Last to Die (12 page)

Jane replayed the recording twice, then dialed the number that Maura had called from.

After six rings, a woman answered: “Evensong School. This is Dr. Welliver.”

“I’m Detective Jane Rizzoli, Boston PD. I’m trying to reach Dr. Maura Isles.”

“I’m afraid she’s gone for an evening canoe on the lake.”

“I’ll try her cell phone.”

“We don’t have a cell signal out here. That’s why she used our landline.”

“Then have her call me back when she can. Thank you.” Jane hung up and stared at her phone for a moment, all thoughts of her parents temporarily forgotten. Instead she thought of Teddy Clock. The unluckiest boy in the world, Moore called him. But now she knew of two others just like him. Three unlucky children. Maybe there were more she didn’t know about, foster children in other cities, being hunted even now.

“I have to go out,” she said.

“What’s going on?” asked Gabriel.

“I need to see Teddy Clock.”

“Is there a problem?”

She grabbed her car keys and headed for the door. “I hope not.”

It was dark by the time she reached the suburban foster home where Teddy had been temporarily placed. The house was an older but neatly kept white Colonial set back from the street and screened by leafy trees. Jane parked in the driveway and stepped out, into a warm night that smelled of freshly mown grass. It was quiet on this road, with only an occasional car passing by. Through the trees she could barely glimpse the lights of the neighbors next door.

She climbed the porch steps and rang the bell.

Mrs. Nancy Inigo answered, drying her hands on a dish towel. Her smiling face was streaked with flour, and gray hairs had come loose from her braid. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla wafted from inside, and Jane heard the sound of girls’ laughter.

“You made it here in record time, Detective,” said Nancy.

“I’m sorry if my phone call alarmed you.”

“No, the girls and I are having a fine old time baking cookies for school. We just got the first batch out of the oven. Come on in.”

“Is Teddy okay?” Jane asked softly as she stepped into the foyer.

Nancy gave a sigh. “I’m afraid he’s hiding upstairs right now. Not really in the mood to join us in the kitchen. That’s how he’s been since he got here. Eats dinner, then goes into his room and shuts the door.” She shook her head. “We asked the psychologist if we should coax him out, maybe take away his computer time and make him join us for family activities, but she said it’s too soon. Or maybe Teddy’s just afraid to get attached to us, because of what happened to the last …” Nancy paused. “Anyway, Patrick and I are taking it slow with him.”

“Is Patrick here?”

“No, he’s at Trevor’s soccer practice. With four kids, there’s never a moment to sit still.”

“You two are really something, you know that?”

“We just like having kids around, that’s all,” Nancy said with a laugh. They walked into the kitchen, where two flour-dusted girls of about eight were pressing cookie cutters into a sheet of dough. “Once we got started taking them in, we couldn’t seem to stop. Did you know we’re already about to attend the fourth wedding? Patrick’s walking another foster daughter down the aisle next month.”

“That’s going to add up to a lot of grandkids for you two.”

Nancy grinned. “That’s the whole idea.”

Jane glanced around the kitchen, where countertops were covered with homework papers and schoolbooks and scattered mail. The happy disorder of a busy family. But she’d seen how instantly
normal
could vanish. She had stood in kitchens transformed by blood splatters, and just for an instant she imagined splatters on these cabinets. She blinked and the blood was gone and once again she saw two eight-year-olds with sticky hands cutting star-shaped cookies.

“I’m going up to see Teddy,” she said.

“Upstairs, second bedroom on the right. The one with the closed door.” Nancy slid another cookie sheet into the oven and turned to look at her. “Be sure to knock first. He’s particular about that. And don’t be surprised if he doesn’t want to talk. Just give him time, Detective.”

We may not have much time, she thought as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Not if other foster families were being attacked. She paused outside the boy’s room and listened for the sound of a radio or TV, but heard only silence through the closed door.

She knocked. “Teddy? It’s Detective Rizzoli. Can I come in?”

After a moment, the button lock clicked and the door swung open. Teddy’s owlish pale face regarded her through the gap, blinking rapidly, his glasses askew as if he’d just woken up.

As she entered the room, he stood silent, thin as a scarecrow in his baggy T-shirt and jeans. It was a pleasant room painted lemon yellow, the curtains printed with African savanna scenes. The
shelves
contained children’s books for various age levels, and on the walls hung cheery posters of
Sesame Street
characters, décor that was certainly too young for a smart fourteen-year-old like Teddy. Jane wondered how many other traumatized children had taken refuge in this room, had found comfort in this secure world created by the Inigos.

The boy had still not spoken.

She sat in a chair by Teddy’s laptop computer, where a screen-saver traced geometric lines across the monitor. “How are you doing?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“Why don’t you sit down, so we can talk.”

Obediently he sank onto the bed and sat with shoulders folded inward, as though he wanted to make himself as small and inconsequential as possible.

“Do you like it here with Nancy and Patrick?”

He nodded.

“Is there anything you need, anything I can bring you?”

A shake of the head.

“Teddy, don’t you have
anything
to say?”

“No.”

At last a word, even if it was only one.

“Okay.” She sighed. “Then maybe I should just get to the point. I need to ask you about something.”

“I don’t know anything else.” He seemed to shrink deeper into himself and mumbled into his chest. “I told you everything I remembered.”

“And you helped us, Teddy. You really did.”

“But you haven’t caught him, have you? So you want me to tell you more.”

“This isn’t about that night. It’s not even about you. It’s about two other children.”

Slowly his head lifted, and he looked at her. “I’m not the only one?”

She stared at eyes so colorless they seemed transparent, as if she could look right through him. “Do
you
think there are other kids like you?”

