Last to Die

night.”

She saw his thin chest expand, and the sigh that followed sounded far too weary and defeated for someone so young. “I was in my room,” he whispered. “I was reading one of Bernard’s books.”

“And then what happened?” Jane prompted.

Teddy focused his haunted eyes on her. “And then it started.”

BY THE TIME JANE returned to the Ackerman residence, the last of the bodies was being wheeled out—one of the children. Jane paused in the foyer as the stretcher rolled past her, wheels squeaking across the gleaming parquet floor, and she could not block out the sudden image of her own daughter, Regina, lying beneath the shroud. With a shudder she turned, and saw Moore coming down the stairs.

“Did the boy talk to you?”

“Enough to tell me he didn’t see anything that will help us.”

“Then you got a lot farther with him than I did. I had a feeling you’d be able to reach him.”

“It’s not as if I’m all that warm and fuzzy.”

“But he did talk to you. Crowe wants you to be the boy’s primary contact.”

“I’m now the official kid wrangler?”

He gave an apologetic shrug. “Crowe’s the lead.”

She looked up the stairs toward the upper floors, which now seemed strangely quiet. “What’s going on here? Where is everyone?”

“They’re following up on a tip about the housekeeper, Maria Salazar. She has the keys and the password to the security system.”

“You’d expect a housekeeper to have those.”

“It turns out she also has a boyfriend with a few issues.”

“Who is he?”

“Undocumented alien named Andres Zapata. He has a rap sheet in Colombia. Burglary. Drug smuggling.”

“History of violence?”

“Not that we’re aware of. But still.”

Jane focused on the antique clock hanging on the wall, an item that no self-respecting burglar would have passed up. And she remembered what she’d heard earlier, that Cecilia’s purse and Bernard’s wallet were both found in the bedroom, and the jewelry box had been untouched.

“If this was a burglary,” she said, “what did he take?”

“A house this size, with so many valuables to choose from?” Moore shook his head. “The only person who might be able to tell us what’s missing is the housekeeper.”

Who now sounded like a suspect.

“I’m going up to see Teddy’s room,” she said and started up the stairs.

Moore did not follow her. When she reached the third floor, she found herself alone; even the CSU team had already departed. Earlier she had merely glanced at the doorway; now she stepped inside and slowly surveyed Teddy’s neatly kept room. On the desk facing the window was a stack of books, many of them old and clearly well loved. She scanned the titles: Ancient Techniques of Warfare. An Introduction to Ethnobotany. The Cryptozoology Handbook. Alexander in Egypt. Not the sort of reading she’d expect of a fourteen-year- old, but Teddy Clock was unlike any boy she’d ever come across. She saw no TV, but a laptop computer sat open beside the books. She tapped on a key and the screen came alive, to the last website Teddy had viewed. It was a Google search page, and he had typed in: Was Alexander the Great murdered?

Judging by the orderly desk, the squared-off stack of books, the boy was addicted to neatness. The pencils in his drawer were all sharpened like spears ready for battle, the paper clips and stapler each in their own slots. Only fourteen and already hopelessly obsessive-compulsive. Here is where he’d been sitting at midnight last night, he’d told her, when he’d heard the faint pops, then Kimmie’s screams as she’d run up the stairs. His penchant for neatness compelled him to close the book, Alexander in Egypt, even though he was terrified. He knew what those pops, those cries, signified.

It’s what happened before. The same sounds I heard on the boat. I knew it was gunfire.

There was no window to crawl out of, no easy escape from this third-floor bedroom.

So he’d turned off his light. He heard the girls’ cries, heard more pops, and hid in the first place a scared child would retreat to: under the bed.

Jane turned to look at the perfectly smooth duvet, at sheets tucked in as tightly as a soldier’s bunk. Had Teddy’s obsessive-compulsive neatness resulted in these perfectly made-up linens? If so, it may well have saved his life. As Teddy cowered under the bed, the killer had turned on the lights and walked in.

Black shoes. That’s all I saw. He had black shoes, and he was standing right by my bed.

A bed that, at midnight, had not been slept in. To an intruder, it would appear that the child who lived in this room was away that night.

The killer with the black shoes walked out. Hours passed, but Teddy stayed under that bed, cowering at every creak. He thought he heard footsteps return, quieter, stealthier, and imagined the killer was still there in the house, waiting.

He did not know what time it was when he fell asleep. He only knew that when he woke up, the sun was shining. Only then did he finally crawl from his hiding place, stiff and sore from lying half the night on the floor. Through the window, he saw Mrs. Lyman working in her garden. Next door was safety; next door was someone he could run to.

And so he did.

Jane knelt down and looked under the bed. There was so little clearance beneath the box spring that she would never be able to fit under it. But a scared boy had squeezed into that space, smaller than a coffin. She glimpsed something deep in those shadows, and had to lie facedown on the floor before she could reach under far enough to grasp the object.

It was Teddy’s missing glasses.

She rose back to her feet and took one last look around the room. Although the sun shone brightly through the window, and outside it was a summery seventy-five degrees, within these four walls she felt a chill and shivered. It was odd that she had not felt that cold sensation in the rooms where members of the Ackerman family had died. No, it was only here that the horror of what happened last night still seemed to linger.

Here, in the room of the boy who had lived.

SIX

 

TEDDY CLOCK,” SAID DETECTIVE THOMAS MOORE, “MUST BE THE UNLUCKIEST boy on the planet. When you consider all that’s happened to him, no wonder he’s displaying serious emotional problems.”

“Not like he was normal to begin with,” Darren Crowe said. “The kid’s just plain strange.”

“Strange in what way?”

“He’s fourteen years old and he doesn’t do sports? Doesn’t watch TV? He spends every night and weekend hunched over his computer and a bunch of dusty old books.”

“Some people wouldn’t consider that strange.”

Crowe turned to Jane. “You’ve spent the most time with him, Rizzoli. You’ve gotta admit the kid’s not right.”

“By your standards,” said Jane. “Teddy’s a lot smarter than that.”

A chorus of whoas went around the table as the other four detectives watched for Crowe’s reaction to that not-so-subtle insult.

“There’s knowledge that’s useless,” Crowe retorted. “And then there’s street smarts.”

“He’s only fourteen and he’s survived two massacres,” she said. “Don’t tell me this boy doesn’t have street