Last to Die

THIRTY-THREE

NICHOLAS CLOCK DID NOT REGAIN CONSCIOUSNESS.

The vascular surgeons at Eastern Maine Medical Center repaired his torn subclavian vein, evacuated the hemothorax from his lung, and deemed the operation a success, but Clock did not awaken from anesthesia. He was breathing on his own, and his vital signs remained stable, but with every passing day that he remained in a coma, Jane heard the deepening pessimism in the doctors’ voices. Severe blood loss with hypoperfusion of the brain. Permanent neurologic deficits. No longer were they talking of recovery; instead the discussion was of long-term care and nursing home transfer, of Foley catheters and feeding tubes and other products that Jane had glimpsed in the fake catalog of Leidecker Hospital Supplies.

Comatose though he was, Nicholas Clock still found a way to tell the world the truth.

Seven days after the shooting, the video surfaced. Al Jazeera was the first to broadcast it, launching it into the ether where it could never again be contained. Within another forty-eight hours, Nicholas Clock was on computer screens and televisions around the world, calmly and methodically recounting the events that took place sixteen years earlier in Italy. He described the surveillance and capture of a terrorist financier whose code name was Icarus, in a case of extraordinary rendition. He revealed the details of Icarus’s imprisonment and the enhanced interrogation methods they had used against him. And he spoke of Icarus’s escape from the high-security black site in North Africa, an escape aided by a rogue CIA operative named Justine McClellan. None of that should have surprised or impressed a world long turned cynical.

But the murder of American families, on American soil, made the country take notice.

In the conference room at Boston PD, the six detectives who had investigated the Ackerman slayings sat watching the CNN evening news, a broadcast that went a long way toward explaining what had really happened to the Ackermans. The family had not been murdered by a Colombian immigrant named Andres Zapata; they had been executed for the same reason the other two foster families were: to make Nicholas Clock believe his son, Teddy, was in imminent danger. To force Clock out of hiding.

As long as Justine believed I was dead, Teddy was safe. She had no reason to attack him. If I took him and we ran, Justine would never stop hunting us. We’d always be looking over our shoulders. Teddy knows I’m alive. He understands why I’ve chosen to stay invisible. It’s for him; it’s all for him.

But now everything has changed. Justine must have intercepted one of our messages, and she knows I’m alive. I don’t have much time. This may be my only chance to share the evidence I’ve been gathering these past two years. Evidence that Justine Elizabeth McClellan aided in the escape of the terrorist known as Icarus. That she almost certainly murdered Icarus, after obtaining his account numbers and passwords. That she, or her paid agents, were responsible for the murders of the Wards and the Yablonskis and my own family. Because we were asking questions about her sudden wealth. We’d started an investigation, and she had to stop us.

Our families were merely innocent bystanders.

These three surviving children—Claire and Will and Teddy—are now pawns in the hunt. Justine has gathered these children together as bait, to draw me out. She’s using all her resources, both official and unofficial, and she’s led the CIA to believe that Icarus is still alive. That he’s her target.

But I’m the one she wants.

If anyone is watching this video, it means that Justine has succeeded. It means I’m speaking to you from the grave. But the truth doesn’t die with me. And I, Nicholas Clock, swear that everything I’ve said here is, indeed, the truth …

Jane looked around at the other detectives seated at the table. Crowe was tight-lipped and scowling and no wonder: His public triumph as lead investigator of the Ackerman case had just been smashed with a sledgehammer, and every crime reporter in Boston knew it. That rush to judgment against Andres Zapata would always blight his record. Crowe caught her looking at him, and the glare he returned could vaporize water.

For Jane, it should have felt like a moment of victory, a vindication of her instincts, but this brought no smile to her lips. Nicholas Clock was now lying in a coma that could well be permanent, and Teddy was once again fatherless. She thought of how many people had died: the Clocks, the Yablonskis, the Wards. The Ackermans, the Temples, and the Buckleys. Dead, all dead, because one woman could not resist the lure of immeasurable wealth.

The broadcast ended. As the other detectives rose to leave the room, Jane remained in her chair, thinking about justice. About how the dead never benefited from it. For them, it always comes too late.

“That was good work, Rizzoli,” said Lieutenant Marquette.

She looked up to see him standing in the doorway. “Thank you.”

“So why do you look like your best friend just died?”

“It’s just not satisfying, you know?”

“You’re the one who brought down Justine McClellan. How can it get more satisfying than that?”

“Maybe if I could bring back the dead?”

“Above our pay grade. We’re just the cleanup crew.” He scowled at his ringing cell phone. “Looks like the press is going bonkers. Which is a problem, because this story’s as sensitive as hell.”

