The Mephisto Club

he sensed that she, unlike O’Donnell, was not in the mood to be indulged. As she buttoned her coat, she felt she was being watched by two sets of eyes. The portrait of Antonino Sansone was watching her as well, his gaze piercing the mist of four centuries, and she could not help a glance in the portrait’s direction, at the man whose actions, so many generations ago, could still make his namesake shudder.
    “You say you’ve looked evil in the eye,” she said, turning back to her host.
    “We both have.”
    “Then you should know by now,” she said, “that it wears a pretty damn good disguise.”
    She stepped out of the house and breathed in air that sparkled with frozen mist. The sidewalk stretched before her like a dark river; streetlamps cast pale islands of light. A lone Boston PD cruiser was parked across the street, engine idling, and she saw the silhouette of a patrolman sitting in the driver’s seat. She raised her hand in a wave.
    He waved back.
    No reason to be nervous,
she thought, as she started walking.
My car’s just down the street, and a cop’s nearby.
So was Sansone. She glanced back and saw that he was still standing on his front steps, watching her. Nevertheless she pulled out her car keys, kept her thumb poised on the panic button. Even as she moved down the sidewalk, she scanned shadows, searching for even a flicker of movement. Only after she’d climbed into her car and locked it did she feel the tension ease from her shoulders.
    Time to go home. Time for a stiff drink.
    When she walked into her house, she found two new messages on her answering machine. She went into the kitchen first, to pour herself a glass of brandy, came back into the living room, sipping her drink, and pressed Play. At the sound of the first caller’s voice, she went very still.
    “It’s Daniel. I don’t care how late it is when you hear this. Just call me, please. I hate to think that you and I—” A pause. “We need to talk, Maura. Call me.”
    She did not move. Just stood clutching her brandy, her fingers numb around the glass as the second message played.
    “Dr. Isles, it’s Anthony Sansone. I just wanted to make sure you got home safely. Give me a call and let me know, will you?”
    The machine went silent. She took a breath, reached for the phone, and dialed.
    “Sansone residence. This is Jeremy.”
    “It’s Dr. Isles. Could you—”
    “Hello, Dr. Isles. Let me get him for you.”
    “Just let him know that I’m home.”
    “I know that he’d like very much to talk to you himself.”
    “There’s no need to disturb him. Good night.”
    “Good night, Doctor.”
    She hung up and hovered over the receiver, poised to make the second call.
    A sharp thump on her porch made her back snap straight. She went to the front door and flipped on the porch light. Outside, the wind swirled snow fine as dust. On the porch, a fallen icicle lay in glistening shards, like a broken dagger. She turned off the light but lingered at the window and watched as a municipal truck rumbled past, scattering sand across the icy road.
    She returned to the couch and stared at the phone as she drank the last of her brandy.
    We need to talk, Maura. Call me.
    She set down the glass, turned off the lamp, and went to bed.

THIRTEEN
    July 22. Phase of the moon: First Quarter.
    Aunt Amy stands at the stove stirring a pot of stew, her face as contented as a cow’s. On this overcast day, with dark clouds gathering in the western sky, she seems oblivious to the rumble of thunder. In my aunt’s world, every day is a sunny one. She sees no evil, fears no evil. She is like the livestock fattening on clover on the farm down the road, the cattle that know nothing of the slaughterhouse. She cannot see beyond the glow of her own happiness, to the precipice just beyond her feet.
    She is nothing like my mother.
    Aunt Amy turns from the stove and says, “Dinner’s almost ready.”
    “I’ll set the table,” I offer, and she flashes me a grateful smile. It takes so little to please her. As I set the plates and napkins on the table and lay the forks tines-down, in the French way, I feel her loving gaze. She sees only a quiet and agreeable boy; she’s blind to who I really am.
    Only my mother knows. My mother can trace our bloodline all the way back to the Hyksos, who ruled Egypt from the north, in the age when the God of War was sacred. “The blood of ancient hunters runs in your veins,” my mother said. “But it’s best never to