Authors: Tess Gerritsen
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Crime, #Thrillers, #Suspense
Last to Die (6 page)
Crowe leaned forward. “I do not want this case to fall apart. We need to get our ducks lined up.”
“Teddy is not a duck,” said Jane. “He’s a child.”
“And a psychologically scarred one at that,” said Moore. He opened the folder he’d brought into the meeting. “I spoke again to Detective Edmonds, in the US Virgin Islands. He faxed me their file on the Clock family murders, and—”
“They were killed two years ago,” interjected Crowe. “Different
jurisdiction
, even a different country. Where’s the connection to this case?”
“Probably none,” admitted Moore. “But this information speaks to the boy’s emotional state. To why he’s so devastated. What happened to him in Saint Thomas was every bit as horrifying as what happened to him here.”
“And that case was never solved?” said Frost.
Moore shook his head. “But it generated a lot of press. I remember reading about it at the time. American family on a dream voyage around the world, murdered aboard their seventy-five-foot yacht. Granted, the US Virgin Islands has a homicide rate about ten times ours, but even there the massacre was shocking. It actually took place in the Capella Islands, which are off Saint Thomas. The Clock family—Nicholas and Annabelle and their three children—were living aboard their yacht,
Pantomime
. They anchored for the night in a quiet bay, no other yachts around. While the family was sleeping, the killer—or killers—boarded the boat. There was gunfire. Shouts, screams. And then an explosion. That, at least, is what Teddy later told the police.”
“How did he manage to survive?” asked Frost.
“The explosion made him black out, so there are holes in his memory. The last thing he remembers is his father’s voice, telling him to jump. When he woke up he was in the water, strapped into a life jacket. A dive boat found him the next morning, surrounded by debris from the
Pantomime
.”
“And the family?”
“There was an extensive search of the waters. They later found the bodies of Annabelle and one of the girls. What was left of them anyway, after the sharks had done their damage. Autopsy revealed that both had been shot in the head. The bodies of Nicholas and the other daughter were never recovered.” Moore passed around copies of the faxed report. “Lieutenant Edmonds said it was the most disturbing crime he’d ever investigated. A seventy-five-foot yacht is a tempting target, so he assumed the motive was robbery. The killer
or
killers probably stripped the boat of valuables, then blew it up to destroy the evidence, leaving nothing for the police to go on. It remains unsolved.”
“And the boy couldn’t remember anything useful in that case, either,” said Crowe. “Is there something seriously wrong with this kid?”
“He was only twelve years old at the time,” said Moore. “And he’s certainly intelligent. I called their old next-door neighbor in Providence, where the Clocks were living before they left on their sailboat. She told me that Teddy was considered gifted. He was in his school’s accelerated program. Yes, he did have problems making friends and fitting in, but he had at least a dozen IQ points over his peers.”
Jane thought of the books she’d seen in Teddy’s bedroom, and the wide range of esoteric subjects they covered. Greek history. Ethnobotany. Cryptozoology. Subjects that she doubted most fourteen-year-olds were even acquainted with. “Asperger’s syndrome,” she said.
Moore nodded. “That’s what the neighbor said. The Clocks had Teddy evaluated, and the doctor told them Teddy is high functioning, but he misses certain emotional cues. Which is why it’s hard for him to make friends.”
“And now he’s left with no one,” said Jane. She thought of how he had clung to her in the neighbor’s solarium. She could still feel his silky hair against her cheek and remembered the sleepy-boy scent of his pajamas. She wondered how he was adjusting to the emergency foster family where Social Services had placed him. Last night, before going home to her own daughter, she’d driven to Teddy’s new home and brought him his glasses. He was now staying with an older couple, seasoned foster parents who had years of experience nurturing children in crisis.
But the look Teddy had given Jane as she’d walked out the door after that visit could break any mother’s heart. As if she were the only person who could save him, and she was abandoning him to strangers.
Moore reached into his folder and took out a print of a Christmas card photo with the caption:
HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM THE CLOCKS
! “This is the last correspondence the neighbor received from the Clocks. It’s an e-card, sent about a month after the family left Providence. They pulled their three kids out of school, put their house on the market, and the whole family set off to sail around the world.”
“On a seventy-five-foot yacht? They had money,” said Frost. “What did they do for a living?”
“Annabelle was a homemaker. Nicholas was a financial consultant for some company in Providence. The neighbor didn’t remember the name.”
Crowe laughed. “Yeah, a title like
financial consultant
does sound like money.”
“It’s kind of a radical move isn’t it?” said Frost. “To suddenly pull up roots like that? Leave everything behind and drag your family onto a sailboat.”
“The neighbor certainly thought so,” said Moore. “And it happened abruptly. Annabelle never even mentioned it until the day just before they left. It makes you wonder.”
“About what?” said Crowe.
“Was the family running from something? Scared of something? Maybe there
is
a link between these two attacks on Teddy.”
“Two years apart?” Crowe shook his head. “As far as we know, the Clocks and the Ackermans didn’t even know each other. All they had in common was the boy.”
“It just troubles me. That’s all.”
It troubled Jane as well. She looked at the Christmas photo, perhaps the last one that existed of the Clock family. Annabelle Clock’s chestnut hair was upswept and casually elegant, reflecting hints of gold. Her face, like sculpted ivory with delicately arching brows, could have adorned a medieval painter’s canvas.
