Last to Die: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

through the gate and drove south through forest and then farmland. Perhaps it was the unrelenting rain and the dark clouds hanging low on the horizon. Perhaps it was the lonely road, with its abandoned houses with sagging porches and boarded-over windows. This place felt like the end of the world, and she might be the last human alive.
    Her ringing cell phone shattered that illusion. I’m back in civilization again, she thought as she rooted around in her purse for the phone. Reception was weak, barely enough to carry on a conversation, but she could make out Frost’s fragmented voice.
    “Your last email … spoke to Hillsborough PD …”
    “Hillsborough? Is this about Will Yablonski’s aunt and uncle?”
    “… says it’s weird … wants to discuss …”
    “Frost? Frost?”
    Suddenly his voice popped out loud and clear. The miracle of a good cell signal at last. “He has no idea what it all means.”
    “You spoke to the Hillsborough cop?”
    “Yeah. A Detective David G. Wyman. He said the case struck him as weird from the beginning. I told him about Claire Ward, and his attention
really
perked up. He didn’t know there were other kids. You need to talk to him.”
    “Can you meet me in New Hampshire?” asked Jane.
    There was a pause; then his voice dropped. “No way. Crowe wants us focused on finding Andres Zapata. I’m on stakeout tonight. The housekeeper’s apartment.”
    “Crowe’s still going with robbery as the motive?”
    “On paper Zapata looks good. Burglary priors in Colombia. He had access, opportunity. And his fingerprints are on the kitchen door.”
    “But this is bugging me, Frost. These three kids.”
    “Look, we’re not expecting you here till tomorrow. You’ve got time to make a little detour.”
    She’d planned to be home tonight for dinner with Gabriel, and a good-night kiss for Regina. Now it seemed she was headed to New Hampshire. “Don’t say a word to Crowe.”
    “Wasn’t planning to.”
    “One more thing. Run a VICAP search on unsolved family massacres. Specifically the same year the Wards, the Yablonskis, and the Clocks were killed.”
    “What do you think we’re dealing with?”
    “I don’t know.” She stared ahead at the rain-slicked road. “But whatever it is, it’s starting to scare me.”

SIXTEEN
 
    B Y THE TIME JANE PULLED INTO THE DRIVEWAY, THE RAIN HAD STOPPED , but clouds hung on, gray and oppressive, and the trees continued to drip moisture. No other vehicles were in sight. She stepped out of her car and approached the remains of what had once been the farmhouse of Will’s aunt and uncle, Lynn and Brian Temple. A dozen yards away the barn stood untouched, but the residence was now nothing more than a pile of charred timbers. Standing alone by the ruins, the sound of water dripping all around her, she could almost smell the stench of smoke still rising from the ashes.
    Tires crunched across gravel, and she turned to see a dark blue SUV pull to a stop behind her Subaru. The man who stepped out was wearing a yellow rain slicker, which hung like a four-man tent on his hefty frame. Everything about him seemed large, from his bald head to his meaty hands, and although she was not afraid of him, in this isolated spot she was acutely aware of his physical advantage over her.
    “Detective Wyman?” she called out.
    He strode toward her, boots splashing through puddles. “And you must be Detective Rizzoli. How was your drive down from Maine?”
    “Wet. Thanks for meeting me.” She looked at the ruins. “This is what you wanted me to see?”
    “I thought we should meet here first, while there’s still daylight. So you could take a look around.”
    For a moment they stood together, regarding the destroyed house in silence. In the field beyond it, a deer wandered into view and stared at them, unafraid. It was not yet acquainted with the crack of a rifle, the punch of a bullet.
    “They seemed like decent citizens,” Detective Wyman said. “Quiet. Kept the property in good order. Never came to our attention.” He paused and gave an ironic shake of the head. “That’s one definition of
decent citizen
, I guess.”
    “So you didn’t personally know the Temples.”
    “I heard there was a new couple who were renting the old McMurray place, but I never met them. They didn’t appear to have regular jobs, so not many folks in town got to know them, except for their rental agent. They told her they were looking for a quiet life in the country,