The Mephisto Club

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.
Like Lucifer announcing his entrance,
thought Jane. The two Dobermans, who were lying beside Edwina’s chair, suddenly lifted their heads as if scenting an intruder.
    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—”
    “
No
one can replace 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