the room. Just
to
make sure she behaves.”

“Of course. It’s your right, as a parent.”

At last, Grace rose to her feet. “Noni’s hiding out in
the
kitchen. I’ll get her.”

It was several minutes before Grace reappeared, tugging a
dark-haired
girl by the hand. It was clear that Noni did not want to come out, and she
resisted
it all the way, every fiber of her little body straining against Grace’s
relentless
pull. Finally, Grace just picked up the girl under the arms and plopped her into
a chair—not gently, either, but with the tired disgust of a woman who has
reached
the end of her rope. The girl sat still for a moment, looking stunned to find
herself
so swiftly conquered. She was a curly-haired sprite with a square jaw and lively
dark eyes that quickly took in everyone in the room. She spared only a glance at
Mary Clement, then her gaze lingered a little longer on Maura before it finally
settled
on Rizzoli. There it stayed, as though Rizzoli was the only one worth focusing
on.
Like a dog who chooses to annoy the only asthmatic in the room, Noni had settled
her attentions on the one person who was least fond of children.

Grace gave her daughter a nudge. “You have to talk to
them.”

Noni’s face scrunched up in protest. Out came two words,
hoarse
as a frog’s croak. “Don’t wanna.”

“I don’t care if you don’t want to. These are the
police.”

Noni’s gaze remained on Rizzoli. “They don’t look
like
the police.”

“Well, they are,” Grace said. “And if you
don’t
tell the truth, they’ll put you in jail.”

This was exactly what cops hated to hear a parent say. It made
children
afraid of the very people they were supposed to trust.

Rizzoli quickly motioned to Grace to stop talking. She dropped to
a
crouch in front of Noni’s chair, so that she and the girl were eye to eye.
They
were so strikingly alike, both with curly dark hair and intense gazes, that
Rizzoli
could have been facing a young clone of herself. If Noni was equally stubborn,
then
there were fireworks ahead.

“Let’s get something clear right off, okay?”
Rizzoli
said to the girl, her voice brusque and matter-of-fact, as though she was
speaking
not to a child but to a miniature adult. “I won’t put you in jail. I
don’t
ever put kids in jail.”

The girl eyed her dubiously. “Even bad kids?” she
challenged.

“Not even bad kids.”

“Even really, really bad kids?”

Rizzoli hesitated, a spark of irritation in her eyes. Noni was not
about to let her off the hook. “Okay,” she conceded. “The really,
really
bad ones I send to juvenile hall.”

“That’s jail for kids.”

“Right.”

“So you do send kids to jail.”

Rizzoli shot Maura a
can you believe this
? look.
“Okay,”
she sighed. “You got me there. But I’m not gonna put
you
in
jail.
I just want to talk to you.”

“How come you don’t have a uniform?”

“Because I’m a detective. We don’t have to wear
uniforms.
But I really am a policeman.”

“But you’re a woman.”

“Yeah. Okay. Policewoman. So you wanna tell me what you were
doing
up there, in the attic?”

Noni hunched down in the chair and just stared like a gargoyle at
her
questioner. For a solid minute, they eyed each other, waiting for the other one
to
break the silence first.

Grace finally lost her patience and gave the girl a whack on the
shoulder.
“Go on! Tell her!”

“Please, Mrs. Otis,” said Rizzoli. “That’s not
necessary.”

“But you see how she is? Nothing’s ever easy with her.
Everything’s
a struggle.”

“Let’s just relax, okay? I can wait.”
I can wait
as
long as you can, kid,
Rizzoli’s gaze told the girl. “So
c’mon,
Noni. Tell us where you got those dolls. The ones you were playing with up
there.”

“I didn’t steal them.”

“I never said you did.”

“I found them. A whole box of them.”

“Where?”

“In the attic. There are other boxes up there, too.”

Grace said, “You weren’t supposed to be up there.
You’re
supposed to stay near the kitchen and not bother anyone.”

“I wasn’t bothering anyone. Even if I wanted to,
there’s
no one in this whole
place
to bother.”

“So you found the dolls in the attic,” Rizzoli said,
directing
the conversation back to the subject at hand.

“A whole box of them.”

