Suddenly she heard a voice behind her on the stairs of the detention center. It was Sarah Rubio. She sounded completely distraught. "Ms. Isles! For God's sake, Ms. Isles! Maura. Wait, please!"

"I have nothing more to say to you."

"Please, please, just give me a chance. I'm sorry. I didn't know he would act like that, that he would say things like that." Rubio hurried up beside Maura, trying to look her in the eye. "Maura. Please, hear me out."

"Let me guess ... You pulled strings and got him the New York police report. You loaded a gun on a lunatic, and now you're surprised he shoots? Give me a break, Sarah." Maura didn't slow her pace.

"He knew the facts before, Maura. I didn't give him the report until later."

"I was mugged over twelve years ago, Sarah. He had twelve years to read the report before you were kind enough to get him his personal copy. Don't be so naive."

"Maura, I'm really sorry about how this all went down. I know how painful it must be for you -"

Now Maura stopped and turned to Rubio with a look that would have turned water to ice. Her voice trembled. "You have no idea. You can't even begin to imagine what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night, with hands and feet tied, with a madman in a mask standing over you, cutting you to pieces with a serrated knife."

Rubio winced, and she closed her eyes and turned her head to the side.

"Do you have a problem listening to this, Sarah?" Quietly, hatefully, she spat out the words. "You know, rape sounds so clean, so neat. So simple. All right, you've been raped. Just like one out of four college girls in this country. You just have to get over it. But sometimes it's not that simple. Like when you've been tortured for four hours, raped over and over again, with a penis, a bottle, a coat hanger. To squirm under a man who gets his kicks from slashing your skin and watching the blood gush out. Screaming inside for so long that you feel like you're going to explode in pain and fear. Maybe you didn't read the report you gave your client yourself. Because otherwise, you would know that the man who raped me didn't just make a little blunder. I've been infertile ever since. Under my clothes, I look like a monster. He wanted to let me bleed to death slowly. And you think you can just pull an accusation like that out of a hat without the effect being painful or upsetting or absolutely devastating? Where do you get off, anyway?"

"He's my client, Maura. And he's facing the maximum penalty." Her voice was a choked whisper, her words pleading for understanding.

But Maura was incapable of that. "And your client also tells you he's a beast. And claims that twelve years ago he viciously raped a woman who happens to be the prosecutor before whom he stands trial for the murder and rape of eleven women. How exceedingly convenient. And without a thought to the consequences, you throw this accusation at a woman who you know full well has been the victim of rape, while this person sits right next to her? I have no idea how your client got the information about my rape, I really don't. But I will tell you this much ... my conscience is clear. And if by some chance he should be acquitted, if at some point he should get out of prison and rape and murder another innocent woman, which is as Dollars to doughnuts, if he has the opportunity to do that, then I know I can look that woman's family in the face and honestly say, 'I grieve with you.' But can you, Sarah?"

Rubio was silent. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Do what you think is right. And I'll do what I think is right. I have an appointment."

And with that, Maura turned away and got into her car, leaving Sarah Rubio crying on the sidewalk outside the jail.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Maura Isles. DA's Office." She showed her ID to the officer at the desk.

"Who did you say you were going to see?"

Maura took a deep breath. "Detective Chris Masterson."

"Oh yeah, hold on a minute, he'll be right down."

Maura paced nervously in the lobby of the BPD. On one wall hung certificates and plaques and an enlarged photo of a detective's gold badge. On the other wall was a large glass box of missing person reports, practically pasted on top of each other. Most of the photos showed runaway teenagers or children who had been abducted by a divorced parent, but there were also people who had disappeared under suspicious circumstances. They ran under the heading of "endangered." The notes remained behind the glass until the person was found or the case was solved. The new additions were pinned to them with thumbtacks so that the older ones were partially covered by them. Maura spotted the black-and-white photo of a smiling Morgan Weber, half under the freckled face of a runaway teenager. So they hadn't gotten around to taking her picture down yet.

The door opened, and Chris Masterson came in. "Hello, Maura. Sorry, it took so long. Jane didn't even tell me you were coming to look at the evidence today, I had to set everything up real quick."

"Actually, I wasn't going to be here until Thursday, Chris, but I have a hearing then, and I already have to do the FBI on Friday. So I'm here now. Thanks for taking the time."

"Don't mention it." Down several convoluted hallways, they finally reached the conference room. The headquarters of the task force. Chris unlocked the door. On the long conference table were large cardboard boxes with BOOGEYMAN and the file number scrawled on them. "The inventory lists are on the table. Everything we seized in the search is listed in order. When you're done, don't forget to sign out, and let Becky know in the office across the hall. She's the evidence supervisor. I have an interview coming up, or I'd help you. There doesn't seem to be anyone around at all this afternoon."

"No problem, I don't need anyone. I just wanted to take a look at what we have. It won't take long."

"Jane is taking some statements. She's probably not even coming in today, from what I understand. Do you want me to radio her?"

"No thanks, I don't need any help. Thanks anyway."