“Rogue agent? Dead Americans?” She snorted. “No kidding.”

“The feds slapped a muzzle on us. So for now, it’s no comment, okay?” He cocked his head. “Now get outta here. Go home and have a beer. You deserve it.”

That was the nicest thing Marquette had ever said to her. A beer did sound good. And she did deserve it. She gathered up her files, left them at her desk, and walked out of the station.

But she did not go home.

Instead she drove to Brookline, to the home of someone who’d be equally depressed by that broadcast. Someone who had no one else to turn to. When she arrived at the house, she was relieved to see that no TV vans had arrived yet, but the press would certainly be there soon. Every reporter in Boston knew where Dr. Maura Isles lived.

The lights were on inside, and Jane heard classical music playing, the plaintive strains of a violin. She had to ring the bell twice before the door finally opened.

“Hey,” said Jane. “Did you see it on TV? It’s all over the Internet!”

Maura gave a weary nod. “The fun is just beginning.”

“Which is why I came over. I figured you might need the company.”

“I’m afraid my company’s not going to be much fun. But I’m glad you’re here.”

Jane followed Maura into the living room, where she saw an open bottle of red wine and a nearly empty glass on the coffee table. “When you bring out the whole bottle, there’s some serious drinking planned.”

“Would you like a glass?”

“Can I get a beer out of your fridge instead?”

“Be my guest. There should still be a bottle in there from your last visit.”

Jane went into the kitchen and saw pristine countertops, with not a single dirty dish in sight. It looked clean enough in there to perform surgery, but that was Maura for you. Everything in its place. It suddenly struck Jane how bleak it all looked without clutter, without even a hint of disorder. As if no human really lived there. As if Maura had scrubbed her life so clean, she had sterilized the joy out of it.

She found the bottle of Adam’s ale, probably months old, and uncapped it. Went back to the living room.

The violin music was still playing, but with the volume turned down. They sat on the sofa. Maura sipped wine and Jane took a swig of beer, careful not to spill a drop on Maura’s spotless upholstery or the pricey Persian rug.

“You must feel thoroughly vindicated after this,” said Maura.

“Yeah. I look like a real genius. The best part was taking Crowe down ten notches.” She took another sip of beer. “But it’s not enough, is it?”

“What isn’t?”

“Closing a case. Knowing we got it right. It doesn’t change the fact that Nicholas Clock is probably never going to wake up.”

“But the children are safe,” said Maura. “That’s what matters. I spoke to Julian this morning, and he says Claire and Will are doing fine.”

“But not Teddy. I’m not sure he’ll ever be fine,” said Jane, looking down at her beer. “I saw him at his foster home last night. We brought him back to the Inigos, the family who looked after him before. He wouldn’t say a word to me, not one word. I think he blames me.” She looked at Maura. “He blames all of us. You, me. Sansone.”

“Nevertheless, Teddy’s always welcome back at Evensong.”

“You’ve spoken to Sansone about it?”

“This afternoon.” Maura reached for the glass of wine, as though needing to fortify herself for this subject. “He made me an interesting offer, Jane.”

“What kind of offer?”

“To work for the Mephisto Society as a forensic consultant. And to be part of Evensong, where I could ‘shape young minds,’ as he put it.”

Jane raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think he’s really offering you something more personal?”

“No, that’s exactly what he said. I have to judge him by his words. Not by my interpretation of those words.”

“Jesus.” Jane sighed. “The two of you are dancing around each other like you’re both blind.”

“If I weren’t blind, what exactly would I be seeing?”

“That Sansone’s a much better choice for you than Daniel ever was.”

Maura shook her head. “I don’t think I should be choosing any man right now. But I am considering his offer.”

“You mean, leave the ME’s office? Leave Boston?”

“Yes. That’s what it would mean.”

The violin music soared to a high, sad note. A note that seemed to pierce straight to Jane’s chest. “You’re seriously thinking about it?”

Maura reached for the CD remote and abruptly shut off the music. Silence hung, heavy as a velvet drape, between them. She looked around the living room at the white leather sofa, at the polished mahogany. “I don’t know what’s next for me, Jane.”

Lights flared through the window, and Jane rose to peek through the curtains. “Unfortunately, I do know what’s next for you.”

“What?”

“TV van just pulled up. Damn hyenas can’t even wait for the press conference. They gotta show up on your doorstep.”

“I’ve been told not to talk to them.”

Jane turned with a frown. “Who told you that?”

“I received a call half an hour ago. The governor’s office. They’re getting pressure from Washington to keep this under wraps.”

“Too late. It’s already on CNN.”

“That’s what I said to him.”

