The Mephisto Club

bizarre form of ancestor worship you’re practicing. Displaying the family torturer in the front parlor, like some kind of icon, someone you’re proud of. And here in the dining room, you keep a gallery of his victims. All these faces staring at you, like a trophy collection. It’s the kind of thing a-”

A hunter would display.

She paused, staring down at her empty glass, aware of the silence in the house. Five place settings were on the table, yet she was the only guest who’d arrived, perhaps the only guest who’d actually been invited.

She flinched as he brushed her arm and reached for her empty glass. He turned to refill it, and she stared at his back, at the outline of muscles beneath the black turtleneck shirt. Then he turned to face her, wineglass held out. She took it, but did not sip, though her throat had suddenly gone dry.

“Do you know why these portraits are here?” he asked quietly.

“I just find it…strange.”

“I grew up with them. They hung in my father’s house, and in his father’s house. So did the portrait of Antonino, but always in a separate room. Always in a place of prominence.”

“Like an altar.”

“In a way.”

“You honor that man? The torturer?”

“We keep his memory alive. We never allow ourselves to forget who-and what-he was.”

“Why?”

“Because this is our responsibility. A sacred duty the Sansones accepted generations ago, starting with Isabella’s son.”

“The child born in prison.”

He nodded. “By the time Vittorio reached adulthood, Monsignore Sansone was dead. But his reputation as a monster had spread, and the Sansone name was no longer an advantage, but rather a curse. Vittorio could have fled from his own name, denied his own bloodline. Instead he did quite the opposite. He embraced the Sansone name, as well as the burden.”

“You talked about a sacred duty. What sort of duty?”

“Vittorio took a vow to atone for what his father did. If you look at our family crest, you’ll see the words: Sed libera nos a malo.”

Latin. She frowned at him. “Deliver us from evil.”

“That’s right.”

“And what, exactly, are Sansones expected to do?”

“Hunt the Devil, Dr. Isles. That’s what we do.”

For a moment she didn’t respond. He can’t possibly be serious, she thought, but his gaze was absolutely steady.

“You mean figuratively, of course,” she finally said.

“I know you don’t believe he actually exists.”

“Satan?” She couldn’t help but laugh.

“People have no trouble believing that God exists,” he said.

“That’s why it’s called faith. It requires no proof, because there is none.”

“If one believes in the light, one has to believe in the darkness as well.”

“But you’re talking about a supernatural being.”

“I’m talking about evil, distilled to its purest form. Manifested in the shape of real flesh-and-blood creatures, walking among us. This isn’t about the impulsive kill, the jealous husband who’s gone over the edge, or the scared soldier who mows down an unarmed enemy. I’m talking about something entirely different. People who look human, but are the farthest thing from it.”

“Demons?”

“If you want to call them that.”

“And you really believe they exist, these monsters or demons or whatever you call them?”

“I know they do,” he said quietly.

The ringing of the doorbell startled her. She glanced toward the front parlor, but Sansone made no move to answer the bell. She heard footsteps, and then the butler’s voice speaking in the foyer.

“Good evening, Mrs. Felway. May I take your coat?”

“I’m a little bit late, Jeremy. Sorry.”

“Mr. Stark and Dr. O’Donnell haven’t arrived yet, either.”

“Not yet? Well, I feel better then.”

“Mr. Sansone and Dr. Isles are in the dining room, if you’d like to join them.”

“God, I could really use a drink.”

The woman who swept into the room was as tall as a man and looked just as formidable, her square shoulders emphasized by a tweed blazer with leather epaulets. Although her hair was streaked with silver, she moved with the vigor of youth and the assurance of authority. She didn’t hesitate, but crossed straight to Maura.

“You must be Dr. Isles,” she said, and gave Maura a matter-of-fact handshake. “Edwina Felway.”

Sansone handed the woman a glass of wine. “How’re the roads out there, Winnie?”

“Treacherous.” She took a sip. “I’m surprised Ollie isn’t here already.”

“It’s just eight o’clock now. He’s coming with Joyce.”

Edwina’s gaze was on Maura. Her eyes were direct, even intrusive. “Has there been any progress on the case?”

“We haven’t talked about that,” said Sansone.

“Really? But it’s the one thing on all our minds.”

“I can’t discuss it,” said Maura. “I’m sure you understand why.”

Edwina looked at Sansone. “You mean she hasn’t agreed yet?”

“Agreed to what?” asked Maura.

“To join our group, Dr. Isles.”

“Winnie, you’re a bit premature. I haven’t fully explained-”

“The Mephisto Foundation?” said Maura. “Is that what you’re talking about?”

There was a silence. In the other room, a phone began to ring.

Edwina suddenly laughed. “She’s one step ahead of you, Anthony.”

“How did you know about the foundation?” he asked, looking at Maura. Then he gave a knowing sigh. “Detective Rizzoli, of course. I hear she’s been asking questions.”

“She’s paid to ask questions,” said Maura.

“Is she finally satisfied that we’re not suspects?”

“It’s just that she doesn’t like mysteries. And your group is very mysterious.”

“And that’s why you accepted my invitation tonight. To find out who we are.”

“I think I have found out,” said Maura. “And I think I’ve heard enough to make a decision.” She set down her glass. “Metaphysics doesn’t interest me. I know there’s evil in the world, and there always has been. But you don’t need to believe in Satan or demons to explain it. Human beings are perfectly capable of evil all by themselves.”

“You aren’t in the least bit interested in joining the foundation?” asked Edwina.

“I wouldn’t belong here. And I think I should leave now.” She turned to find Jeremy standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Sansone?” The manservant was holding a portable phone. “Mr. Stark just called. He’s quite concerned.”

“About what?”

“Dr. O’Donnell was supposed to pick him up, but she hasn’t appeared yet.”

“When was she supposed to be at his house?”

“Forty-five minutes ago. He’s been calling, but she doesn’t answer either her home phone or her cell.”

“Let me try her number.” Sansone took the phone and dialed, drumming the table as he waited. He disconnected, dialed again, his fingers tapping faster. No one in the room spoke; they were all watching him, listening to the accelerating rhythm of his fingers. The night Eve Kassovitz died, these people had sat in this very