The Sinner (28 page)

“This is Jane,” she said. “I have something to tell
you, and I guess it’s better this way, over the phone. It’s better
than
talking to you in person, because I don’t think I really want to see your
reaction.
So anyway, here goes. I . . . screwed up.” She suddenly laughed.
“Jesus,
I feel really stupid, making the world’s oldest mistake. I’ll never
joke
about dumb bimbos again. What happened is, well . . . I’m pregnant. About
eight
weeks, I think. Which, in case you’re wondering, means it’s definitely
yours. I’m not asking you for anything. I don’t want you to feel
obligated
to do whatever it is men are supposed to do. You don’t even have to return
this
call. But I did think you had a right to know, because . . .” She paused,
her
voice suddenly thick with tears. She cleared her throat. “Because I’ve
decided to keep the baby.”

She hung up.

For a long time she didn’t move, but just stared down at her
hands
as she rode a twister of emotions. Relief. Fear. Anticipation. But not
ambivalence—this
was a choice she felt absolutely right about.

She rose, feeling suddenly weightless, released from the burden of
uncertainty. There was so much to worry about, so many changes to prepare for,
yet
she felt a new lightness in her step as she walked down the stairs and went back
into the kitchen.

The water on the stove was now boiling. The rising steam warmed
her
face, like a mother’s caress.

She added two teaspoons of olive oil, then slid the gnocchi into
the
pot. Three other pots already were simmering on the stove, each releasing its
own
fragrance. The bouquet of her mother’s kitchen. She inhaled the smells,
aching
with new appreciation for this sacred place, where food was love.

She scooped up the potato dumplings as they floated to the
surface,
set them on a platter, and ladled on veal sauce. She opened the oven and pulled
out
the casserole dishes that had been left warming inside: Roast potatoes. Green
beans.
Meatballs. Manicotti. A parade of plenty, which she and her mother carried out
in
triumph to the dining room. And last, of course, the turkey, which sat in royal
isolation
at the center of the table, surrounded by its Italian cousins. It was more than
their
family could ever eat, but that was the point; an abundance of both food and
love.

She sat at the table, across from Irene, and watched the twins
being
fed. Only an hour ago, when she had looked at Irene in the living room, she had
seen
a tired young woman whose life was already over, whose skirt sagged from the
constant
tugging of small hands. Now she looked at that same woman, and she saw a
different
Irene, one who laughed as she spooned cranberry sauce into little mouths, whose
expression
turned tender and unfocused as she pressed her lips to a head of curly hair.

I see a different woman because I’m the one who’s
changed,
she thought. Not Irene.

After dinner, as she helped Angela brew coffee and pipe sweet
whipped
cream into the cannoli shells, she found herself looking with fresh eyes at her
mother
as well. She saw new streaks of silver in her hair, and a face starting to sag
at
the jowls. Do you ever regret having us, Mom? she wondered. Do you ever stop and
think that you’ve made a mistake? Or were you as sure as I am now, about
this
baby?

“Hey, Janie!” yelled Frankie from the living room.
“Your
cell phone’s ringing in your purse.”

“Can you get it?” she yelled back.

“We’re watching the game!”

“I’ve got whipped cream all over my hands! Will you just
answer it?”

He stalked into the kitchen and practically thrust the phone at
her.
“It’s some guy.”

“Frost?”

“Naw. I don’t know who it is.”

Gabriel
was her first thought.
He’s heard my message.

She crossed to the sink and took her time rinsing off her hands.
When
at last she picked up the phone, she was able to answer with a calm,
“Hello?”

“Detective Rizzoli? It’s Father Brophy.”

All the tension suddenly whooshed out of her. She sank into a
chair.
She could feel her mother watching her, and she tried to keep the disappointment
from her voice.

“Yes, Father?”

“I’m sorry to call you on Christmas Eve, but I
can’t
seem to get through to Dr. Isles’s phone, and—well, something has come
up that I thought you should know about.”

“What is it?”

“Dr. Isles wanted contact information for Sister
Ursula’s
next of kin, so I offered to look it up for her. But it turns out our parish
records
are a little out of date. We have an old phone number for a brother in Denver,
but
that phone’s been disconnected.”

“Mother Mary Clement told me the brother died.”