Rizzoli turned a questioning look at Mary Clement, who answered:
“They
were part of a charity project some years ago. We sewed doll clothes, for
donation
to an orphanage in Mexico.”

“So you found the dolls,” Rizzoli said to Noni.
“And
you played with them up there?”

“No one else was using them.”

“And how did you know how to get into the attic?”

“I saw the man go in there.”

The man?
Rizzoli shot a glance at Maura. She leaned closer
to
Noni. “What man?”

“He had things on his belt.”

“Things?”

“A hammer and stuff.” She pointed to the Abbess.
“She
saw him too. She was talking to him.”

Mother Mary Clement gave a startled laugh. “Oh! I know who
she
means. We’ve had a number of renovations in the last few months.
There’ve
been men working in the attic, installing new insulation.”

“When was this?” asked Rizzoli.

“In October.”

“Do you have the names of all these men?”

“I can check the ledgers. We keep a record of all payments
we’ve
made to the contractors.”

So it was not such a startling revelation after all. The girl had
spied
workmen climbing into a hidden space she hadn’t known about. A mysterious
space,
reachable only through a secret door. To take a peek inside would be
irresistible
for any child—especially one this inquisitive.

“You didn’t mind the dark up there?” asked Rizzoli.

“I have a flashlight, you know.”
What a stupid
question,
Noni’s tone of voice implied.

“You weren’t afraid? All by yourself?”

“Why?”

Why indeed? thought Maura. This little girl was fearless,
intimidated
by neither the dark nor the police. She sat with her gaze perfectly steady on
her
questioner, as though she, not Rizzoli, was directing this conversation. But
self-possessed
as she appeared, she was very much a child, and a ragged one at that. Her hair
was
a tangle of curls, powdery with attic dust. Her pink sweatshirt looked like a
well-worn
hand-me-down. It was a few sizes too large, and the rolled-back cuffs were
soiled.
Only her shoes looked new—brand new Keds with Velcro flaps. Her feet did
not
quite touch the floor, and she kept swinging them back and forth in a monotonous
rhythm. A metronome of excess energy.

Grace said, “Believe me, I didn’t know she was up there.
I can’t go chasing after her all the time. I have to get the meals on the
table,
and then I have to clean up afterwards. We don’t get out of here until nine
o’clock, and I can’t get her into bed until ten.” Grace looked at
Noni. “That’s part of the problem, you know. She’s tired and
cranky
all the time, so everything turns into an argument. Last year, she gave me an
ulcer.
Made me so stressed out my stomach started digesting itself. I could be doubled
over
in pain, and she wouldn’t care. She still puts up a fuss about going to
bed,
or taking a bath. No concern for anyone else. But that’s the way children
are,
completely selfish. The whole world revolves around
her
.”

While Grace vented her frustration, Maura was watching Noni’s
reaction. The girl had gone perfectly still, her legs no longer swinging, her
jaw
clamped tight in an obstinate square. But the dark eyes briefly glistened with
tears.
Just as quickly, the tears were gone, erased by the furtive swipe of a dirty
cuff.
She’s not deaf and dumb, thought Maura. She hears the anger in her
mother’s
voice. Every day, in a dozen different ways, Grace surely conveys her disgust
for
this child. And the child understands. No wonder Noni is difficult; no wonder
she
makes Grace angry. It’s the only emotion she can wrest from her mother, the
only proof that any feeling at all exists between them. Just seven years old,
and
already she knows she’s lost her futile bid for love. She knows more than
adults
realize, and what she sees and hears is surely painful.

Rizzoli had been crouched too long at the child’s level. Now
she
rose and stretched her legs. It was already eight o’clock, they had skipped
supper, and Rizzoli’s energy appeared to be wearing thin. She stood eyeing
the
girl, both of them with equally disheveled hair, equally determined faces.

Rizzoli said, with weary patience, “So, Noni, have you been
going
up to the attic a lot?”

The dusty mop of curls bounced in a nod.

“What do you do up there?”

“Nothing.”

“You just said you play with your dolls.”

“I already told you
that
.”

“What else do you do?”

The girl shrugged.

Rizzoli pressed harder.”Come on, it’s gotta be boring up
there. I can’t imagine why you’d want to hang around in that attic
unless
there’s something interesting to see.”

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