“So you’re not gonna talk to the press at all?”

“Do we have a choice?”

“We always have a choice,” said Jane. “What do you want to do?”

Maura rose from the sofa and went to stand beside Jane at the window. They both watched as a cameraman began to haul out equipment from the van, preparing for the invasion of Maura’s front lawn.

“The easy choice,” said Maura, “is to simply tell them no comment.”

“No one can force us to talk.”

Maura mulled this over as they watched a second TV van arrive. “But isn’t that how all of this happened?” she asked. “Too many secrets. Too many people not telling the truth. When you shine a bright light, a secret loses all its power.”

The way Nicholas Clock did with his video, thought Jane. Shining the light of truth had cost him his life. But it had saved his son.

“You know, Maura, that’s exactly what you’re so good at. You shine a light, and you make the dead give up their secrets.”

“The trouble is, the dead are the only relationships I seem to have. I need someone whose body temperature is a little warmer than ambient. I don’t think I’m going to find him in this city.”

“I’d hate it if you left Boston.”

“You have a family here, Jane. I don’t.”

“If you want a family, I’ll give you my parents. Let them drive you crazy. And I’ll even throw in Frankie, so you can share the joy.”

Maura laughed. “That particular joy is yours, and yours alone.”

“The point is, a family doesn’t automatically make us happy. Doesn’t your work matter, too? And …” She paused. Added quietly: “And your friends?”

On the street outside, yet another TV van pulled up, and they heard the sound of slamming vehicle doors.

“Maura,” said Jane, “I haven’t been a good enough friend. I know that. I swear, I’ll do better next time.” She went to the coffee table for Maura’s wineglass, for her own bottle of beer. “So let’s drink to friends being friends.”

Smiling, they clinked glass against bottle and sipped.

Jane’s cell phone rang. She pulled it from her purse and saw a Maine area code on the display. “Rizzoli,” she answered.

“Detective, this is Dr. Stein, Eastern Maine Medical Center. I’m the neurologist taking care of Mr. Clock.”

“Yes, we spoke the other day.”

“I’m, uh, not exactly sure how to tell you this, but …”

“He’s dead,” Jane said, already guessing the purpose of this call.

“No! I mean … I don’t think so.”

“How can you not know?”

There was a sheepish sigh on the other end. “We really can’t explain how it happened. But when the nurse went into his room this afternoon to check his vital signs, his bed was empty, and the IV line was disconnected. We’ve spent the last four hours searching the hospital grounds, but we can’t find him.”

“Four hours? He’s been missing that long?”

“Maybe longer. We don’t know exactly when he left the room.”

“Doctor, I’ll call you right back,” she cut in, and hung up. Immediately she dialed the Inigos’ residence. It rang once. Twice.

“What’s going on, Jane?” Maura asked.

“Nicholas Clock’s gone missing.”

“What?” Maura stared at her. “I thought he was comatose.”

On the phone, Nancy Inigo answered: “Hello?”

“Is Teddy there?” Jane said.

“Detective Rizzoli, is that you?”

“Yes. And I’m concerned about Teddy. Where is he?”

“He’s in his room. He came home after school and went straight upstairs. I was about to call him down for dinner.”

“Please check on him for me. Right now.”

Nancy Inigo’s footsteps creaked up the stairs as she asked Jane over the phone: “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Not yet.”

Jane heard Nancy knock on the door and call out: “Teddy, can I come in? Teddy?” A pause. Then an alarmed: “He’s not here!”

“Search the house,” ordered Jane.

“Wait. Wait, there’s a note here, on the bed. It’s Teddy’s handwriting.”

“What does it say?”

Over the phone, Jane heard the rustle of paper. “It’s addressed to you, Detective,” said Nancy. “It says, Thank you. We’ll be fine now. That’s all there is.”

Thank you. We’ll be fine now.

Jane imagined Nicholas Clock, miraculously rising from his coma, untethering his own IV line, and walking out of the hospital. She pictured Teddy, placing the note on his bed before he slipped out of the Inigos’ house and disappeared into the night. Both of them knew exactly where they were going, because they were bound for the same destination: a future together, as father and son.

“Do you have any idea what this note means?” asked Nancy.

“Yes. I think I know exactly what it means,” Jane said softly, and hung up.

“So Nicholas Clock is alive,” said Maura.

“Not just alive. He finally has his son.” Jane gazed out the window at the TV news vans and the growing pack of reporters and cameramen.

And even though she was smiling, the lights of all those vehicles suddenly blurred through her tears. She tipped her beer bottle in a toast to the night and whispered: “Here’s to you, Nicholas Clock.”

Game over.