out of the car. Pausing in the driveway, Jane stared up at rough-hewn logs, at a peaked roof soaring into the snow-swirled sky. She went around to the trunk for their bags and had just slammed the trunk shut when she heard a growl right behind her.
The two Dobermans had emerged like black wraiths from the woods, moving so silently that she hadn’t heard their approach. The dogs closed in with teeth bared as both women froze in place.
“Don’t run,” Jane whispered to Lily. “Don’t even move.” She drew her weapon.
“Balan! Bakou! Back off!”
The dogs halted and looked at their mistress, who had just emerged from the lodge and was standing on the porch.
“I’m so sorry if they scared you,” said Edwina Felway. “I had to let them out for a run.”
Jane did not holster her weapon. She didn’t trust these animals, and clearly they didn’t trust her. They remained planted in front of her, watching with eyes black as a snake’s.
“They’re very territorial, but they’re quick to figure out who’s friend and who’s foe. You should be fine now. Just put away the gun and walk toward me. But not too fast.”
Reluctantly, Jane holstered her weapon. She and Lily eased past the dogs and climbed up to the porch, the Dobermans watching them every step of the way. Edwina led them inside, into a cavernous great room that smelled of wood smoke. Huge beams arched overhead, and on the walls of knotty pine hung the mounted heads of moose and deer. In a stone fireplace, flames crackled at birch logs.
Maura rose from the couch to greet them.
“At last you made it,” Maura said. “With this storm blowing in, we were beginning to worry.”
“The road coming up here was pretty bad,” said Jane. “When did you get here?”
“We drove up last night, right after Frost called us.”
Jane crossed to a window that looked out across the valley. Through the heavy curtain of falling snow, she caught glimpses of distant peaks. “You’ve got plenty of food?” she asked. “Fuel?”
“There’s enough for weeks,” said Edwina. “My friend keeps it well stocked. Right down to the wine cellar. We have plenty of firewood. And a generator, if the power goes out.”
“And I’m armed,” said Sansone.
Jane had not heard him walk into the room. She turned and was startled to see how grim he looked. The last twenty-four hours had transformed him. He and his friends were now under siege, and it showed in his haggard face.
“I’m glad you’ll be staying with us,” he said.
“Actually”-Jane glanced at her watch-“I think the situation looks pretty secure.”
“You’re not thinking of leaving tonight,” said Maura.
“I was hoping to.”
“It’ll be dark in an hour. The roads won’t be plowed again till morning.”
Sansone said, “You really should stay. The roads will be bad.”
Jane looked out, once again, at the falling snow. She thought about skidding tires and lonely mountain roads. “I guess it makes sense,” she said.
“So the gang’s all here for the night?” asked Edwina. “Then I’ll go lock the gate.”
“We need to drink a toast,” said Edwina, “in memory of Oliver.”
They were all sitting in the great room, gathered around the huge stone fireplace. Sansone dropped a birch log into the flames, and papery bark hissed and sparked. Outside, darkness had fallen. The wind whined, windows rattled, and a sudden downdraft blew a puff of smoke from the chimney into the room.
Lily rose from the couch and moved closer to the hearth. Despite the roaring fire, the room was chilly, and she clutched a blanket around her shoulders as she stared into the flames, their orange glow reflected in her face. They were all trapped there, but Lily was the real prisoner. The one person around whom the darkness swirled. All evening, Lily had said almost nothing. She had scarcely touched her dinner, and did not reach for her glass of wine as everyone else drank the toast.
“To Oliver,” Sansone murmured.
They raised the glasses in a sad and silent tribute. Jane took only a sip. Craving a beer instead, she slid her glass to Maura.
Edwina said, “We need fresh blood, Anthony. I’ve been thinking of candidates.”
“I can’t ask anyone to join us. Not now.” He looked at Maura. “I’m just sorry you got pulled into this. You never wanted to be part of it.”
“I know a man in London,” said Edwina. “I’m sure he’d be willing. I’ve already suggested his name to Gottfried.”
“This isn’t the time, Winnie.”
“Then when? This man worked with my husband years ago. He’s an Egyptologist, and he can probably interpret anything that Oliver-”
“
Sansone’s curt response seemed to take Edwina aback. “Of course not,” she finally said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“He was your student at Boston College?” asked Jane.
Sansone nodded. “He was only sixteen, the youngest freshman on campus. I knew he was gifted from the first day he wheeled into my class. He asked more questions than anyone else. The fact he was a math major turned out to be one of the reasons he was so good at what he did. He’d take a look at some obscure ancient code and immediately see the patterns.” Sansone set down his wineglass. “I’ve never known anyone like him. From the moment you met him, you just knew he was brilliant.”
“Unlike the rest of us,” said Edwina with a wry laugh. “I’m one of the unbrilliant members who had to be recommended by someone first.” She looked at Maura. “I guess you know that you were Joyce O’Donnell’s suggestion?”
“Maura has mixed feelings about that,” said Sansone.
“You didn’t like Joyce very much, did you?”
Maura finished off Jane’s wine. “I prefer not to speak ill of the dead.”
“I don’t mind being up front about it,” said Jane. “Any club that would have Joyce O’Donnell as a member isn’t one that I’d want to join.”
“I don’t think you’d join us anyway,” said Edwina as she opened a new bottle, “since you don’t believe.”
“In Satan?” Jane laughed. “No such guy.”
“You can say that even after all the horrors you’ve seen in your job, Detective?” said Sansone.
“Committed by regular old human beings. And no, I don’t believe in satanic possession, either.”
Sansone leaned toward her, his face catching the glow of the flames. “Are you familiar with the case of the Teacup Poisoner?”
“No.”
“He was an English boy named Graham Young. At fourteen, he began to poison members of his own family. His mother, father, sister. He finally went to jail for the murder of his mother. After he was released years later, he went right back to poisoning people. When they asked him why, he said it was all for fun. And fame. He was not a regular human being.”
“More like a sociopath,” said Jane.
“That’s a nice, comforting word to use. Just give it a psychiatric diagnosis, and it explains the unexplainable. But there are some acts so terrible you can’t explain them. You can’t even conceive of them.” He paused. “Graham Young inspired another young killer. A sixteen-year-old Japanese girl, whom I interviewed last year. She’d read Graham Young’s published diary and was so inspired by his crimes, she decided to emulate him. First she killed animals. Cut them up and played with their body parts. She kept an electronic log, describing in meticulous detail what it was like to plunge a knife into living flesh. The warmth of the blood, the shudder of the dying creature. Then she advanced to killing humans. She poisoned her mother with thallium and recorded in her diary every painful symptom her mother suffered.” He leaned back, but his gaze was still on Jane. “You’d call her merely a
