“There’s still a chance it wasn’t Lank.”
“White van, stolen plates from Pittsfield?”
“Well, it didn’t hang around. And it hasn’t been back.”
“When’s the last time Van Gates left the house?”
“He and the wife went grocery shopping around noon. They’ve been home ever since.”
“Let’s cruise by. I want to take a look.”
Frost drove past the house, moving slowly enough for her to get a good long gander at Tara-on-Sprague- Street. They passed the surveillance team, parked at the other end of the block, then turned the corner and pulled over.
Rizzoli said: “Are you sure they’re home?”
“Team hasn’t seen either one of them leave since noon.”
“That house looked awfully dark to me.”
They sat there for a few minutes, as dusk deepened. As Rizzoli’s uneasiness grew. She’d seen no lights on. Were both husband and wife asleep? Had they slipped out without the surveillance team seeing them?
She looked at Frost. “That’s it. I’m not going to wait any longer. Let’s pay a visit.”
Frost circled back to the house and parked. They rang the bell, knocked on the door. No one answered. Rizzoli stepped off the porch, backed up the walkway, and gazed up at the southern plantation facade with its priapic white columns. No lights were on upstairs, either. The van, she thought. It was here for a reason.
Frost said, “What do you think?”
Rizzoli could feel her heart starting to punch, could feel prickles of unease. She cocked her head, and Frost got the message:
She circled to the side yard and swung open a gate. Saw just a narrow brick walkway, abutted by a fence. No room for a garden, and barely room for the two trash cans sitting there. She stepped through the gate. They had no warrant, but something was wrong here, something that was making her hands tingle, the same hands that had been scarred by Warren Hoyt’s blade. A monster leaves his mark on your flesh, on your instincts. Forever after, you can feel it when another one passes by.
With Frost right behind her, she moved past dark windows and a central air-conditioning unit that blew warm air against her chilled flesh. Quiet, quiet. They were trespassing now, but all she wanted was a peek in the windows, a look in the back door.
She rounded the corner and found a small backyard, enclosed by a fence. The rear gate was open. She crossed the yard to that gate and looked into the alley beyond it. No one there. She started toward the house and was almost at the back door when she noticed it was ajar.
She and Frost exchanged a look. Both their weapons came out. It had happened so quickly, so automatically, that she did not even remember having drawn hers. Frost gave the back door a push, and it swung open, revealing an arc of kitchen tiles.
And blood.
He stepped in and flipped the wall switch. The kitchen lights came on. More blood shrieked at them from the walls, the countertops, the cacophony so powerful that Rizzoli reeled back as though shoved. The baby in her womb gave a sudden kick of alarm.
Frost stepped out of the kitchen, into the hallway. But she stood frozen, staring down at Terence Van Gates, who lay like a glassy-eyed swimmer floating in a pool of red.
“Rizzoli!” she heard Frost yell. “The wife-she’s still alive!”
She almost slipped as she ran, big-bellied and clumsy, from the kitchen. The hallway was a continuous scroll of terror. A trail of arterial spray and cast-off droplets pulsed across the wall. She followed the trail into the living room, where Frost knelt, barking into his radio for an ambulance while he pressed one hand against Bonnie Van Gates’s neck. Blood seeped out between his fingers.
Rizzoli dropped to her knees beside the fallen woman. Bonnie’s eyes were open wide, rolled back in terror, as though she could see Death himself, hovering right above, waiting to welcome her.
“I can’t stop it!” said Frost as blood continued to dribble past his fingers.
Rizzoli grabbed a slipcover from the couch armrest and wadded it up in her fist. She leaned forward to press the makeshift dressing to Bonnie’s neck. Frost withdrew his hand, releasing a pulse of blood just before Rizzoli clamped down on the wound. The bunched fabric was immediately saturated.
“Her hand’s bleeding, too!” said Frost.
Glancing down, Rizzoli saw a steady dribble of red coursing from Bonnie’s slashed palm.
“Ambulance?” she asked.
“On its way.”
Bonnie’s hand shot up and grabbed at Rizzoli’s arm.
“Lie still! Don’t move!”
Bonnie jerked, both hands in the air now, like a panicked animal clawing at her attacker.
“Hold her down, Frost!”
“Jesus, she’s strong.”
“Bonnie, stop it! We’re trying to help you!”
Another thrash, and Rizzoli lost her grip. Warmth sprayed across her face, and she tasted blood. Gagged on its coppery heat. Bonnie twisted onto her side, legs jerking like pistons.
“She’s seizing!” said Frost.
Rizzoli forced Bonnie’s cheek against the carpet and clamped the dressing back on the wound. Blood was everywhere now, sprayed across Frost’s shirt, soaking into Rizzoli’s jacket as she fought to maintain pressure on the slippery skin. So much blood. Jesus, how much could a person lose?
Footsteps thudded into the house. It was the surveillance team, who’d been parked up the street. Rizzoli did not even look up as the two men barreled into the room. Frost yelled at them to hold down Bonnie. But there was little need now; the seizures had faded to agonal shudders.
“She’s not breathing,” said Rizzoli.
“Roll her on her back! Come on, come on.”
Frost put his mouth against Bonnie’s and blew. Came up, his lips rimmed in blood.
“No pulse!”
One of the cops planted his hands on the chest and began compressions. One-one-thousand, two-one- thousand, palms buried in Bonnie’s Hollywood cleavage. With each thrust, only a trickle leaked from the wound. There was so little blood left in her veins to circulate, to nourish vital organs. They were pumping a dry well.
The ambulance team arrived with their tubes and monitors and bottles of IV fluid. Rizzoli moved back to give them room, and suddenly felt so dizzy she had to sit down. She sank into an armchair and lowered her head. Realized she was sitting on white fabric, probably smearing it with blood from her clothes. When she raised her head again, she saw that Bonnie had been intubated. Her blouse was torn open and her brassiere cut away. EKG wires crisscrossed her chest. Only a week ago, Rizzoli had thought of that woman as a Barbie doll, dumb and plastic in her tight pink blouse and spike-heeled sandals. Plastic was exactly what she looked like now, her flesh waxy, her eyes without a glimmer of a soul. Rizzoli spotted one of Bonnie’s sandals, lying a few feet away, and wondered if she had tried to flee in those impossible shoes. Imagined her frantic clack-clacking down the hall as she trailed sprays of red, as she struggled in those spike heels. Even after the EMTs had wheeled Bonnie away, Rizzoli was still staring at that useless sandal.
“She’s not going to make it,” said Frost.
“I know.” Rizzoli looked at him. “You’ve got blood on your mouth.”
“You should look at yourself in the mirror. I’d say we’ve both been fully exposed.”
She thought of blood and all the terrible things it might carry. HIV. Hepatitis. “She seemed pretty healthy,” was all she could say.
“Still,” said Frost. “You being pregnant and all.”
So what the hell was she doing here, steeped in a dead woman’s blood? I should be at home in front of the TV, she thought, with my swollen feet propped up. This is not the life for a mother. It’s not a life for anyone.
