SEEING IT FROM the other side now. As a patient, not a doctor, the ceiling lights flickering past her as the gurney rolled down the hall, as the nurse in a bouffant cap glanced down, concern in her eyes. The wheels squeaked and the nurse panted a little as she pushed the gurney through double doors, into the operating room. Different lights glared overhead now, harsher, blinding. Like the lights of the autopsy room.
Maura closed her eyes against them. As the OR nurses transferred her to the table, she thought of Anna, lying naked beneath identical lamps, her body carved open, strangers peering down at her. She felt Anna’s spirit hovering above her, watching, just as Maura had once stared down at Anna. My sister, she thought as the pentobarbital slid into her veins, as the lights faded. Are you waiting for me?
But when she awakened, it wasn’t Anna she saw; it was Jane Rizzoli. Slats of daylight glowed through the partially closed blinds, casting bright horizontal bars across Rizzoli’s face as she leaned toward Maura.
“Hey, Doc.”
“Hey,” Maura whispered back.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Not so good. My arm…” Maura winced.
“Looks like it’s time for more drugs.” Rizzoli reached over and pressed the nurse’s call button.
“Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
They fell silent as the nurse came in to inject a dose of morphine into the IV. The silence lingered after the nurse had left, and the drug began to work its magic.
Maura said, softly: “Rick…”
“I’m sorry. You do know he’s…”
I know. She blinked back tears. “We never had a chance.”
“She wasn’t about to let you have a chance. That claw mark in your car door-that was all about him. About staying away from her husband. The slashed screens, the dead bird in the mailbox-all the threats Anna blamed on Cassell-I think that was Carmen, trying to scare Anna into leaving town. Into leaving her husband alone.”
“But then Anna came back to Boston.”
Rizzoli nodded. “She came back, because she learned she had a sister.”
Me.
“So Carmen finds out that the girlfriend’s back in town,” said Rizzoli. “Anna left that message on Rick’s answering machine, remember? The daughter heard it and told her mother. There goes any hope Carmen had of a reconciliation. The other woman was moving in again, on her territory. Her family.”
Maura remembered what Carmen had said: He wasn’t yours to take.
“Charles Cassell said something to me, about love,” said Rizzoli. “He said, there’s a kind of love that never lets go, no matter what. It sounds almost romantic, doesn’t it? Till death do us part. Then you think about how many people get killed because a lover won’t let go, won’t give up.”
By now, the morphine had spread through her bloodstream. Maura closed her eyes, welcoming the drug’s embrace. “How did you know?” she murmured. “Why did you think of Carmen?”
“The Black Talon. That’s the clue I should have followed all along-that bullet. But I got thrown off the track by the Lanks. By the Beast.”
“So did I,” whispered Maura. She felt the morphine dragging her toward sleep. “I think I’m ready, Jane. For the answer.”
“The answer to what?”
“Amalthea. I need to know.”
“If she’s your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Even if she is, it doesn’t mean a thing. It’s just biology. What do you gain by that knowledge?”
“The truth.” Maura sighed. “At least I’ll know the truth.”
The truth, thought Rizzoli as she walked to her car, is seldom what people really want to hear. Wouldn’t it be better to hold on to the thinnest sliver of hope that you are not the spawn of monsters? But Maura had asked for the facts, and Rizzoli knew they would be brutal. Already, searchers had found two sets of women’s remains buried on the forested slope, not far from where Mattie Purvis had been confined. How many other pregnant women had known the terrors of that same box? How many had awakened in the darkness and had clawed, shrieking, at those impenetrable walls? How many had understood, as Mattie had, that a terrible finale waited in store for them once their usefulness, as living incubators, was over?
Could I have survived that horror? I’ll never know the answer. Not until I’m the one in the box.
When she reached her car in the parking garage, she found herself checking all four tires to confirm they were intact, found herself scanning the cars around her, searching for anyone who might be watching. This is what the job does to you, she thought; you begin to feel evil all around you, even when it’s not there.
She climbed into her Subaru and started the engine. Sat for a moment as it idled, as the air blowing from the vents slowly cooled down. She reached into her purse for the cell phone, thinking: I need to hear Gabriel’s voice. I need to know that I am not Mattie Purvis, that my husband does love me. The way I love him.
Her call was answered on the first ring. “Agent Dean.”
“Hey,” she said.
Gabriel gave a startled laugh. “I was about to call you.”
“I miss you.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say. I’m heading to the airport now.”
“The airport? Does that mean-”
“I’m catching the next flight to Boston. So how about a date with your husband tonight? Think you can pencil me in?”
“In permanent ink. Just come home. Please, come home.”
A pause. Then he said, softly: “Are you okay, Jane?”
Unexpected tears stung her eyes. “Oh, it’s these goddamn hormones.” She wiped her face and laughed. “I think I need you right now.”
“You hold that thought. Because I’m on my way.”
Rizzoli was smiling as she drove toward Natick to visit a different hospital, a different patient. The other survivor in this tale of slaughter. These are two extraordinary women, she thought, and I’m privileged to know them both.
Judging by all the TV vans in the hospital parking lot, and all the reporters milling near the lobby entrance, the press, too, had decided that Mattie Purvis was a woman worth knowing. Rizzoli had to walk through a gantlet of reporters to get into the lobby. The tale of the lady buried in the box had set off a national news frenzy. Rizzoli had to flash her ID to two different security guards before finally being allowed to knock on Mattie’s hospital room door. When she heard no answer, she stepped into the room.
