Body Double (37 page)

And now another pain gripped her. It brought her up short, catching her in midbreath. A contraction. She doubled over, waiting for it to pass. When at last she could straighten again, she was drenched in sweat.

Something rustled behind her. She whirled and faced a wall of impenetrable shadow. She felt evil closing in. All at once she was running away from it, tree branches slashing her face, panic shrieking at her.
Faster. Faster!

On the downhill slope she lost her footing and began to tumble, and would have slammed belly first onto the ground if she had not caught herself on a sapling.
Poor baby, I almost landed on you!
She heard no sound of pursuit, but she knew he had to be right behind her, tracking her. Terror sent her hurtling on, through a web of interlocking branches.

Then the trees magically evaporated. She broke through a last tangle of vines and her feet slammed onto packed earth. Stunned and gasping, she stared across ripples of reflected moonlight. A lake. A road.

And, in the distance, perched on a point, the silhouette of a small cabin.

She took a few steps and stopped, groaning as another contraction gripped her in its fist, squeezing so tightly she could not breathe, could do nothing but crouch there in the road. Nausea flooded her throat. She heard water slap against the shore, and the cry of a bird on the lake. Dizziness washed over her, threatening to drag her down to her knees.
Not here! Don’t stop here, so exposed on the road.

She staggered forward, the contraction easing now. Pushed herself onward, the cabin a shadowy hope. She started to run, her knee throbbing with every slap of her shoe against the dirt road. Faster, she thought. He can see you here against the lake’s reflection. Run before the next pain clamps down. How many minutes until the next one? Five, ten? The cabin looked so far away.

She was pushing herself all out, now, legs pumping, air roaring in and out of her lungs. Hope was like rocket fuel.
I’m going to live. I’m going to live.

The cabin windows were dark. She rapped on the door anyway, not daring to shout for fear her voice would carry back up the road, up the mountain. There was no answer.

She hesitated only a second.
To hell with being a good girl. Just break the goddamn window!
She grabbed a rock near the front door and slammed it against a pane, and the sound of breaking glass shattered the night’s silence. With the rock, she batted away the few remaining shards, reached in, and unlocked the door.

Breaking and entering, now. Go, GI Jane!

Inside she smelled cedar and stale air. A vacation house that had been closed up and neglected too long. Glass crunched under her shoes as she hunted for a wall switch. An instant after the lights came on, she realized: He’ll see it.
Too late now. Just find a phone.

She looked around the room and saw a fireplace, stacked wood, furniture with plaid upholstery, but no phone.

She ran into the kitchen and spotted a handset on the counter. Picked it up and was already dialing 911 when she realized there was no dial tone. The line was dead.

In the living room, broken glass skittered across the floor.

He’s in the house. Get out. Get out now.

She slipped out the kitchen door and quietly closed it behind her. Found herself standing in a small garage. Moonlight filtered in through a single window, just bright enough for her to make out the low silhouette of a rowboat cradled in its trailer. No other cover, no place to hide. She backed away from the kitchen door, shrinking as far into the shadows as she could. Her shoulder bumped up against a shelf, rattling metal, stirring the smell of long-gathered dust. She reached out blindly along the shelf for a weapon and felt old paint cans, their lids caked shut. Felt paint brushes, the hairs shellacked solid. Then her fingers closed around a screwdriver, and she snatched it up. Such a pitiful weapon, about as lethal as a nail file. The runt cousin of all screwdrivers.

The light under the kitchen door rippled. A shadow moved across the glowing crack. Stopped.

So did her breathing. She backed toward the garage bay door, her heart battering its way to her throat. Only one choice left.

She reached down for the handle and pulled. The door squealed as it slid up the tracks, a shriek announcing:
Here she is! Here she is!

Just as the kitchen door flew open, she scrambled out under the bay door and ran into the night. She knew he could see her moving along that pitilessly exposed shore. She knew she could not outpace him. Yet she struggled forward along the moon-silvered lake, the mud sucking at her shoes. She heard him moving closer through the clattering cattail reeds. Swim, she thought. Into the lake. She veered toward the water.

