Body Double (35 page)

Frost said, “What do you think?”

Rizzoli could feel her heart starting to punch, could feel prickles of unease. She cocked her head, and Frost got the message:
We’re going around back.

She circled to the side yard and swung open a gate. Saw just a narrow brick walkway, abutted by a fence. No room for a garden, and barely room for the two trash cans sitting there. She stepped through the gate. They had no warrant, but something was wrong here, something that was making her hands tingle, the same hands that had been scarred by Warren Hoyt’s blade. A monster leaves his mark on your flesh, on your instincts. Forever after, you can feel it when another one passes by.

With Frost right behind her, she moved past dark windows and a central air-conditioning unit that blew warm air against her chilled flesh. Quiet, quiet. They were trespassing now, but all she wanted was a peek in the windows, a look in the back door.

She rounded the corner and found a small backyard, enclosed by a fence. The rear gate was open. She crossed the yard to that gate and looked into the alley beyond it. No one there. She started toward the house and was almost at the back door when she noticed it was ajar.

She and Frost exchanged a look. Both their weapons came out. It had happened so quickly, so automatically, that she did not even remember having drawn hers. Frost gave the back door a push, and it swung open, revealing an arc of kitchen tiles.

And blood.

He stepped in and flipped the wall switch. The kitchen lights came on. More blood shrieked at them from the walls, the countertops, the cacophony so powerful that Rizzoli reeled back as though shoved. The baby in her womb gave a sudden kick of alarm.

Frost stepped out of the kitchen, into the hallway. But she stood frozen, staring down at Terence Van Gates, who lay like a glassy-eyed swimmer floating in a pool of red.
The blood’s not even dry yet.

“Rizzoli!” she heard Frost yell. “The wife—she’s still alive!”

She almost slipped as she ran, big-bellied and clumsy, from the kitchen. The hallway was a continuous scroll of terror. A trail of arterial spray and cast-off droplets pulsed across the wall. She followed the trail into the living room, where Frost knelt, barking into his radio for an ambulance while he pressed one hand against Bonnie Van Gates’s neck. Blood seeped out between his fingers.

Rizzoli dropped to her knees beside the fallen woman. Bonnie’s eyes were open wide, rolled back in terror, as though she could see Death himself, hovering right above, waiting to welcome her.

“I can’t stop it!” said Frost as blood continued to dribble past his fingers.

Rizzoli grabbed a slipcover from the couch armrest and wadded it up in her fist. She leaned forward to press the makeshift dressing to Bonnie’s neck. Frost withdrew his hand, releasing a pulse of blood just before Rizzoli clamped down on the wound. The bunched fabric was immediately saturated.

“Her hand’s bleeding, too!” said Frost.

Glancing down, Rizzoli saw a steady dribble of red coursing from Bonnie’s slashed palm.
We can’t stop it all . . .

“Ambulance?” she asked.

“On its way.”

Bonnie’s hand shot up and grabbed at Rizzoli’s arm.

“Lie still! Don’t move!”

Bonnie jerked, both hands in the air now, like a panicked animal clawing at her attacker.

“Hold her down, Frost!”

“Jesus, she’s strong.”

“Bonnie, stop it! We’re trying to help you!”

Another thrash, and Rizzoli lost her grip. Warmth sprayed across her face, and she tasted blood. Gagged on its coppery heat. Bonnie twisted onto her side, legs jerking like pistons.

“She’s seizing!” said Frost.

Rizzoli forced Bonnie’s cheek against the carpet and clamped the dressing back on the wound. Blood was everywhere now, sprayed across Frost’s shirt, soaking into Rizzoli’s jacket as she fought to maintain pressure on the slippery skin. So much blood. Jesus, how much could a person lose?

Footsteps thudded into the house. It was the surveillance team, who’d been parked up the street. Rizzoli did not even look up as the two men barreled into the room. Frost yelled at them to hold down Bonnie. But there was little need now; the seizures had faded to agonal shudders.

“She’s not breathing,” said Rizzoli.

“Roll her on her back! Come on, come on.”

Frost put his mouth against Bonnie’s and blew. Came up, his lips rimmed in blood.

“No pulse!”

