Body Double

THIRTEEN

THE BONES CHANGED EVERYTHING.

Maura had planned to drive home to Boston that evening. Instead she returned briefly to the cottage to change into jeans and a T-shirt, then drove back in her own car to the clearing. I’ll stay a little longer, she thought, and leave by four o’clock. But as the afternoon wore on, as the crime scene unit arrived from Augusta and search teams began walking the grid that Corso had mapped out in the clearing, Maura lost track of the time. She took only one break, to wolf down a chicken sandwich that volunteers had delivered to the site. Everything tasted like the mosquito repellent she’d slathered all over her face, but she was so hungry she would have happily gnawed on a dry crust of bread. Her appetite sated, she once again pulled on gloves, picked up a trowel, and knelt down in the dirt beside Dr. Singh.

Four o’clock came and went.

The cardboard boxes began to fill with bones. Ribs and lumbar vertebrae. Femurs and tibias. The bulldozer had not, in fact, scattered the bones far. The female’s remains were all located within a six-foot radius; the male’s, bound together in a web of blackberry roots, were even more contained. There appeared to be only two individuals, but it took all afternoon to unearth them. Gripped by the excitement of the dig, Maura could not bring herself to leave, not when every shovelful of dirt she sifted might reveal some new prize. A button or a bullet or a tooth. As a Stanford University undergraduate, she had spent a summer working on an archaeological site in Baja. Though the temperatures there had soared well into the nineties, and her only shade was a broad-brimmed hat, she had worked straight into the hottest part of the day, driven by the same fever that afflicts treasure hunters who believe that the next artifact is only inches away. That fever was what she experienced now, kneeling among the ferns, swatting at blackflies. It was what kept her digging through the afternoon and into the evening as storm clouds moved in. As thunder rumbled in the distance.

That, and the quiet thrill she felt whenever Rick Ballard came near.

Even as she sifted through dirt, teased away roots, she was aware of him. His voice, his proximity. He was the one who brought her a fresh water bottle, who handed her the sandwich. Who stopped to place a hand on her shoulder and ask how she was doing. Her male colleagues at the M.E.’s office seldom touched her. Perhaps it was her aloofness, or some silent signal she gave off that told them she did not welcome personal contact. But Ballard did not hesitate to reach for her arm, to rest his hand on her back.

His touches left her flushed.

When the CSU team began packing up their tools for the day, she was startled to realize it was already seven, and daylight was fading. Her muscles ached, her clothes were filthy. She stood on legs trembling with weariness, and watched Daljeet tape shut the two boxes of remains. They each picked up a box and carried them across the field, to his vehicle.

“After today, I think you owe me dinner, Daljeet,” she said.

“Restaurant Julien, I promise. Next time I’m down in Boston.”

“Believe me, I plan to collect.”

He loaded the boxes into his car and shut the door. Then they shook hands, filthy palm to filthy palm. She waved as he drove away. Most of the search team had already left; only a few cars remained.

Ballard’s Explorer was among them.

She paused in the deepening dusk and looked at the clearing. He was standing near the woods, talking to Detective Corso, his back to her. She lingered, hoping that he would notice she was about to leave.

And then what? What did she want to happen between them?

Get out of here before you make an idiot of yourself.

Abruptly she turned and walked to her car. Started the engine and pulled away so quickly the tires spun.

Back in the cottage, she peeled off her soiled clothes. Took a long shower, lathering up twice to wash away every trace of the oily mosquito repellant. When she stepped out of the bathroom, she realized she had no more clean clothes to change into. She had planned on staying only one night in Fox Harbor.

She opened the closet door and gazed at Anna’s clothes. They were all her size. What else was she going to wear? She pulled out a summer dress. It was white cotton, a little girlish for her taste, but on this warm and humid evening, it was just what she felt like wearing. Slipping the dress over her head, she felt the kiss of sheer fabric against her skin, and wondered when the last time was that Anna had smoothed this dress over her own hips, when had she last looped the sash around her waist. The creases were still there, marking the fabric where Anna had tied the knot. Everything I see and touch of hers still bears her imprint, she thought.