And suddenly doubled over as the next contraction seized her. This was pain like none she had ever known. It dropped her to her knees. She splashed down into ankle-deep water as the pain crescendoed, clamping her so tightly in its jaws that for a moment her vision went black and she felt herself tilting sideways, toppling. She tasted mud. Writhed, coughing, onto her back, as helpless as an overturned tortoise. The contraction faded. The stars slowly brightened in the sky. She could feel water caressing her hair, lapping at her cheeks. Not cold at all, but warm as a bath. She heard the splash of his footsteps, the snapping of reeds. Watched the cattails part.

And then he was there, standing above her, towering against the sky. Here to claim his prize.

He knelt beside her, and the water’s reflection glinted in his eyes in pinpoints of light. What he held in his hand gleamed as well: a knife’s silvery streak. He seemed to know, as he crouched over her body, that she was spent. That her soul was only waiting for release from its exhausted shell.

He grasped the waistband of her maternity slacks and pulled it down, revealing the white dome of her belly. And still she did not move, but lay catatonic. Already surrendered, already dead.

He placed one hand on her abdomen; with the other, he grasped the knife, lowering the blade toward bared flesh, bending toward her to make the first cut.

Water fountained up in a silvery splash as her hand suddenly shot up from the mud. As she aimed the tip of the screwdriver toward his face. Muscles taut with fury, she drove it upward, the pathetic little weapon suddenly launched with lethal aim at his eye.

This is for me, asshole!

And this is for my baby!

She thrust deep, felt the weapon penetrate bone and brain, until the handle lodged in the socket and could sink no deeper.

He dropped without uttering a sound.

For a moment she could not move. He had fallen across her thighs, and she could feel the heat of his blood soaking through her clothes. The dead are heavy, so much heavier than the living. She pushed, grunting with the effort, repulsed by the touch of him. At last she rolled him away and he splashed onto his back among the reeds.

She stumbled to her feet and staggered toward higher ground. Away from the water, away from the blood. She collapsed farther up on the bank, dropping onto a bed of grass. There she lay as the next contraction came and went. And the next, and the next. Through pain-dimmed eyes she watched the quarter moon wheel across the heavens. Saw the stars fade and a pink glow seep into the eastern sky.

As the sun lifted over the horizon, Mattie Purvis welcomed her daughter into the world.

THIRTY

T
URKEY VULTURES TRACED LAZY CIRCLES
in the sky, the black-winged heralds of fresh carrion. The dead do not long escape Mother Nature’s attention. The perfume of decomposition draws blowflies and beetles, crows and rodents, all converging on Death’s bounty. And how am I any different? Maura thought, as she headed down the grassy bank toward the water. She too was drawn to the dead, to poke and prod cold flesh like any scavenger. This was such a beautiful place for so grim a task. The sky was a cloudless blue, the lake like silvered glass. But at the water’s edge, a white sheet draped what the vultures, circling above, were so eager to feast on.

Jane Rizzoli, standing with Barry Frost and two Massachusetts State Police officers, stepped forward to meet Maura. “Body was lying in a couple inches of water, over in those cattails. We pulled it up onto the bank. Just wanted you to know it’s been moved.”

Maura stared down at the draped corpse, but did not touch it. She was not quite ready to confront what lay beneath the plastic sheet. “Is the woman all right?”

“I saw Mrs. Purvis in the ER. She’s a little banged up, but she’ll be fine. And the baby’s doing great.” Rizzoli pointed toward the bank, where tufts of feathery grass grew. “She had it right over there. Managed it all by herself. When the park ranger drove by around seven, he found her sitting at the side of the road, nursing the baby.”

Maura stared up the bank and thought of the woman laboring alone under the open sky, her cries of pain unheard, while twenty yards away, a corpse cooled and stiffened. “Where did he keep her?”

“In a pit, about two miles from here.”

Maura frowned at her. “She made it all this way on foot?”

“Yeah. Imagine running in the dark, through the trees. And doing it while you’re in labor. Came down that slope there, out of the woods.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“You should see the box he kept her in, like a coffin. Buried alive for a week—I don’t know how she came out of it still sane.”

Maura thought of young Alice Rose, trapped in a pit all those years ago. Just one night of despair and darkness had haunted her for the rest of her short life. In the end, it had killed her. Yet Mattie Purvis had emerged not only sane, but prepared to fight back. To survive.