“Did she tell you that Sister Ursula also has a nephew living
out of state?”

“The Abbess didn’t mention him.”

“It seems he’s been in touch with the doctors.
That’s
what the nurses told me.”

She looked at the platter of filled cannoli, now getting soggy
with
their filling of sweet cream. “Where are you going with this, Father?”

“I know this seems like a minor detail, tracking down some
nephew
who hasn’t seen his aunt in years. And I know how hard it is, to locate
someone
who’s out of state, if you don’t even know their first name. But the
church
has resources even the police don’t have. A good priest knows his flock,
Detective.
He knows their families and the names of their children. So I called the priest
in
the Denver parish where Sister Ursula’s brother lived. He remembers the
brother
quite well. He performed his funeral Mass.”

“Did you ask him about her relatives? About this
nephew?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And?”

“There is no nephew, Detective. He doesn’t exist.”

T
WENTY
-T
WO

M
AURA DREAMED
of funeral pyres.

She was crouched in shadow, watching orange flames lick at bodies
stacked
like cordwood, watching flesh consumed in the heat of the fire. The silhouettes
of
men surrounded the burning corpses, a circle of silent watchers whose faces she
could
not see. Nor could they see her, for she was hidden in darkness, cowering from
their
sight.

Sparks flew up from the pyre, fed by its human fuel, and spiralled
into the black sky. The sparks lit the night, illuminating an even more terrible
sight: The corpses were still moving. Blackened limbs thrashed in the torment of
fire.

One among that circle of men slowly turned and stared at Maura. It
was a face she recognized, a face whose eyes were empty of any soul.

Victor.

She came awake in an instant, her heart ramming against her chest,
her nightshirt soaked with sweat. A gust buffeted the house, and she could hear
the
skeletal clatter of shaking windows, the groan of the walls. Still wrapped in
the
panic of the nightmare, she lay perfectly still, the sweat beginning to chill on
her skin. Was it only the wind that had awakened her? She listened, and every
creak
of the house sounded like a footstep. An intruder, moving closer.

Suddenly she tensed, alerted to a different sound. A scratching
against
the house, like the claws of an animal trying to get in.

She looked at the glowing face of her clock; it was eleven
forty-five.

She rolled out of bed, and the room felt frigid. She groped in the
darkness for a robe, but did not turn on the lights, to preserve her night
vision.
She went to her bedroom window and saw that it had stopped snowing. The ground
glowed
white under moonlight.

There it was again—the sound of something rubbing against the
wall. She pressed as close to the glass as she could, and spied a flicker of
shadow,
moving near the front corner of the house. An animal?

She left the bedroom, and in her bare feet, she felt her way down
the
hallway, moving toward the living room. Edging around the Christmas tree, she
peered
out the window.

Her heart nearly stopped.

A man was climbing the steps to her front porch.

She could not see his face, for it was hidden in shadow. As though
he sensed her watching him, he turned toward the window where she stood, and she
saw his silhouette. The broad shoulders, the ponytail.

She pulled away from the window and stood wedged against the
prickly
branches of the Christmas tree, trying to understand why Matthew Sutcliffe was
here,
at her door. Why would he come at this hour without calling first? She still
hadn’t
shaken off the last strands of fear from her nightmare, and this late night
visit
made her uneasy. It made her think twice about opening her door to
anyone—even
a man whose name and face she knew.

The doorbell rang.

She flinched, and a glass bulb fell from the tree and shattered on
the wood floor.

Outside, the shadow moved toward the window.

She didn’t move, still debating what to do. I just won’t
turn on the light, she thought. He’ll give up and leave me alone.

The doorbell rang again.

Go away, she thought. Go away and call me back in the morning.

She released a sigh of relief when she heard his footsteps
descending
the porch steps. She inched toward the window and looked out, but could not see
him.
Nor could she see any car parked in front of the house. Where had he gone?

Now she heard footsteps, the crunch of boots in snow, moving
around
toward the side of the house. What the hell was he doing, circling her property?

He’s trying to find a way into the house.

She scrambled out from behind the tree and bit back a cry of pain
as
she stepped on the broken bulb, and a shard of glass pierced her bare foot.

His silhouette suddenly loomed in a side window. He was staring
in,
trying to see into the dark living room.