The ringing telephone made her turn and face the nightstand. Somehow she knew, even before she picked it up, that it was Ballard.

“I didn’t see you leave,” he said.

“I came back to the house to take a shower. I was such a mess.”

He laughed. “I’m feeling pretty grungy myself.”

“When are you driving back to Boston?”

“It’s already so late in the day. I think I might as well just stay another night. What about you?”

“I don’t really feel like driving back tonight, either.”

A moment passed.

“Did you find a hotel room here?” she asked.

“I brought my tent and sleeping bag with me. I’m staying at a campground up the road.”

It took her five seconds to make a decision. Five seconds to consider the possibilities. And the consequences.

“There’s a spare room here,” she said. “You’re welcome to use it.”

“I hate to barge in on you.”

“The bed’s just sitting here, Rick.”

A pause. “That’d be great. But on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You let me bring you dinner. There’s a take-out place down on Main Street. Nothing fancy, maybe just some boiled lobsters.”

“I don’t know about you, Rick. But in my book, lobsters definitely qualify as fancy.”

“Do you want wine or beer?”

“Tonight feels like a beer night.”

“I’ll be there in about an hour. Save your appetite.”

She hung up, and suddenly realized she was starving. Only moments ago, she’d been too tired to drive into town, and had considered skipping dinner and simply going to bed early. Now she was hungry, not just for food but for company as well.

She wandered the house, restless and driven by too many contradictory desires. Only a few nights ago, she had shared dinner with Daniel Brophy. But the church had long ago laid claim to Daniel, and she would never be in the running. Hopeless causes might be seductive, but they seldom brought you happiness.

She heard the rumble of thunder and went to the screen door. Outside, dusk had deepened to night. Though she saw no lightning flashes, the air itself seemed charged. Electric with possibilities. Raindrops began to patter on the roof. At first it was only a few hesitant taps, then the sky opened up like a hundred drummers pounding overhead. Thrilled by the storm’s power, she stood on the porch and watched the rain pour down, and felt the welcome blast of cool air ripple her dress, lift her hair.

A pair of headlights cut through the silvery downpour.

She stood perfectly still on the porch, her heart pounding like the rain, as the car pulled up in front of the house. Ballard stepped out, carrying a large sack and a six-pack of beer. Head bent under the torrent, he splashed to the porch and up the steps.

“Didn’t know I’d have to swim here,” he said.

She laughed. “Come on, I’ll get you a towel.”

“Do you mind if I jump into your shower? I haven’t had a chance to wash up yet.”

“Go ahead.” She took the grocery sack from him. “The bathroom’s down the hall. There are clean towels in the cabinet.”

“I’ll get my overnight bag out of the trunk.”

She carried the food into the kitchen and slid the beer into the refrigerator. Heard the screen door clap shut as he came back into the house. And then, a moment later, she heard the shower running.

She sat down at the table and released a deep breath. This is only dinner, she thought. A single night under the same roof. She thought of the meal she’d cooked for Daniel only a few days ago, and how different that evening had felt from the start. When she’d looked at Daniel, she’d seen the unattainable. And what do I see when I look at Rick? Maybe more than I should.

The shower was off. She sat very still, listening, every sense suddenly so acute she could feel the air whisper across her skin. Footsteps creaked closer, and suddenly he was there, smelling of soap, dressed in blue jeans and a clean shirt.

“I hope you don’t mind eating with a barefoot man,” he said. “My boots were too muddy to wear in the house.”

She laughed. “Then I’ll just go barefoot too. It’ll feel like a picnic.” She slipped out of her sandals and went to the refrigerator. “Are you ready for a beer?”

“I’ve been ready for hours.”

