Last to Die

Nancy gave a sigh. “I’m afraid he’s hiding upstairs right now. Not really in the mood to join us in the kitchen. That’s how he’s been since he got here. Eats dinner, then goes into his room and shuts the door.” She shook her head. “We asked the psychologist if we should coax him out, maybe take away his computer time and make him join us for family activities, but she said it’s too soon. Or maybe Teddy’s just afraid to get attached to us, because of what happened to the last …” Nancy paused. “Anyway, Patrick and I are taking it slow with him.”

“Is Patrick here?”

“No, he’s at Trevor’s soccer practice. With four kids, there’s never a moment to sit still.”

“You two are really something, you know that?”

“We just like having kids around, that’s all,” Nancy said with a laugh. They walked into the kitchen, where two flour-dusted girls of about eight were pressing cookie cutters into a sheet of dough. “Once we got started taking them in, we couldn’t seem to stop. Did you know we’re already about to attend the fourth wedding? Patrick’s walking another foster daughter down the aisle next month.”

“That’s going to add up to a lot of grandkids for you two.”

Nancy grinned. “That’s the whole idea.”

Jane glanced around the kitchen, where countertops were covered with homework papers and schoolbooks and scattered mail. The happy disorder of a busy family. But she’d seen how instantly normal could vanish. She had stood in kitchens transformed by blood splatters, and just for an instant she imagined splatters on these cabinets. She blinked and the blood was gone and once again she saw two eight-year-olds with sticky hands cutting star-shaped cookies.

“I’m going up to see Teddy,” she said.

“Upstairs, second bedroom on the right. The one with the closed door.” Nancy slid another cookie sheet into the oven and turned to look at her. “Be sure to knock first. He’s particular about that. And don’t be surprised if he doesn’t want to talk. Just give him time, Detective.”

We may not have much time, she thought as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Not if other foster families were being attacked. She paused outside the boy’s room and listened for the sound of a radio or TV, but heard only silence through the closed door.

She knocked. “Teddy? It’s Detective Rizzoli. Can I come in?”

After a moment, the button lock clicked and the door swung open. Teddy’s owlish pale face regarded her through the gap, blinking rapidly, his glasses askew as if he’d just woken up.

As she entered the room, he stood silent, thin as a scarecrow in his baggy T-shirt and jeans. It was a pleasant room painted lemon yellow, the curtains printed with African savanna scenes. The shelves contained children’s books for various age levels, and on the walls hung cheery posters of Sesame Street characters, decor that was certainly too young for a smart fourteen-year-old like Teddy. Jane wondered how many other traumatized children had taken refuge in this room, had found comfort in this secure world created by the Inigos.

The boy had still not spoken.

She sat in a chair by Teddy’s laptop computer, where a screensaver traced geometric lines across the monitor. “How are you doing?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“Why don’t you sit down, so we can talk.”

Obediently he sank onto the bed and sat with shoulders folded inward, as though he wanted to make himself as small and inconsequential as possible.

“Do you like it here with Nancy and Patrick?”

He nodded.

“Is there anything you need, anything I can bring you?”

A shake of the head.

“Teddy, don’t you have anything to say?”

“No.”

At last a word, even if it was only one.

“Okay.” She sighed. “Then maybe I should just get to the point. I need to ask you about something.”

“I don’t know anything else.” He seemed to shrink deeper into himself and mumbled into his chest. “I told you everything I remembered.”

“And you helped us, Teddy. You really did.”

“But you haven’t caught him, have you? So you want me to tell you more.”

“This isn’t about that night. It’s not even about you. It’s about two other children.”

Slowly his head lifted, and he looked at her. “I’m not the only one?”

She stared at eyes so colorless they seemed transparent, as if she could look right through him. “Do you think there are other kids like you?”

“I don’t know. But you just said there were two other kids. What do they have to do with me?”

The boy might not say much, but obviously he listened and understood more than she realized. “I’m not sure, Teddy. Maybe you can help me answer that question.”

“Who are they? The other kids?”

“The girl’s name is Claire Ward. Have you ever heard that name?”

He considered this for a moment. From the kitchen came the sounds of the oven door banging shut, the girls squealing, noises of a happy family. But in Teddy’s room there was silence as the boy sat thinking. Finally, he gave a small shake of the head. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Anything’s possible. That’s what my dad used to say. But I can’t be sure.”

“There’s also a boy named Will Yablonski. Does that ring any bells?”

“Is his family dead, too?”

The question, asked so softly, made her heart ache for the boy. She moved close beside him, to place her arm around his pitifully thin shoulders. He sat stiffly beside her, as if her touch was simply something to endure. She kept her arm around him anyway as they sat on the bed, two mute companions joined by a tragedy neither could explain.

“Is the boy alive?” Teddy asked softly.

“Yes, he is.”

“And the girl?”

“They’re both safe. You are, too, I promise.”

“No I’m not.” He looked at her, his gaze clear-eyed and steady, his voice matter-of-fact. “I’m going to die.”

“Don’t say that, Teddy. It’s not true, and—”

Her words were cut off as the lights suddenly went out. In the darkness she heard the boy breathing loud and fast, and felt her own heart banging in her chest.

Nancy Inigo called out from the kitchen: “Detective Rizzoli? I think we must have blown a fuse!”

Of course that’s all it is, thought Jane. A blown fuse. Things like this happen all the time.

The crack of shattering glass made Jane leap to her feet. In an instant she had her holster unsnapped, her hand on her Glock.

“Nancy!” she yelled.

Frantic footsteps came thumping up the stairs, and the two girls burst in, followed by the heavier footfalls of Nancy Inigo.

“It came from the front of the house!” said Nancy, her voice almost drowned out by the girl’s panicked whimpers. “Someone’s breaking in!”

And they were all trapped upstairs. Their only escape was through Teddy’s window, which led to a two-story drop.

“Where’s the nearest telephone?” Jane whispered.

“Downstairs. In my bedroom.”

And Jane’s cell phone was in her purse, which she’d left in the kitchen.

“Stay here. Lock the door,” Jane ordered.

“What are you doing? Detective, don’t leave us!”