One of the cops planted his hands on the chest and began compressions. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, palms buried in Bonnie’s Hollywood cleavage. With each thrust, only a trickle leaked from the wound. There was so little blood left in her veins to circulate, to nourish vital organs. They were pumping a dry well.

The ambulance team arrived with their tubes and monitors and bottles of IV fluid. Rizzoli moved back to give them room, and suddenly felt so dizzy she had to sit down. She sank into an armchair and lowered her head. Realized she was sitting on white fabric, probably smearing it with blood from her clothes. When she raised her head again, she saw that Bonnie had been intubated. Her blouse was torn open and her brassiere cut away. EKG wires crisscrossed her chest. Only a week ago, Rizzoli had thought of that woman as a Barbie doll, dumb and plastic in her tight pink blouse and spike-heeled sandals. Plastic was exactly what she looked like now, her flesh waxy, her eyes without a glimmer of a soul. Rizzoli spotted one of Bonnie’s sandals, lying a few feet away, and wondered if she had tried to flee in those impossible shoes. Imagined her frantic clack-clacking down the hall as she trailed sprays of red, as she struggled in those spike heels. Even after the EMTs had wheeled Bonnie away, Rizzoli was still staring at that useless sandal.

“She’s not going to make it,” said Frost.

“I know.” Rizzoli looked at him. “You’ve got blood on your mouth.”

“You should look at yourself in the mirror. I’d say we’ve both been fully exposed.”

She thought of blood and all the terrible things it might carry. HIV. Hepatitis. “She seemed pretty healthy,” was all she could say.

“Still,” said Frost. “You being pregnant and all.”

So what the hell was she doing here, steeped in a dead woman’s blood? I should be at home in front of the TV, she thought, with my swollen feet propped up. This is not the life for a mother. It’s not a life for anyone.

She tried to launch herself out of the chair. Frost held out his hand to her, and for the first time, she took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. Sometimes, she thought, you’ve got to accept a helping hand. Sometimes you’ve got to admit you can’t do it all by yourself. Her blouse was stiff, her hands caked brown. Crime scene personnel would be arriving soon, and then the press. Always the goddamn press.

It was time to clean up and get to work.

Maura stepped out of her car, into a disorienting assault of camera lenses and thrusted microphones. Cruiser lights flashed blue and white, illuminating a crowd of bystanders gathered near the perimeter of police tape. She did not hesitate, did not give the media any chance to close in on her as she walked briskly toward the house and nodded at the cop guarding the scene.

He returned her nod with a puzzled look. “Uh—Dr. Costas is already here—”

“So am I,” she said, and ducked under the tape.

“Dr. Isles?”

“He’s inside?”

“Yeah, but—”

She kept walking, knowing that he would not challenge her. Her air of authority brought her access that few cops dared question. She paused in the front door to pull on gloves and shoe covers, necessary fashion accessories when blood is involved. Then she stepped inside, where crime scene techs gave her barely a glance. They all knew her; they had no reason to question her presence. She walked, unimpeded, from the foyer into the living room and saw bloodstained carpet and scattered medical debris from the ambulance team. Syringes, torn wrappings, and wads of soiled gauze littered the floor. No body.

She started down a hallway, where violence had left its record on the walls. On one side, bursts of arterial spray. On the other, more subtle, the cast-off droplets of the pursuer’s blade.

“Doc?” Rizzoli was standing at the other end of the hallway.

“Why didn’t you call me?” said Maura.

“Costas is taking this one.”

“So I just heard.”

“You don’t need to be here.”

“You could have told me, Jane. You could have let me know.”

“This one isn’t yours.”

“This involves my sister. It concerns
me.
”

“That’s why it’s not your case.” Rizzoli moved toward her, her gaze unwavering. “I don’t have to tell you this. You already know it.”

“I’m not asking to be M.E. on this one. What I resent is not being called about it.”

“I didn’t get the chance, okay?”

“That’s the excuse?”

“But it’s true, goddamn it!” Rizzoli waved at the blood on the walls. “We’ve got two vics here. I haven’t eaten dinner. I haven’t showered the blood outta my hair. For god’s sake, I don’t even have time to pee.” She turned. “I have better things to do than explain myself to you.”

“Jane.”

“Go home, Doc. Let me do my job.”

“Jane! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that.”

