The Mephisto Club

“Their digital archives go back only five years,” he said. “These are photocopies from the bound archives, so the reproduction isn’t as good as I’d like. But it tells the story.”

Maura looked down at the first page. It was from the front page of the Evening Sun, dated August 11, twelve years earlier. Her gaze at once fixed on the article near the top.

BOY’S BODY RECOVERED FROM PAYSON POND

The accompanying photo showed a grinning imp of a boy, cradling a tiger-striped cat in his arms. The caption read: Teddy Saul had just turned eleven.

“His sister Lily was the last known person who saw him alive,” said Sansone. “She was also the one who spotted him floating in the pond a day later. What surprised everyone, according to the article, was the fact the boy was a very good swimmer. And there was one other interesting detail.”

Maura looked up. “What?”

“He supposedly went down to the lake to fish. But his tackle box and pole were found a good twenty yards from the water’s edge.”

Maura handed the photocopy to Jane and looked at the next article, printed August 18. A week after little Teddy’s body was found, tragedy again struck the Saul family.

GRIEVING MOTHER’S DEATH MOST LIKELY ACCIDENTAL

Accompanying the article was another photo, another heartbreaking caption. Amy Saul was pictured in happier times, beaming at the camera as she held a baby in her lap. The same child, Teddy, whom she’d lose eleven years later to the waters of Payson Pond.

“She was found at the bottom of the stairs,” said Maura. She looked up at Jane. “By her daughter, Lily.”

“Again? The daughter found both of them?” Jane reached for the photocopied article. “This is starting to sound like too much bad luck.”

“And remember that call made to Sarah Parmley’s motel room two weeks ago. It was a woman’s voice.”

“Before you go jumping to conclusions,” said Sansone, “it wasn’t Lily Saul who found her father’s body. Her cousin did. It’s the first and only time Dominic Saul’s name appears in any of these articles.”

Maura turned to the third photocopy and stared at a photo of a smiling Dr. Peter Saul. Beneath it was the caption: Despondent over death of wife and son. She looked up. “Is there any photo of Dominic?”

“No. But he’s mentioned in that article as the one who found his uncle’s body. He’s also the one who called the police.”

“And the girl?” asked Jane. “Where was Lily when this happened?”

“It doesn’t say.”

“I assume the police checked her alibi.”

“You would assume so.”

“I wouldn’t assume anything.”

“Let’s hope that information’s in the police files,” said Sansone, “because you’re not going to get it from the investigator himself.”

“Why not?”

“He died last year of a heart attack. I found his obituary in the newspaper archives. So all we have to go on is what’s in the files. But think about the situation. You’re a local cop, dealing with a sixteen-year-old girl who’s just lost her brother, her mother, and now her father. She’s probably in shock. Maybe she’s hysterical. Are you going to harass her with questions about where she was when her father died when it clearly looked like a suicide?”

“It’s my job to ask,” said Jane. “I would have.”

Yes, she would have, thought Maura, looking at Jane’s unyielding expression and remembering the relentless questions that had been asked of her yesterday morning. No mercy, no holding back. God help you if Jane Rizzoli decides you’re guilty of something. Maura looked down at the photo of Peter Saul. “There’s no picture of Lily. We don’t know what she looks like, either.”

“Actually, there is a photo,” said Sansone. “And you’ll find it very interesting.” He flipped to the next photocopied page and pointed to the article.

DOCTOR’S FUNERAL DRAWS MOURNERS FROM ACROSS COUNTY

Friends, co-workers, even strangers gathered at Ashland Cemetery on a beautiful August afternoon to mourn Dr. Peter Saul, who died last Sunday of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. It was the third tragedy to befall the Saul family in the past two weeks.

“There she is,” said Sansone, pointing to the accompanying photo. “That’s Lily Saul.”

It was an indistinct image, the girl’s face partly obscured by two other mourners flanking her. All Maura could see was the profile of her bowed head, veiled by long dark hair.

“That doesn’t show us much,” said Jane.

“It’s not the photo I wanted you to see,” said Sansone. “It’s the caption. Look at the names of the girls standing beside Lily.”

Only then did Maura understand why Sansone had been so insistent on sharing these pages. The caption beneath the photo of a grief-stricken Lily Saul included two startlingly familiar names.

Lily Saul is comforted by friends Lori-Ann Tucker and Sarah Parmley.

“There’s the link that wraps it all up,” said Sansone. “Three friends. Two of them are now dead. Only Lily Saul is still alive.” He paused. “And we can’t even be sure of her status.”

Jane plucked up the page and stared at it. “Maybe because she doesn’t want us to know.”

“She’s the one we have to find,” said Sansone. “She’ll know the answers.”

“Or she could be the answer. We know next to nothing about this girl Lily. Whether she got along with her family. Whether she walked away with a nice inheritance.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Maura.

“I have to admit, Mr. Sansone here said it earlier. Evil has no gender.”

“But to kill her own family, Jane.”

“We kill the ones we love. You know that.” Jane regarded the photo of the three girls. “And maybe these girls knew it, too. Twelve years is a long time to keep a secret.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to ask around town, see what else I can learn about Lily. Someone must know how to find her.”

“While you’re asking questions,” said Sansone, “you might want to ask about this, too.” He slid yet another photocopy to Jane. The headline read: South Plymouth Boy Takes Top 4-H Honors.

“Uh…I’m supposed to ask about prizewinning bulls?” asked Jane.

“No, it’s the item under the Police Beat,” said Sansone. “I almost missed it myself. In fact, I wouldn’t have seen it at all, except for the fact it was on the same page, below the story about Teddy Saul’s drowning.”

“You mean this one? Barn Vandalized, Goat Missing?”

“Look at the story.”

Jane read the article aloud. “‘Police received a complaint from Eben Bongers of Purity that vandals broke into his barn last Saturday night. Four goats escaped and three were recaptured, but one remains missing. The barn was also defaced with carvings of’”-Jane paused and looked up at Maura-“‘crosses.’”

“Keep reading,” said Sansone.

Jane swallowed and looked back down at the article. “‘Similar carvings have been found on other buildings in the area. Anyone with information is asked to contact the Chenango County Sheriff’s Office.’”

“The killer was here,” said Sansone. “Twelve years ago, he was living right in this county. And no one realized what was walking among them. No one knew what was living in their midst.”

He talks as though this killer isn’t human, thought Maura. He doesn’t say who, but what. Not a someone, but a something.

“Then two weeks ago,” said Sansone, “this killer returns to the house where the Sauls once lived. Draws the same symbols on the walls, pounds nails in the floor. All in preparation for his victim. For what he’s going to do to Sarah Parmley.” Sansone leaned forward, his gaze focused on Jane. “I don’t think Sarah Parmley was his first kill.