She uncapped two bottles and handed one to him. Sipped hers as she watched him tilt his head back and take a deep gulp. I will never see Daniel looking like this, she thought. Carefree and barefoot, his hair damp from a shower.

She turned and went to look in the grocery sack. “So what have you brought for dinner?”

“Let me show you.” Joining her at the counter, he reached into the sack and took out various foil-wrapped packets. “Baked potatoes. Melted butter. Corn on the cob. And the main event.” He produced a large Styrofoam container and flipped it open to reveal two bright red lobsters, still steaming.

“How do we get those open?”

“You don’t know how to crack one of these critters?”

“I hope you do.”

“Nothing to it.” He pulled two nutcrackers out of the sack. “You ready for surgery, Doctor?”

“Now you’re making me nervous.”

“It’s all in the technique. But first, we need to suit up.”

“Excuse me?”

He reached in the sack and came out with plastic bibs.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“You think restaurants give these things out just to make tourists look like idiots?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, be a sport. It’ll keep that nice dress clean.” He circled around behind her and slipped the bib over her chest. She felt his breath in her hair as he fastened the ties behind her neck. His hands lingered there, a touch that made her shiver.

“It’s your turn, now,” she said softly.

“My turn?”

“I’m not going to be the only one wearing one of these ridiculous things.”

He gave a sigh of resignation and tied a bib around his own neck. They looked at each other, wearing matching cartoon lobsters on their chests, and they both burst out laughing. Kept on laughing as they sank into chairs at the table. A few sips of beer on an empty stomach and I’m out of control, she thought. And it feels so good.

He picked up a nutcracker. “Now, Dr. Isles. Are we ready to operate?”

She reached for hers, holding it like a surgeon about to make the first incision. “Ready.”

The rain pounded its steady drumbeat as they pulled off claws, cracked shells, and teased out sweet chunks of meat. They did not bother with forks but ate with their hands, their fingers slick with butter as they opened fresh bottles of beer and broke apart baked potatoes to expose the warm and yeasty flesh within. Tonight manners didn’t matter; this was a picnic, and they sat barefoot at the table, licking their fingers. Stealing glances at each other.

“This is a lot more fun than eating with a knife and fork,” she said.

“You’ve never eaten lobster with your bare hands before?”

“Believe it or not, this is the first time I’ve encountered one that wasn’t already out of its shell.” She reached for a napkin and wiped the butter from her fingers. “I’m not from New England, you know. I moved here only two years ago. From San Francisco.”

“That surprises me somehow.”

“Why?”

“You strike me as such a typical Yankee.”

“Meaning?”

“Self-contained. Reserved.”

“I try to be.”

“Are you saying that it’s not the real you?”

“We all play roles. I have my official mask at work. The one I wear when I’m Dr. Isles.”

“And when you’re with friends?”

She sipped her beer, then quietly set it down. “I haven’t made that many friends in Boston, yet.”

“It takes time, if you’re an outsider.”

An outsider. Yes, that’s what she felt like, every day. She’d watch cops slap each other on the back. She heard them talk about barbecues and softball games to which she’d never be invited because she was not one of them, a cop. The M.D. behind her name was like a wall, shutting them out. And her doctor colleagues in the M.E.’s office, all of them married, didn’t know what to do with her, either. Attractive divorcées were inconvenient, discomfiting. Either a threat or a temptation no one wanted to deal with.

“So what brought you to Boston?” he asked.

“I guess I needed to shake up my life.”

“Career blahs?”

“No, not that. I was pretty happy at the medical school there. I was a pathologist at the university hospital. Plus I got the chance to work with all these bright young residents and students.”

“So if it wasn’t the job, it must have been the love life.”

She looked down at the table, at the leavings of her dinner. “Good guess.”

“This is where you tell me to mind my own business.”

“I got divorced, that’s all.”

“Something you want to talk about?”

She shrugged. “What can I say? Victor was brilliant, incredibly charismatic-”

“Gee, I’m already jealous.”