The TV was on, but with the sound off. Images flickered onscreen, unwatched. Mattie lay in bed, eyes closed, looking nothing like the well-scrubbed young bride in the wedding photo. Her lips were bruised and swollen; her face was a map of nicks and scratches. A coiled IV tube was taped to a hand which had scabbed fingers and broken nails. It looked like the claw of a feral creature. But the expression on Mattie’s face was serene; it was a sleep without nightmares.
“Mrs. Purvis?” said Rizzoli softly.
Mattie opened her eyes and blinked a few times before she fully focused on her visitor. “Oh. Detective Rizzoli, you’re back again.”
“I thought I’d check in on you. How’re you feeling today?”
Mattie gave a deep sigh. “So much better. What time is it?”
“Nearly noon.”
“I’ve slept all morning?”
“You deserve it. No, don’t sit up, just take it easy.”
“But I’m tired of being flat on my back.” Mattie pushed back the covers and sat up, uncombed hair falling in limp tangles.
“I saw your baby through the nursery window. She’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t she?” Mattie smiled. “I’m going to call her Rose. I’ve always liked that name.”
Rose. A shiver went through Rizzoli. It was just a coincidence, one of those unexplainable convergences in the universe. Alice Rose. Rose Purvis. One girl long dead, the other just beginning her life. Yet another thread, however fragile, that connected the lives of two girls across the decades.
“Did you have more questions for me?” Mattie asked.
“Well, actually…” Rizzoli pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down. “I asked you so many things yesterday, Mattie. But I never asked you how you did it. How you managed.”
“Managed?”
“To stay sane. To not give up.”
The smile on Mattie’s lips faded. She looked at Rizzoli with wide, haunted eyes and murmured: “I don’t know how I did it. I never imagined I could ever…” She stopped. “I wanted to live, that’s all. I wanted my baby to live.”
They were quiet for a moment.
Then Rizzoli said: “I should warn you about the press. They’re all going to want a piece of you. I had to walk through a whole mob of them outside. So far, the hospital’s managed to keep them away from you, but when you get home, it’s going to be a different story. Especially since…” Rizzoli paused.
“Since what?”
“I just want you to be prepared, that’s all. Don’t let anyone rush you into something you don’t want to do.”
Mattie frowned. Then her gaze lifted to the muted TV, where the noon news was playing. “He’s been on every channel,” she said.
On the screen, Dwayne Purvis stood before a sea of microphones. Mattie reached for the TV remote and turned up the volume.
“This is the happiest day of my life,” Dwayne said to the crowd of reporters. “I have my wonderful wife and daughter back. It’s been an ordeal I can’t even begin to describe. A nightmare that none of you could possibly imagine. Thank God, thank God for happy endings.”
Mattie pressed the OFF button. But her gaze remained on the blank TV. “It doesn’t feel real,” she said. “It’s like it never happened. That’s why I can sit here and be so calm about it, because I don’t believe I was really there, in that box.”
“You were, Mattie. It’s going to take time for you to process it. You might have nightmares. Flashbacks. You’ll step into an elevator, or look into a closet, and suddenly you’ll feel like you’re back in the box again. But it will get better, I promise you. Just remember that-it does get better.”
Mattie looked at her with glistening eyes. “You know.”
Yes, I know, thought Rizzoli, her hands closing over the scars on her palms. They were the evidence of her own ordeal, her own battle for sanity. Survival is only the first step.
There was a knock on the door. Rizzoli stood up as Dwayne Purvis walked in, carrying an armful of red roses. He went straight to his wife’s bedside.
“Hey, babe. I would have come up sooner, but it’s a zoo down there. They all wanted interviews.”
“We saw you on TV,” said Rizzoli. Trying to sound neutral, though she could not look at him without remembering the interview at the Natick police station. Oh, Mattie, she thought. You can do better than this man.
He turned to look at Rizzoli, and she saw his tailored shirt, his neatly knotted silk tie. The scent of his aftershave overwhelmed the fragrance of the roses. “So how’d I do?” he asked eagerly.
She told the truth. “You looked like a real pro on TV.”
“Yeah? It’s amazing, all the cameras out there. This has got everyone so excited.” He looked at his wife. “You know, hon, we need to document everything. Just so we have a record of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, right now. This moment. We should have a picture of this moment. Me bringing you flowers as you lie in your hospital bed. I’ve already got pictures of the kid. Had the nurse bring her up to the window. But we need to get close-ups. You holding her, maybe.”
“Her name is Rose.”
“And we don’t have any of you and me together. We definitely need a few photos of us. I brought a camera.”
“My hair isn’t combed, Dwayne. I’m a mess. I don’t want any pictures.”
“Come on. They’re all asking for ’em.”
“Who is? Who are the pictures for?”
“That’s something we can decide later. We can take our time, weigh all the offers. The story’s worth so much more if it comes with photos.” He pulled a camera from his pocket and handed it to Rizzoli. “Here, you mind taking the picture?”
“It’s up to your wife.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he insisted. “Just take the picture.” He leaned in close to Mattie and extended the bouquet of roses to her. “How about this? Me handing her the flowers. It’ll look great.” He smiled, teeth gleaming, the loving husband sheltering his wife.
Rizzoli looked at Mattie. She saw no protest in her gaze, just a strange, volcanic gleam that she could not interpret. She raised the camera, centered the couple in the viewfinder, and pressed the shutter release.
The flash went off, just in time to capture the image of Mattie Purvis whacking her husband across the face with the bouquet of roses.