The Keepsake: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

to do something,” Medea insisted. “I
need
to do something.”
    Jane turned and saw a woman as determined as any she had ever met, a woman primed for battle. But this battle was not Medea’s; it could not be.
    “The best thing you can do tonight is stay right here,” said Jane. “And lock the door.”
             
     
    Valley Way was a lonely rural road lined by woods so thick that they could not make out the residences through the trees. The number posted on the roadside mailbox told them they were at the right address, but all they could see in the dark was the beginning of a gravel driveway that trailed off into woods. Jane pulled open the mailbox and found a damp accumulation of advertising circulars. All were addressed to OCCUPANT.
    “If anyone lives here,” she said, “they haven’t cleaned out their mailbox lately. I don’t think anyone’s home.”
    “Then no one should object if we take a closer look,” said Frost.
    Their car slowly rolled down the driveway, gravel crackling under the tires. The trees were so dense that they did not see the house until they rounded a bend and it suddenly stood before them. Once it might have been a handsome vacation cottage, with a gabled roof and a broad front porch, but weeds had sprung up and engulfed the foundation and hungry vines had clambered up and over the porch railings, as though determined to smother the house and any unfortunate occupants.
    “Looks abandoned,” said Frost.
    “I’m going to get out and take a look around.” Jane reached for the handle and was about to open the door when she heard the warning clank of a chain, a sound as ominous as a snake’s rattle.
    Something black bounded out of the darkness.
    She gasped and jerked back as the pit bull slammed against her door, as claws scrabbled at glass and white teeth gleamed in the window.
    “Jesus!” she cried. “Where the hell did he come from?”
    The dog’s barking was frantic now, claws scraping as though to tear through metal.
    “I don’t like this,” said Frost.
    She laughed, a wildly unhinged sound in the closeness of that car. “I’m not loving this too much myself.”
    “No, I mean I don’t like the fact he’s tied up on that chain. This house looks abandoned, so who’s feeding the dog?”
    She stared at the house, at dark windows that seemed to gaze back at her like malevolent eyes. “You’re right,” she said softly. “This is all wrong.”
    “It’s time to call for backup,” said Frost and he reached for his cell phone. He never got the chance to dial.
    The first gunshot shattered the window.
    Fragments of stinging glass peppered Jane’s face. She dove beneath the dashboard as a second explosion rocked the night, as another bullet slammed into the car. Frost, too, had ducked for cover, and she saw his face was tight with panic as he crouched only inches away from her, both fumbling for their weapons.
    A third bullet pinged into metal.
    An ominous odor seeped into the car. The fumes stung Jane’s eyes and seared her throat. In that instant she and Frost stared at each other, and she saw that he, too, had registered the smell.
    Gasoline.
    Almost simultaneously, they each kicked open their doors. Jane flung herself out of the car and tumbled away just as the first flames whooshed to life. She could not see if Frost had made it out the other side; she could only hope that he had scrambled away safely, because an instant later the gas tank exploded. Windows shattered and a brilliant inferno spouted flames skyward.
    As glass pelted the ground, Jane scrambled for cover. Thorny underbrush ripped through her sleeves, clawed at her arms. She rolled behind a tree and gripped crumbling bark as she frantically tried to catch a glimpse of their assailant, but all she saw were flames consuming what remained of Frost’s car. The dog, excited to a frenzy by the fire, ran howling back and forth across the yard, chain clattering behind it.
    Another gunshot exploded. She heard a cry of pain, the crash of snapping underbrush.
    Frost is down!
    Through the obscuring veil of smoke and fire, she saw the shooter emerge from the house and step onto the porch. The woman’s blond hair reflected the glow of the flames. Rifle raised, she moved into the light. Only then could Jane see the face of Debbie Duke.
    No, not Debbie. Carrie Otto.
    Carrie started down the porch steps, her rifle poised to finish off Frost.
    Jane fired first. Even as she squeezed the trigger, she wanted