“But you can’t stay married to someone like that. It’s too intense. It burns out so fast you end up exhausted. And he…” She stopped.

“What?”

She reached for the beer. Took her time sipping it before she set it down. “He wasn’t exactly honest with me,” she said. “That’s all.”

She knew he wanted to know more, but he had picked up on that note of finality in her voice. This far, no further. He stood up and went to the refrigerator for two more beers. Popped off the caps and handed a bottle to her.

“If we’re gonna talk about exes,” he said, “we’ll need a lot more beer than this.”

“Let’s not, then. If it hurts.”

“Maybe it hurts because you don’t talk about it.”

“No one wants to hear about my divorce.”

He sat down and met her gaze across the table. “I do.”

No man, she thought, had ever focused on her so completely, and she could not look away. She found herself breathing deeply, inhaling the smell of rain and the rich animal scent of melted butter. She saw things in his face she had not noticed before. The streaks of blond in his hair. The scar on his chin, just a faint white line below his lip. The chipped front tooth. I’ve just met this man, she thought, but he looks at me as though he’s known me forever. Faintly she heard her cell phone ringing in the bedroom, but did not want to answer it. She let it keep ringing until it fell silent. It was unlike her not to answer her phone, but tonight, everything felt different. She felt different. Reckless. A woman who ignored her phone and ate with her bare hands.

A woman who just might sleep with a man she scarcely knew.

The phone started ringing again.

This time, the urgency of that sound finally drew her attention. She could no longer ignore it. Reluctantly she stood up. “I guess I should answer that.”

By the time she got to the bedroom, the phone had once again stopped ringing. She dialed up her voice mail and heard two different messages, both from Rizzoli.

“Doc, I need to talk to you. Call me back.”

The second message, recorded in a more querulous voice: “It’s me again. Why aren’t you answering?”

Maura sat down on the bed. Couldn’t help thinking, as she gazed at the mattress, that it was just big enough for two. She shook the thought from her head, took a deep breath, and dialed Rizzoli’s number.

“Where are you?” Rizzoli demanded.

“I’m still in Fox Harbor. I’m sorry, I didn’t get to the phone in time to answer it.”

“Have you seen Ballard up there yet?”

“Yes, we just finished dinner. How did you know he was here?”

“Because he called me yesterday, asking where you’d gone. He sounded like he might head up that way.”

“He’s right in the other room. Do you want me to get him?”

“No, I want to talk to you.” Rizzoli paused. “I went to see Terence Van Gates today.”

Rizzoli’s abrupt change in subject gave Maura a case of mental whiplash. “What?” she asked, bewildered.

“Van Gates. You told me he was the attorney who-”

“Yes, I know who he is. What did he tell you?”

“Something interesting. About the adoption.”

“He actually talked to you about it?”

“Yeah, it’s amazing how some people open up when you flash a badge. He told me your sister went to see him months ago. Just like you, she was trying to find her birth mother. He gave her the same runaround he gave you. Records were sealed, the mother wanted confidentiality, blah, blah, blah. So she returned with a friend, who finally convinced Van Gates it was in his best interests to give up the mother’s name.”

“And did he?”

“Yes, he did.”

Maura had the phone pressed so hard to her ear that she could hear her own pulse thumping in the receiver. She said, softly: “You know who my mother is.”

“Yes. But there’s something else-”

“Tell me her name, Jane.”

A pause. “Lank. Her name is Amalthea Lank.”

Amalthea. My mother’s name is Amalthea.

Maura’s breath whooshed out on a tide of gratitude. “Thank you! God, I can’t believe I finally know-”

“Wait. I haven’t finished.”

The tone of Rizzoli’s voice held a warning. Something bad was coming. Something that Maura would not like.

“What is it?”

“That friend of Anna’s, the one who spoke to Van Gates?”

“Yes?”

“It was Rick Ballard.”

Maura went very still. From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes, the hiss of running water. I have just spent a whole day with him, and I suddenly learn I don’t know what kind of man he really is.