Nicholas was blond and athletic looking, his impressive shoulders filling out a lemon-yellow polo shirt. With his square jaw,
his
direct gaze, he looked like a man built to protect his family from any threat. On the day this photo was taken, when he stood smiling with one muscular arm draped around his wife, he could not have imagined the horrors that lay ahead. A watery grave for himself. The slaughter of his wife and two of their children. At that instant the camera captured a family with no reason to fear the future; their optimism shone brightly in their eyes and smiles, and in the Christmas decorations they had hung on the tree behind them. Even Teddy looked ebullient as he stood beside his younger sisters, three angelic-looking children with matching light brown hair and wide blue eyes. All of them smiling and safe within the bubble of their sheltering family.
And she thought: Teddy will never feel safe again.
Killing is easy. All you need is access and the proper tool, whether it’s a bullet, a blade, or Semtex. And if you plan it right, no cleanup is necessary. But extracting a man like Icarus, who’s alive and resisting you, a man who surrounds himself with family and bodyguards, is a far more delicate process
.
Which is why we devoted most of that June to surveillance and reconnaissance and dry runs. The hours were long, seven days a week, but no one complained. Why would we? Our hotel was comfortable, our expenses covered. And at the end of the day, there was always plenty of alcohol. Not mere plonk, but good Italian wines. For what we were required to do, we believed we deserved the best
.
It was a Thursday when we got the call from our local asset. He worked as a waiter inside the restaurant La Nonna, and that night two adjacent tables had been reserved for dinner. One table was for a party of four, the other for a party of two. Bottles of Brunello di Montalcino had been requested, to be opened immediately for proper airing upon the patrons’ arrival. He had no doubt for whom those tables were reserved
.
They arrived in separate vehicles, one right behind the other. In the black BMW were the two bodyguards. In the silver Volvo, Icarus was at the wheel. It was one of his quirks: He always insisted on being his own driver, on being in control. Both cars parked directly across the street from La Nonna, where they would be in view throughout the meal. I was already in position, seated at an outdoor café nearby, sipping espresso. From there I had a front-row view of the precision ballet that was about to unfold
.
I saw the bodyguards get out of their BMW first, and they watched as Icarus emerged from his Volvo. He always drove a Volvo, an unexciting choice for a man who could afford a fleet of Maseratis. He opened the rear door, and out climbed one of the reasons for choosing such a safe vehicle. Little Carlo, the younger son, was eight years old, with large dark eyes and unruly hair like his mother’s. The boy’s shoelace had come loose, and Icarus bent down to tie it
.
That was the moment Carlo noticed me, sitting nearby. His eyes fixed on mine so intently that I felt a dart of panic. I thought: The boy knows. Somehow he knows what’s about to happen. I did not have children; no one on our team did, so children were a mystery to us. They were like little aliens, unformed creatures who could be ignored. But Carlo’s eyes were luminous and wise, and I felt stripped of all pretense, unable to justify what we were about to do to his father
.
Then Icarus stood up. He took Carlo’s hand and led his wife and older son across the street, into La Nonna for their supper
.
I breathed again
.
Our team moved into action
.
A young woman approached, pushing a baby carriage, her infant hidden under layers of swaddling. The baby gave a sudden wail; the woman stopped to fuss over him. I was the only one close enough to see her slash the tire of the bodyguards’ vehicle. Her infant fell silent, and the woman continued up the sidewalk
.
At that moment, inside La Nonna, wine was being poured, two
little
boys twirled spaghetti, and platters of veal and lamb and pork emerged from the kitchen
.
Outside, on the street, the jaws of a trap were about to close. Everything was proceeding as planned
.
But I could not shake off the image of little Carlo’s face, staring at me. A look that reached into my chest and clawed at my heart. When you feel a premonition as powerful as that, it should never be ignored
.
I am sorry that I did
.
MAURA DROVE WITH
her windows open and the smell of summer blowing into the car. Hours ago she had left the Maine coast behind and headed northwest, into gently rolling hills where the afternoon sun leafed hay fields in gold. Then the forest closed in, the trees suddenly so dense that it seemed night had instantly fallen. She drove for miles without passing any cars, and wondered if she’d taken a wrong turn. Here there were no houses, no driveways, not a single road sign to tell her whether she was headed in the right direction.
She was ready to turn around when the road suddenly ended at a gate. On the archway above it was a single word, spelled in gracefully entwined letters:
EVENSONG
.
She stepped out of her Lexus and frowned at the locked gate, which was flanked by massive stone pillars. She saw no intercom button, and the wrought-iron fence extended deep into the woods in both directions, as far as she could see. She pulled out her cell phone to call the school, but this deep in the forest she couldn’t get a signal. The silence of the woods magnified the ominous whine of a mosquito, and she slapped at the sudden sting on her cheek. Stared
down
at the alarming smear of blood. Other mosquitoes were closing in on her in a hungry, biting cloud. She was about to retreat into her car when she spotted the golf cart approaching on the other side of the gate.
A familiar young woman stepped out of the golf cart and waved. In her early thirties, dressed in slim blue jeans and a green windbreaker, Lily Saul looked far healthier and happier than the last time Maura had seen her. Lily’s brown hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail, was now streaked with blond, and her cheeks had a healthy glow, so different from the pale, thin face that Maura remembered from that blood-splattered Christmas when they’d met during the course of a homicide investigation. Its violent conclusion had nearly claimed both their lives. But Lily Saul, who’d spent years running from demons both real and imagined, was a canny survivor, and judging by her happy smile Lily had finally outrun her nightmares.
“We expected you here earlier, Dr. Isles,” said Lily. “I’m glad you made it before dark.”
“I was afraid I’d have to climb this fence,” said Maura. “There’s no cell signal out here, and I couldn’t call anyone.”
“Oh, we knew you’d arrived.” Lily punched in a code on the gate’s security keypad. “There are motion sensors all along this road. And you probably missed them, but there are cameras as well.”