“We found the white van,” said Rizzoli.

“Where?”

“It’s parked way up on one of the maintenance roads, about thirty, forty yards away from the pit where he buried her. We never would have found her there.”

“Have you found any remains yet? There must be victims buried nearby.”

“We’ve just started to look. There’s a lot of trees, a large area to search. It’ll take time for us to comb that whole hill for graves.”

“All these years, all those missing women. One of them could be my . . .” Maura stopped, and looked up at the trees on the slope.
One of them could be my mother. Maybe I don’t have a monster’s blood in my veins at all. Maybe my real mother has been dead all these years. Another victim, buried somewhere in those woods.

“Before you make any assumptions,” said Rizzoli, “you need to see the corpse.”

Maura frowned at her. Looked down at the shrouded body lying at her feet. She knelt and reached for a corner of the sheet.

“Wait. I should warn you—”

“Yes?”

“It’s not what you’re expecting.”

Maura hesitated, her hand hovering over the sheet. Insects hummed, greedy for access to fresh meat. She took a breath and peeled back the cover.

For a moment she didn’t say a word as she stared at the face she’d just exposed. What stunned her was not the ruined left eye, or the screwdriver handle jammed deep into the orbit. That gruesome detail was merely a feature to be noted, mentally filed away as she would file a dictated report. No, it was the face that held her attention, that horrified her.

“He’s too young,” she murmured. “This man’s too young to be Elijah Lank.”

“I’d guess he’s about thirty, thirty-five.”

Maura released a shocked breath. “I don’t understand . . .”

“You do see it, don’t you?” Rizzoli asked quietly. “Black hair, green eyes.”

Like mine.

“I mean, sure, there could be a million guys with hair and eyes that color. But the resemblance . . .” She paused. “Frost saw it, too. We all saw it.”

Maura pulled the sheet over the corpse and stepped back, retreating from the truth which had stared so undeniably from the dead man’s face.

“Dr. Bristol’s on his way now,” said Frost. “We didn’t think you’d want to do this autopsy.”

“Then why did you call me?”

“Because you said you wanted to be in the loop,” said Rizzoli. “Because I promised I would. And because . . .” Rizzoli looked down at the draped body. “Because you’d find out sooner or later who this man was.”

“But we don’t know who he was. You think you see a resemblance. That’s not proof.”

“There’s more. Something we just learned this morning.”

Maura looked at her. “What?”

“We’ve been trying to track down Elijah Lank’s whereabouts. Searching for any place his name may have popped up. Arrests, traffic tickets, anything. This morning we got a fax from a county clerk in North Carolina. It was a death certificate. Elijah Lank died eight years ago.”

“Eight years ago? Then he wasn’t with Amalthea when she killed Theresa and Nikki Wells.”

“No. By then, Amalthea was working with a new partner. Someone who stepped in to take Elijah’s place. To continue the family business.”

Maura turned and stared at the lake, its water now blindingly bright. I don’t want to hear the rest of this, she thought. I don’t want to know.

“Eight years ago, Elijah died of a heart attack in a Greenville hospital,” said Rizzoli. “He showed up in the emergency room complaining of chest pain. According to their records, he was brought to the ER by his family.”

Family.

“His wife, Amalthea,” said Rizzoli. “And their son, Samuel.”

Maura took a deep breath and smelled both decay and the scent of summer in the air. Death and life mingled in a single perfume.

“I’m sorry,” said Rizzoli. “I’m sorry you had to find out. There’s still a chance we’re wrong about this man, you know. There’s still a chance he’s not related to them at all.”

But they weren’t wrong, and Maura knew it.

I knew it when I saw his face.

When Rizzoli and Frost walked into J.P. Doyle’s that evening, the cops standing around the bar greeted them with a loud and boisterous round of applause that made Rizzoli flush. Hell, even the guys who didn’t particularly like her were applauding in comradely acknowledgment of her success, which at that moment was being trumpeted on the five o’clock news playing on the TV above the bar. The crowd began to stomp in unison as Rizzoli and Frost approached the counter, where the grinning bartender had already set out two drinks for them. For Frost, a shot of whiskey, and for Rizzoli . . .