“Doc?”

“Then why didn’t he tell me?”

“I know why he didn’t.”

“Why?”

“You’d better ask him. Ask him to tell you the rest of it.”

When she returned to the kitchen, she saw that he had cleared the table and thrown the lobster shells in a trash bag. He was standing at the sink washing his hands and did not realize she was in the doorway, watching him.

“What do you know about Amalthea Lank?” Maura said.

He went rigid, his back still turned. A long silence passed. Then he reached for a dish towel and took his time drying his hands. Buying time before he answers me, she thought. But there was no excuse that she would accept, nothing he could say that could reverse the sense of distrust she now felt.

At last he turned to face her. “I was hoping you wouldn’t find out. Amalthea Lank is not a woman you want to know, Maura.”

“Is she my mother? Goddamn it, tell me that much.”

A reluctant nod. “Yes. She is.”

There, he’d said it. He’d confirmed it. Another moment passed while she absorbed the fact he had kept such important information from her. The whole time he was watching her with a look of concern.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

“I was thinking only of you, Maura. What’s in your best interests-”

“The truth isn’t in my best interests?”

“In this case, no. It isn’t.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I made a mistake with your sister-a serious one. She wanted so badly to find her mother, and I thought I could do her that favor. I had no idea it would turn out the way it did.” He took a step toward her. “I was trying to protect you, Maura. I saw what it did to Anna. I didn’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

“I’m not Anna.”

“But you’re just like her. You’re so much like her, it scares me. Not just the way you look, but the way you think.”

She gave a sarcastic laugh. “So now you can read my mind?”

“Not your mind. Your personality. Anna was tenacious. When she wanted to know something, she wouldn’t let go. And you’ll just keep digging and digging, until you have an answer. The way you dug out there in the woods today. That wasn’t your job, and it wasn’t your jurisdiction. You had no reason to be out there at all, except for sheer curiosity. And stubbornness. You wanted to find those bones, so you did. That’s how Anna was.” He sighed. “I’m just sorry she found what she was digging for.”

“Who was my mother, Rick?”

“A woman you don’t want to meet.”

It took a moment for Maura to fully register the significance of that answer. Present tense. “My mother is alive.”

Reluctantly he nodded.

“And you know where to find her.”

He didn’t answer.

“Goddamn it, Rick!” she exploded. “Why don’t you just tell me?”

He went to the table and sat down, as though suddenly too tired to continue the battle. “Because I know you’re going to find it painful, hearing the facts. Especially because of who you are. What you do for a living.”

“What does my job have to do with it?”

“You work with law enforcement. You help bring killers to justice.”

“I don’t bring anyone to justice. I just provide the facts. Sometimes the facts aren’t what you cops want to hear.”

“But you work on our side.”

“No. The victim’s side.”

“All right, the victim’s side. That’s why you’re not going to like what I tell you about her.”

“You haven’t told me a thing so far.”

He sighed. “Okay. Maybe I should start off by telling you where she’s living.”

“Go on.”

“Amalthea Lank-the woman who gave you up for adoption-is incarcerated at the Massachusetts Department of Corrections facility in Framingham.”

Her legs suddenly unsteady, Maura sank into a chair across from him. Felt her arm smear across spilled butter that had congealed on the tabletop. Evidence of the cheerful meal they’d shared less than an hour ago, before her universe had tilted.

“My mother is in prison?”

“Yes.”

Maura stared at him, and could not bring herself to ask the next obvious question, because she was afraid of the answer. But she had already taken the first step down this road, and even though she didn’t know where it might take her, she couldn’t turn back now.

“What did she do?” Maura asked. “Why is she in prison?”

“She’s serving a life term,” he said. “For a double homicide.”

“That’s what I didn’t want you to know,” said Ballard. “I saw what it did to Anna, knowing what her mother was guilty of. Knowing whose blood she had in her veins. That’s a pedigree no one wants to have-a killer in the family. Naturally, she didn’t want to believe it. She thought it had to be a mistake, that maybe her mother was innocent. And after she saw her-”

“Wait. Anna saw our mother?”