“I don’t know. But you just said there were two other kids. What do they have to do with me?”

The boy might not say much, but obviously he listened and understood more than she realized. “I’m not sure, Teddy. Maybe you can help me answer that question.”

“Who are they? The other kids?”

“The girl’s name is Claire Ward. Have you ever heard that name?”

He considered this for a moment. From the kitchen came the sounds of the oven door banging shut, the girls squealing, noises of a happy family. But in Teddy’s room there was silence as the boy sat thinking. Finally, he gave a small shake of the head. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Anything’s possible. That’s what my dad used to say. But I can’t be sure.”

“There’s also a boy named Will Yablonski. Does that ring any bells?”

“Is his family dead, too?”

The question, asked so softly, made her heart ache for the boy. She moved close beside him, to place her arm around his pitifully thin shoulders. He sat stiffly beside her, as if her touch was simply something to endure. She kept her arm around him anyway as they sat on the bed, two mute companions joined by a tragedy neither could explain.

“Is the boy alive?” Teddy asked softly.

“Yes, he is.”

“And the girl?”

“They’re both safe. You are, too, I promise.”

“No I’m not.” He looked at her, his gaze clear-eyed and steady, his voice matter-of-fact. “I’m going to die.”

“Don’t say that, Teddy. It’s not true, and—”

Her words were cut off as the lights suddenly went out. In the darkness she heard the boy breathing loud and fast, and felt her own heart banging in her chest.

Nancy Inigo called out from the kitchen: “Detective Rizzoli? I think we must have blown a fuse!”

Of course that’s all it is
, thought Jane.
A blown fuse. Things like this happen all the time
.

The crack of shattering glass made Jane leap to her feet. In an instant she had her holster unsnapped, her hand on her Glock.

“Nancy!” she yelled.

Frantic footsteps came thumping up the stairs, and the two girls burst in, followed by the heavier footfalls of Nancy Inigo.

“It came from the front of the house!” said Nancy, her voice almost drowned out by the girl’s panicked whimpers. “Someone’s breaking in!”

And they were all trapped upstairs. Their only escape was through Teddy’s window, which led to a two-story drop.

“Where’s the nearest telephone?” Jane whispered.

“Downstairs. In my bedroom.”

And Jane’s cell phone was in her purse, which she’d left in the kitchen.

“Stay here. Lock the door,” Jane ordered.

“What are you doing? Detective, don’t leave us!”

But Jane was already headed out of the room. She heard the door close softly behind her, heard Nancy snap the button lock. That lock was next to useless; it would delay an intruder for only the seconds it would take to kick down the flimsy door.

First, he has to get past me
.

Gripping her weapon, she crept up the dark hallway. Whoever had broken the window was silent now. She heard only her own heartbeat and the rush of blood through her ears. At the top of the stairs she halted and dropped to a crouch. This was as far as she’d go. Only a fool would try to stalk a killer in the darkness, and her
only
priority was protecting Nancy and the children. No, she’d wait right here and pick him off as he climbed the stairs.
Come to Mama, asshole
.

Her eyes had finally adjusted to the gloom, and she could just make out the silhouette of the banister spiraling down into shadow. The only light was the faint glow through a downstairs window. Where was he, where was he? She heard no sound, no movement.

Maybe he’s no longer downstairs. Maybe he’s already on the second floor, standing right behind me
.

In panic, her head snapped around, but she saw no monster looming behind.

Her attention swiveled back to the stairs just as an approaching car’s headlights flared through the window. Car doors slammed shut, and she heard children’s voices, footsteps thumping up the steps. The front door swung open and a man stood framed in the doorway.

“Hey, Nancy? What’s with the lights?” he called out. “I’ve got half the soccer team here, expecting cookies!”

The invasion of little boys sounded like a cattle stampede as they came clomping in, laughing and hooting in the darkness. Still crouched at the top of the stairs, Jane slowly lowered her weapon.

“Mr. Inigo?” she called out.

“Hello? Who’s up there?”

“Detective Rizzoli. Do you have your cell phone?”

“Yeah. Where’s Nancy?”

“I want you to call nine one one. And get those boys out of the house.”

THE WINDOW IN
the downstairs study was broken, and glass shards glittered like diamonds scattered across the floor.

“This appears to be the intruder’s point of entry,” said Frost. “We found the back door ajar, which is probably how he exited. The arrival of Mr. Inigo and all those noisy kids must have chased him off. As for dousing the lights, all the perp had to do was walk into the garage, open the fuse box, and flip the master switch.”

Jane crouched down to stare at the oak floor, where the intruder’s shoe had left a faint imprint of dirt. Through the broken window she heard the voices of the CSU team examining the soil outside for other footwear impressions, and in the driveway a patrol car’s radio hissed and crackled. Reassuring sounds. But as she stared at the footprint on the floor, she felt her pulse bounding again, and remembered the smell of her own fear in the darkness.
If only I’d had the chance to take him down
.

“How did he find the boy?” she said. “How the hell did he know Teddy was here?”

“We can’t be sure Teddy was his target. This house could have been a random pick.”

“Come on, Frost.” She looked up at her partner. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

There was a silence. “No,” he admitted.

“Somehow he knew the boy was here.”

“That info could have leaked out of Social Services. Boston PD. Any number of sources could have accidentally revealed it. Or the perp could’ve followed
you
here tonight. Anyone who saw you at the crime scene knows you’re working the case.”

Jane thought about her drive to the Inigos’ house, tried to remember if there’d been anything unusual, any set of headlights that stood out in her rearview mirror. But headlights were anonymous and Boston traffic unremitting. If a killer followed me, she thought, then he knows my car.
And he knows where I live
.