The Mephisto Club

still in the garage,” he said.
    “Then where is she?”
    “I’m going around to the back.”
    This time she did not let him leave her sight, but followed right at his heels as he moved through the side yard, tramping through deep and unbroken snow alongside the garage. By the time they emerged in the backyard, her trousers were soaked, and melted snow had seeped into her shoes, chilling her feet. His flashlight beam skittered across shrubs and deck chairs, all covered in a velvety blanket of white. No footprints, no disturbed snow. A vine-covered wall enclosed the yard, a private space completely hidden from the neighbors. And she was here alone, with a man she scarcely knew.
    But he was not focused on her. His attention was on the kitchen door, which he could not get open. For a moment he stared at it, debating his next move. Then he looked at Maura.
    “You know Detective Rizzoli’s number?” he asked. “Call her.”
    She pulled out her cell phone and moved toward the kitchen window for more light. She was about to dial when her gaze suddenly focused on the kitchen sink, just inside the window.
    “Sansone,” she whispered.
    “What?”
    “There’s blood—near the drain.”
    He took one glance, and his next move shocked her. He grabbed one of the deck chairs and hurled it against the window. Glass shattered, shards exploding into the kitchen. He scrambled inside, and seconds later the door swung open.
    “There’s blood down here on the floor, too,” he said.
    She looked down at smears of red on the cream tiles. He ran out of the kitchen, his black coat flapping behind him like a cape, moving so fast that when she reached the foot of the stairs, he was already on the second-floor landing. She stared down at more blood, swipes of it on the oak steps, along the baseboard, as though a battered limb had scraped against the wall as the body was dragged upstairs.
    “
Maura!
” yelled Sansone.
    She sprinted up the stairs, reached the second-floor landing, and saw more blood, like glistening ski marks down the hallway. And she heard the sound, like water gurgling in a snorkel. Even before she stepped into the bedroom, she knew what she was about to confront: not a dead victim, but one desperately fighting to live.
    Joyce O’Donnell lay on her back on the floor, eyes wide open in mortal panic, a gout of red spurting from her neck. She wheezed in air, blood rattling in her lungs, and coughed. Bright red spray exploded from her throat, spattering Sansone’s face as he crouched over her.
    “I’ll take over! Call nine-one-one!” Maura ordered as she dropped to her knees and pressed bare fingers to the slash wound. She was used to the touch of dead flesh, not living, and the blood that dribbled onto her hands was shockingly warm.
ABC,
she thought. Those were the first rules of life support: airway, breathing, circulation. But with one brutal slash across the throat, the attacker had compromised all three.
I’m a doctor, but there’s so little I can do to save her.
    Sansone finished his call. “The ambulance is on its way. What can I do?”
    “Get me some towels. I need to stop the bleeding!”
    O’Donnell’s hand suddenly closed around Maura’s wrist, clenching it with the force of panic. The skin was so slick, Maura’s fingers slipped off the wound, releasing a fresh spurt. Another wheeze, another cough, sent spray from the incised trachea. O’Donnell was drowning. With every breath, she inhaled her own blood. It gurgled in her airway, frothed in her alveoli. Maura had examined the incised lungs of other victims whose throats had been cut; she knew the mechanism of death.
    Now I am watching it happen, and I can’t do a thing to stop it.
    Sansone dashed back into the bedroom carrying towels, and Maura pressed a wadded washcloth to the neck. The white terry cloth magically turned red. O’Donnell’s hand gripped her wrist even tighter. Her lips moved, but she could produce no words, only the rattle of air bubbling through blood.
    “It’s okay, it’s okay,” said Maura. “The ambulance is almost here.”
    O’Donnell began to tremble, limbs quaking as though in seizures. But her eyes were aware and fixed on Maura.
Does she see it in my eyes? That I know she’s dying?
    Maura glanced up at the distant wail of a siren.
    “There it is,” said Sansone.
    “The front door’s locked!”
    “I’ll go down and meet them.” He scrambled to his feet and she heard him pounding down the stairs to the