“Yes. She and I drove out together, to MCI-Framingham. The women’s prison. It was another mistake, because that visit only made her more confused about her mother’s guilt. She just couldn’t accept the fact her mother was a monst-” He stopped.

A monster. My mother is a monster.

The rainfall had slowed to a gentle tap-tap on the roof. Though the thunderstorm had passed, she could still hear its fading rumble as it swept out to sea. But inside the kitchen, all was silent. They sat facing each other across the table, Rick watching her with quiet concern, as though afraid she would shatter. He doesn’t know me, she thought. I’m not Anna. I won’t fall apart. And I don’t need a goddamn keeper.

“Tell me the rest,” she said.

“The rest?”

“You said Amalthea Lank was convicted of double homicide. When was this?”

“It was about five years ago.”

“Who were the victims?”

“It’s not an easy thing to tell you. Or an easy thing for you to hear.”

“So far you’ve told me my mother is a murderer. I think I’m taking it pretty well.”

“Better than Anna did,” he admitted.

“So tell me who the victims were, and don’t leave a goddamn thing out. It’s the one thing I can’t deal with, Rick, when people hide the truth from me. I was married to a man who kept too many secrets from me. That’s what ended our marriage. I won’t put up with it again, not from anyone. ”

“Okay.” He leaned forward, looking her in the eye. “You want the details, then I’ll be brutally honest about it. Because the details are brutal. The victims were two sisters, Theresa and Nikki Wells, ages thirty-five and twenty-eight, from Fitchburg, Massachusetts. They were stranded at the side of the road with a flat tire. It was late November, and there was a surprise snowstorm blowing. They must’ve felt pretty lucky when a car pulled over to give them a lift. Two days later, their bodies were found about thirty miles away, in a burned-down shed. A week after that, police in Virginia stopped Amalthea Lank for a traffic violation. Found out her car had stolen plates. Then they noticed smears of blood on the rear bumper. When police searched the car, they found the victims’ wallets were in the trunk, as well as a tire iron with Amalthea’s fingerprints. Later tests turned up traces of blood on it. Nikki’s and Theresa’s blood. The final piece of evidence was recorded on a gas station security camera up in Massachusetts. Amalthea Lank is seen on that recording filling a plastic container with gasoline. The gasoline she used to burn the victims’ bodies.” His gaze met hers. “There. I’ve been brutal. Is that what you wanted?”

“What was the cause of death?” she asked. Her voice strangely, chillingly calm. “You said the bodies were burned, but how were the women killed?”

He stared at her for a moment, as though not quite accepting her composure. “X-rays of the burned remains showed that the skulls of both women were fractured, most likely by that tire iron. The younger sister, Nikki, was struck so hard in the face that it caved in the facial bones, leaving nothing but a crater. That’s how vicious a crime it was.”

She thought about the scenario he had just presented. Thought about a snowy roadside and two stranded sisters. When a woman stops to help, they’d have every reason to trust their good samaritan, especially if she is older. Grayer. Women helping women.

She looked at Ballard. “You said Anna didn’t believe she was guilty.”

“I just told you what they presented at trial. The tire iron, the gas station video. The stolen wallets. Any jury would have convicted her.”

“This happened five years ago. How old was Amalthea?”

“I don’t remember. Sixty-something.”

“And she managed to subdue and kill two women who are decades younger than she is?”

“Jesus, you’re doing the same thing Anna did. Doubting the obvious.”

“Because the obvious isn’t always true. Any able-bodied person would fight back or run. Why didn’t Theresa and Nikki?”

“They must have been taken by surprise.”

“But two of them? Why didn’t the other one run?”

“One of them wasn’t exactly able-bodied.”

“What do you mean?”

“The younger sister, Nikki. She was nine months pregnant.”