Body Double: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

surreal glare of floodlights and the shadows dancing on the walls. She went to the cellar steps and sat down. Only then remembered that the step she was now resting on was impregnated with ghostly traces of blood.
    “Okay,” said Pete. “Let’s open it.”
    Corso knelt beside the trench and worked the tip of the crowbar under one corner of the lid. He strained to pry up the panel, eliciting a squeal of rusty nail heads.
    “It’s not budging,” said Rizzoli.
    Corso paused and wiped his sleeve across his face, leaving a streak of dirt on his forehead. “Man, my back’s gonna pay for this tomorrow.” Again he positioned the tip of the crowbar under the lid. This time he was able to jam it farther in. He sucked in a deep breath and threw his weight against the fulcrum.
    The nails screeched free.
    Corso tossed aside the crowbar. He and Yates both reached into the trench, grasped the edge of the lid, and lifted. For a moment, no one said a word. They all stared into the hole, now fully revealed under the glare of flood lamps.
    “I don’t get it,” said Yates.
    The crate was empty.
    They drove home that night, down a highway glistening with rain. Maura’s windshield wipers swept a slow, hypnotic beat across misted glass.
    “All that blood in the kitchen,” said Rizzoli. “You know what it means. Amalthea’s killed before. Nikki and Theresa Wells weren’t her first victims.”
    “She wasn’t alone in that house, Jane. Her cousin Elijah lived there, too. It could have been him.”
    “She was nineteen years old when the Sadlers vanished. She had to know what was happening in her own kitchen.”
    “It doesn’t mean she’s the one who did it.”
    Rizzoli looked at her. “You believe O’Donnell’s theory? About the Beast?”
    “Amalthea is schizophrenic. Tell me how someone with a mind that disordered manages to kill two women, and then goes through the very logical step of burning their bodies, destroying the evidence?”
    “She didn’t do that good a job of covering her tracks. She got caught, remember?”
    “The police in Virginia got lucky. Catching her on a routine traffic stop wasn’t an example of brilliant detective work.” Maura stared ahead at fingers of mist curling across the empty highway. “She didn’t kill those women all by herself. There had to be someone else helping her, someone who left fingerprints in her car. Someone who’s been with her from the very beginning.”
    “Her cousin?”
    “Elijah was only fourteen when he buried that girl alive. What kind of boy would do something like that? What kind of man does he grow into?”
    “I hate to imagine.”
    “I think we both know,” said Maura. “We both saw the blood in that kitchen.”
    The Lexus hummed down the road. The rain had ceased, but the air still steamed, misting over the windshield.
    “If they did kill the Sadlers,” said Rizzoli, “then you’ve got to wonder . . .” She looked at Maura. “What did they do with Karen Sadler’s baby?”
    Maura said nothing. She kept her gaze on the highway, driving straight down that road. No detours, no side trips.
Just keep driving.
    “You know what I’m getting at?” said Rizzoli. “Forty-five years ago, the Lank cousins killed a pregnant woman. The baby’s remains are missing. Five years later, Amalthea Lank shows up in Van Gates’s office in Boston, with two newborn daughters to sell.”
    Maura’s fingers had gone numb on the steering wheel.
    “What if those babies weren’t hers?” Rizzoli said. “What if Amalthea isn’t really your mother?”

TWENTY-THREE
    M ATTIE P URVIS SAT in the dark, wondering how long it took a person to starve to death. She was going through her food too fast. Only six Hershey bars, half a packet of saltines, and a few strips of beef jerky were left in the grocery sack. I have to ration it, she thought. I have to make it last long enough to . . .
    To what? Die of thirst instead?
    She bit off a precious chunk of chocolate, and was sorely tempted to take a second bite, but managed to hold on to her willpower. Carefully, she rewrapped the rest of the bar for later. If I get truly desperate, there’s always the paper to eat, she thought. Paper was edible, wasn’t it? It’s made of wood, and hungry deer eat the bark off trees, so there must be some nutritional value to it. Yes, save the paper. Keep it clean. Reluctantly, she returned the partially eaten chocolate bar to the sack. Closing her eyes, she thought of hamburgers and