She retreated into the hall, wincing with every step, the sole of
her
foot now damp with blood.

It’s time to call the police. Call nine-one-one.

She turned and hobbled into the kitchen, hands brushing across the
wall, searching for the phone. In her haste, she knocked the receiver off its
cradle.
She snatched it up and pressed it to her ear.

There was no dial tone.

The bedroom phone, she thought—was it off the hook?

She hung up the kitchen phone and limped back into the hallway,
the
shard of glass stabbing even deeper into her sole, retracing a floor now wet
with
her blood. Back into the bedroom, her eyes straining to see in the darkness, her
feet now moving across carpet until her shin bumped up against the bed. She felt
her way up the mattress to the headboard. To the phone on the nightstand.

No dial tone.

Terror blasted through her like an icy wind.
He’s cut the
phone
line.

She dropped the receiver and stood listening, desperate to hear
what
he would do next. The house creaked in the wind, obscuring all sounds except the
drum of her own heartbeat.

Where is he? Where is he?

Then she thought: my cell phone.

She scurried over to her dresser, where she’d left her purse.
Dug into it, pawing through its contents, searching for the phone. She pulled
out
her wallet and keys, pens and a hairbrush. Phone, where’s the fucking
phone?

In the car. I left it on the front seat of the car.

Her head snapped up at the sound of breaking glass.

Had it come from the front of the house, or the rear? Which way
was
he coming in?

She scrambled out of the bedroom and into the hall, no longer
registering
the pain as the shard of glass drove deeper into her foot. The door to the
garage
was right off the hallway. She yanked the door open and slipped through, just as
she heard more glass breaking and scattering across the floor.

She pulled the door shut. Backed away toward her car, her breaths
coming
in quick gasps, her heart galloping.
Quiet. Quiet.
Slowly she lifted the
car
door handle and cringed when she heard the
clunk
as the latch released.
She
swung open the door and slid in behind the wheel. Gave a strangled groan of
frustration
when she remembered the car keys were still in her bedroom. She couldn’t
just
start the engine and drive away. She glanced at the passenger seat, and by the
glow
of the dome light, she spotted her cell phone, wedged in the crack.

She flipped it open and saw the glow of the full battery signal.

Thank you, God, she thought, and dialed 911.

“Emergency Operator.”

“This is twenty-one thirty Buckminster Road,” she
whispered.
“Someone’s breaking into my house!”

“Can you repeat the address? I can’t hear you.”

“Twenty-one thirty Buckminster Road! An intruder—”
She
went dead silent, her gaze fixed on the door leading into the house. A sliver of
light now glowed beneath it.

He’s inside. He’s searching the house.

She scrambled out of the car and softly pushed the door shut,
extinguishing
the dome light. Once again, she was in darkness. The house’s fuse box was
only
a few feet away, on the garage wall, and she considered flipping all the circuit
breakers and cutting off power to the lights. It would give her the cover of
darkness.
But he would surely guess where she was, and would immediately head into the
garage.

Just stay quiet, she thought. Maybe he’ll think I’m not
at
home. Maybe he’ll think the house is empty.

Then she remembered the blood. She had left a trail of blood.

She could hear his footsteps. Shoes moving across the wood floor,
following
her bloody footprints out of the kitchen. A confusing smear of them, up and down
the hallway.

Eventually, he would follow them into the garage.

She thought of how Rat Lady had died, remembered the bright spray
of
pellets scattered throughout her chest. She thought of the path of devastation
that
a copper-jacketed Glaser bullet cuts through the human body. The explosion of
lead
shot tearing through internal organs. The rupture of vessels, the massive
hemorrhage
of blood into the chest cavity.

Run. Get out of the house.

And then what? Scream for the neighbors? Pound on doors? She
didn’t
even know which of her neighbors was home tonight.

The footsteps were moving closer.

Now or never.

She ran toward the side door and cold air blasted in as she pulled
it open. She bolted out into the yard. Her bare feet sank calf-deep into snow,
which
cascaded in, blocking the jamb, so she could not close the door behind her.

She left it ajar, waded to the gate, and yanked up the
cold-stiffened
latch. The cell phone tumbled from her grasp as she strained on the gate, trying
to pull it open against the barrier of deep snow. At last she swung it just far
enough
so that she could squeeze through, and she stumbled into the front yard.