Rizzoli turned back to face her, and Maura saw what she had failed to register until that moment. The hollow eyes, the sagging shoulders.
She is barely standing.

“I’m sorry, too.” Rizzoli looked at the blood-spattered wall. “We missed him by
that much,
” she said, bringing thumb and forefinger together. “We had a team on the street, watching the house. I don’t know how he spotted the car, but he drove right on by, and came in the back gate instead.” She shook her head. “Somehow he knew. He knew we were looking for him. That’s why Van Gates was a problem . . .”

“
She
warned him.”

“Who?”

“Amalthea. It had to be her. A phone call, a letter. Something passed out through one of the guards. She’s protecting her partner.”

“You think she’s rational enough to do that?”

“Yes, I do.” Maura hesitated. “I went to visit her today.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“She knows secrets about me. She has the answers.”

“She hears voices, for god’s sake.”

“No, she doesn’t. I’m convinced she’s perfectly sane, and she knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s protecting her partner, Jane. She’ll never give him up.”

Rizzoli regarded her for a moment in silence. “Maybe you’d better come see this. You need to know what we’re up against.”

Maura followed her to the kitchen and halted in the doorway, stunned by the carnage she saw in that room. Her colleague, Dr. Costas, was crouching over the body. He glanced up at Maura with a look of puzzlement.

“I didn’t realize you were coming in on this,” he said.

“I’m not. I just needed to see . . .” She stared at Terence Van Gates and swallowed hard.

Costas rose to his feet. “This one was bloody efficient. No defense wounds, no indication the victim had any chance to put up a fight. A single slash, just about ear to ear. Approached from behind. Incision starts higher on the left, crosses the trachea, and trails a little lower on the right side.”

“A right-handed attacker.”

“And strong, too.” Costas bent down and gently tilted the head backward, revealing an open ring of glistening cartilage. “We’re all the way to vertebral column here.” He released the head and it rolled forward, incised edges once again kissing together.

“An execution,” she murmured.

“Pretty much.”

“The second victim—in the living room—”

“The wife. She died in the ER an hour ago.”

“But that execution wasn’t so efficient,” said Rizzoli. “We think the killer took out the man first. Maybe Van Gates was expecting the visit. Maybe he even let him into his kitchen, thinking it was business. But he didn’t expect the attack. There were no defense wounds, no signs of a struggle. He turned his back on the killer, and went down like a slaughtered lamb.”

“And the wife?”

“Bonnie was a different story.” Rizzoli stared down at Van Gates, at the dyed tufts of transplanted hair, symbols of an old man’s vanity. “I think Bonnie walked in on them. She comes into the kitchen and sees the blood. Sees her husband sitting here on the floor, his neck almost severed. The killer’s in here too, still holding the knife. The air conditioner’s going, and all the windows are shut tight. Double-paned, for insulation. So our team parked down the street, they wouldn’t hear her screams. If she even managed to scream.”

Rizzoli turned to look at the doorway leading to the hall. Paused as though she saw the dead woman herself standing there.

“She sees the killer coming at her. But unlike her husband, she fights back. All she can do, as that knife comes at her, is grab it by the blade. It cuts right into the palm of her hand, through skin, tendons, all the way to bone. It slices so deep the artery’s severed.”

Rizzoli pointed through the doorway, at the hallway beyond. “She runs that way, her hand spurting blood. He’s right behind her, and corners her in the living room. Even then she fights back, tries to fend off the blade with her arms. But he makes one more cut, across her throat. Not as deep as the incision in her husband’s neck, but it’s deep enough.” Rizzoli looked at Maura. “She was alive when we found her. That’s how close we came.”

Maura stared down at Terence Van Gates, slumped against the cabinet. She thought of the little house in the woods where two cousins had formed their poisonous bond.
A bond that endures even now.

“You remember what Amalthea said to you, the first day you went to visit her?” said Rizzoli.

Maura nodded.
Now you’re going to die, too.

“We both thought it was just psychotic rambling,” said Rizzoli. She looked down at Van Gates. “It seems pretty clear now that it was a warning. A threat.”

“Why? I don’t know any more than you do.”

“Maybe it’s because of who you
are,
Doc. Amalthea’s daughter.”

An icy wind swept up Maura’s spine. “My father,” she said softly. “If I really am her daughter, then who is my father?”