Body Double

They dashed through the rain and scrambled up the steps to the porch, where they shook water from their raincoats. Maura produced the key she’d just picked up at Miss Clausen’s real estate office and thrust it into the lock. At first it would not turn, as though the house was fighting back, determined not to let her enter. When at last she managed to open the door, it gave a warning creak as it swung open, resisting her to the end.

Inside it was even gloomier and more claustrophobic than she had remembered. The air was sour with the smell of mildew, as though the dampness outside had seeped through the walls into the curtains, the furniture. The light through the window cast the living room in sullen shades of gray. This house does not want us here, she thought. It does not want us to learn its secrets.

She touched Rizzoli’s arm. “Look,” she said, pointing to the two bolts and the brass chains.

“Brand-new locks.”

“A

“If it wasn’t Charles Cassell.” Rizzoli crossed to the living room window and gazed out at a curtain of leaves dripping with rain. “Well, this place is awfully isolated. No neighbors. Nothing but trees. I’d want a few extra locks, too.” She gave an uneasy laugh. “You know, I never did like it, out in the woods. Bunch of us went camping once, in high school. Drove up to New Hampshire and laid our sleeping bags out around the campfire. I didn’t sleep a wink. I kept thinking: How do I know what’s out there, watching me? Up in the trees, hiding in the bushes.”

“Come on,” said Maura. “I want to show you the rest of the house.” She led the way to the kitchen, and flipped the wall switch. Fluorescent lights flickered on with an ominous hum. The harsh glare brought out every crack, every buckle in the ancient linoleum. She looked down at the black and white checkerboard pattern, yellowed with wear, and thought about all the spilled milk and tracked-in mud that, over the years, had surely left their microscopic traces on this floor. What else had seeped into these cracks and seams? What terrible events had left their residue?

“These are brand-new dead bolts, too,” said Rizzoli, standing at the back door.

Maura crossed to the cellar door. “This is what I wanted you to see.”

“Another bolt?”

“But see how tarnished this one is? It isn’t new. This bolt’s been here a long time. Miss Clausen said it was already on the door when she bought the property at auction twenty-eight years ago. And here’s the strange part.”

“What?”

“The only place this door leads is down to the cellar.” She looked at Rizzoli. “It’s a dead end.”

“Why would anyone need to lock this door?”

“That’s what I wondered.”

Rizzoli opened the door, and the smell of damp earth rose from the darkness. “Oh man,” she muttered. “I hate going down into cellars.”

“There’s a light chain, right over your head.”

Rizzoli reached up and gave the chain a tug. The bulb came on, its anemic glow spilling down a narrow stairway. Below were only shadows. “You sure there’s no other way into this cellar?” she asked, peering down into shadow. “A coal hatch or something?”

“I walked all around the outside of this house. I didn’t see any outside doors leading into the cellar.”

“Have you been down there?”

“I didn’t see any reason to.” Until today.

“Okay.” Rizzoli pulled a mini Maglite from her pocket and took a deep breath. “I guess we should take a look.”

The lightbulb swayed above them, tilting shadows back and forth as they descended creaky stairs. Rizzoli moved slowly, as though testing each step before she trusted her weight to it. Never before had Maura known Rizzoli to be so tentative, so cautious, and that apprehension was fueling her own. By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, the door to the kitchen seemed far above them, in another dimension.

The bulb at the bottom of the stairs had burned out. Rizzoli swept her Maglite across a floor of packed earth, damp from seeping rainwater. The beam revealed a stack of paint cans and a rolled-up carpet, moldering against one wall. In a corner sat a crate filled with bundles of kindling for the living room fireplace. Nothing here seemed out of the ordinary, nothing justified the sense of threat that Maura had felt at the top of the stairs.

“Well, you’re right,” said Rizzoli. “There doesn’t seem to be another way out of here.”

“Just that door up there, to the kitchen.”

“Which means the bolt doesn’t make any sense. Unless…” Rizzoli’s beam suddenly came to a halt on the far wall.

“What is it?”

Rizzoli crossed the cellar and stood staring. “Why is this thing here? What would anyone use it for?”

Maura moved closer. Felt a chill clamber up her spine when she saw what Rizzoli’s Maglite was shining on. It was an iron ring, lodged in one of the massive cellar stones. What would anyone use this for? Rizzoli had asked. The answer made Maura step away, repelled by the visions it conjured up.

This is not a cellar; it’s a dungeon.

Rizzoli’s flashlight jerked upward. “Someone’s inside the house,” she whispered.

Through the pounding of her own heart, Maura heard the floor creaking above them. Heard heavy footsteps move through the house. Approach the kitchen. A silhouette suddenly loomed in the doorway, and the flashlight beam that flooded down was so bright, Maura had to turn away, blinded.

“Dr. Isles?” a man called.

Maura squinted up into the light. “I can’t see you.”

“Detective Yates. CSU just got here, too. You want to take us through the house before we start?”

Maura released a sharp breath. “We’re coming up.”

By the time Maura and Rizzoli emerged from the cellar, there were four men standing in the kitchen. Maura had met Maine state detectives Corso and Yates the week before, at the clearing in the woods. Two CSU techs, who introduced themselves merely as Pete and Gary, had joined them, and they all paused for a round of handshakes.

Yates said, “So is this some kind of treasure hunt?”

“No guarantees we’ll find anything,” said Maura.

Both CSU techs were looking around the kitchen, sca

“The Sadlers vanished forty-five years ago. The suspect would still have been living here, with her cousin. After they left, the house went empty for years, before it got sold at auction.”

“Forty-five years ago? Yeah, this linoleum could be that old.”

“I know the carpet in the living room’s more recent, only about twenty years old,” Maura said. “We’d have to pull it up to check that floor.”

“We haven’t tried this on anything older than fifteen years. This would be a new record for us.” Pete glanced at the kitchen window. “Won’t be dark for at least another two hours.”

“Then let’s start in the cellar,” said Maura. “It’s dark enough down there.”

They all pitched in to haul various equipment from the van: video and still cameras and tripods, boxes with protective gear and aerosol sprayers and distilled water, an Igloo cooler containing bottles of chemicals, and electrical cords and flashlights. All these they carried down the narrow steps into the cellar, which suddenly felt cramped as six people and camera gear crowded in. Only half an hour earlier, Maura had regarded this same gloomy space with uneasiness. Now, as she watched the men matter-of-factly set up tripods and uncoil electrical cords, the room lost its power to frighten her. This is only damp stone and packed earth, she thought. There are no ghosts down here.

“I don’t know about this,” said Pete, turning the bill of his Sea Dogs baseball cap backward. “You’ve got a dirt floor here. It’s going to have a high iron content. Could light up everywhere. That’s go