All the houses on her street were dark.

She ran, bare feet churning through snow. Had just reached the
sidewalk
when she heard her pursuer also wrenching on the gate, straining to open it
wider.

The sidewalk was mercilessly exposed; she veered between hedges,
into
Mr. Telushkin’s front yard. But here the drifts were even deeper, almost to
her knees, and she had to struggle just to move forward. Her feet were numb, her
legs clumsy from the cold. Against the bright reflection of moonlight on snow,
she
was an easy target, a stark black figure against a sea of pitiless white. Even
as
she stumbled forward, her legs mired, she wondered if he was, at that moment,
taking
aim.

She sank into a thigh-deep drift and fell, tasting snow. Rose to
her
knees and began to crawl, refusing to surrender. To accept death. On senseless
legs
she tunneled forward, hearing footsteps crunch toward her. He was moving in for
the
kill.

Light suddenly cut through the darkness.

She looked up and saw the glitter of approaching headlights. A
car.

My only chance.

With a sob, she sprang to her feet and began to run toward the
street.
Waving her arms, screaming.

The car skidded to a stop just in front of her. The driver stepped
out, a tall and imposing silhouette, moving toward her across the spectral
whiteness.

She stared. Slowly began to back away.

It was Father Brophy.

“It’s all right,” he murmured.
“Everything’s
all right.”

She turned and looked toward her house, but saw no one.
Where is
he? Where did he go?

Now more lights were approaching. Two more cars pulled to a stop.
She
saw the pulsing blue of a police cruiser, and raised her hand against the glare
of
headlights, trying to make out the silhouettes walking toward her.

She heard Rizzoli call out: “Doc? Are you okay?”

“I’ll take care of her,” said Father Brophy.

“Where’s Sutcliffe?”

“I didn’t see him.”

“The house,” said Maura. “He was in my house.”

“Get her in your car, Father,” said Rizzoli. “Just
stay
with her.”

Maura still hadn’t moved. She stood frozen in place as Father
Brophy stepped toward her. He pulled off his coat and draped it over her
shoulders.
Wrapped his arm around her and helped her toward the passenger seat of his car.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why are
you
here?”

“Shhh. Let’s just get you out of this wind.”

He slid in beside her. As the heater blasted at her knees, her
face,
she hugged his coat tighter, trying to get warm, her teeth chattering so hard
she
could not talk.

Through the windshield, she saw dark figures moving on the street.
She recognized Barry Frost’s silhouette as he approached her front door.
Saw
Rizzoli and a patrolman edging toward the side gate, their weapons drawn.

She turned to look at Father Brophy. Though she could not read his
expression, she felt the intensity of his gaze, as surely as she felt the warmth
of his coat. “How did you know?” she whispered.

“When I couldn’t get through, on your phone, I called
Detective
Rizzoli.” He took her hand. Held it in both of his, a touch that brought
tears
to her eyes. Suddenly she couldn’t look at him; she stared straight ahead,
at
the street, and saw it through a blur of colors as he pressed her hand to his
lips
in a warm and lingering kiss.

She blinked away tears, and the street came into focus. What she
saw
alarmed her. Running figures. Rizzoli, silhouetted by flashing blue lights as
she
darted across the road. Frost, weapon drawn, dropping to a crouch behind the
cruiser.

Why are they all moving toward us? What do they know that we
don’t?

“Lock the doors,” she said.

Brophy looked at her, bewildered. “What?”

“Lock the doors!”

Rizzoli was yelling at them from the street, shouts of warning.

He’s here. He’s crouched behind our car!

Maura twisted sideways, hand scrabbling across the door in search
of
the button, frantic because she could not find it in the darkness.

Matthew Sutcliffe’s shadow reared outside her window. She
flinched
as the door swung open and cold air rushed in.

“Get out of the car, Father,” said Sutcliffe.

The priest went very still. He said quietly, calmly: “The
keys
are in the ignition. Take the car, Dr. Sutcliffe. Maura and I are both getting
out.”

“No, just you.”

“I won’t step out unless she does, too.”

“Get the fuck out, Father!”

Her hair was wrenched sideways, and the gun bit into her temple.
“Please,”
she whispered to Brophy. “Just do it. Do it now.”