"All right. Good luck. I'll leave you to it then." He closed the door behind him, leaving her alone in the dim room. It was almost 5 p.m., and the sun was about to set. Staring down at Maura from the "wall" were the dead girls as she carefully flipped through the six-page inventory list. She didn't know exactly what she was looking for, but she knew if something existed, she would find it.

Rubio's challenge to the vehicle inspection was a shot in the dark, or her request was incomplete. Rubio had given Maura a copy and would file it in the morning. Maura had read through the paper thoroughly three times and found no mention of the anonymous tip or even a hint to that effect. The motion was based solely on Bantling's claim that he hadn't been speeding, that his taillight hadn't been damaged, and that the vehicle search had taken place without his consent and without probable cause. To make absolutely certain that neither Chavez nor Lindeman nor Ribero had spoken to Rubio or any of their associates, Maura had called BPD. She had nearly given the sergeant a heart attack with the news that Bantling was seeking dismissal for unlawful vehicle stop. No one had talked, Ribero assured her. It was the word of the arrested defendant against the word of a respectable police officer. It wasn't hard to guess who would win this battle.

But Maura's relief had been brief, for the second part of the motion dealt with the allegation Rubio had made in prison. That Maura had been raped, that Bantling was the perpetrator, and that Maura was guilty of fraud and covering up facts. And there was a possibility that Bantling might have had something in his possession that could prove this allegation.

The inventory list itemized each numbered piece of evidence that had been recovered from Bantling's home and cars. Maura skimmed the contents of boxes of carpet samples, bedding, kitchen utensils, and hygiene items, then picked up three large boxes labeled EXHIBIT 161A, B, and C. The list of evidence included a list of the items found in Bantling's home and cars. At the top of the list was "Personal Effects," and below that were listed various headings: "Photos, div."; "Photo Albums 1-12"; "Black unlabeled DVD s 1-98"; "Books (44)"; "Magazines (15)"; "CDs 1-64"; "Clothing, div."; "Shoes, div. (7 p.)"; "Costumes, div."; "Jewelry, div." It was these boxes that interested her.

Maura took each album, each photo, without coming across anything, and then she slowly worked her way through the bag of miscellaneous clothing. Nothing. The books were mostly contemporary novels, except for a few works by Marquis de Sade and Edgar Allan Poe; the magazines were soft to hardcore porn, Playboy, Hustler, Shaved. The CDs had pop music on them, and the office had already given her a copy of all the DVD s she had played over a horrible weekend. There was nothing there either.

BPD Exhibit No. 161C,11: miscellaneous costumes were handwritten on the white evidence label stuck to the lid of a blue plastic box in the last crate. There was no more detailed list of contents, not even on the list. Maura opened the lid, which was not sealed, and gasped.

There, staring up at her with a blood-red grin and shaggy nylon eyebrows, was a creepy clown mask. Maura recognized it immediately. A cold shiver ran down her spine, and she shivered all over as memories began to dance in her head like ghosts at the witching hour. The face at the foot of her bed as it gleamed pale in the glare of the lightning, the hiss of his breath through the slit in the rubber. She felt the gloved hands on her skin again, the scratching of the nylon hair on her legs, her belly. She smelled the latex and the cold coffee breath and tasted the dry silk of her panties, and again it choked her. After a few agonizing seconds she reached out, this time it was she who was wearing Latex gloves. She grabbed the mask by the nylon hair with pointed fingers and held it far away from her like an animal carcass. She knew what she had to do. She took the mask and stuffed it into a black plastic bag, then closed the lid of the plastic box.

The last item in box 161C was a clear plastic bag with a white label. BPD 161C, 12: Jewelry, miscellaneous - bedroom dresser, top left drawer. She laid the bag flat so she could see the contents. One watch. One gold bangle. A gold bracelet. Chains. Cufflinks. A man's ring with black onyx. Several individual earrings. And then she found what she was looking for. The gold pendant with two hearts and a diamond that Michael had given her as an anniversary gift twelve years ago. A tear rolled down her cheek, but she wiped it away. Exceedingly carefully, she loosened the red tape that sealed the bag of jewelry without damaging the initials C. M. It was probably Chris Masterson who had packed the jewelry. Maura took out the pendant, felt it with her fingertips, just as she had done that night. She thought of Michael's words. I had it made especially for you. Do you like it?

A one-of-a-kind, and thus the only thing she could indisputably associate with Bantling. Again the spirits danced, tugged, and pulled at her. The knife that had angrily torn the pendant from her neck came to mind. The souring breath that grew fiercer and faster. Just don't go crazy! Just not drown in the flood of memories. Even the last time, it had taken far too long for it to reappear.

The rest of the jewelry probably came from Bantling's other victims: maybe the waitress from Hollywood or the student from Los Angeles or the nurse in Chicago. Souvenirs, trophies from each conquest. How many times had Bantling looked at the pendant and thought of her?

Remembering Maura, the girl she had been then? How many times had he satisfied himself to the thought of her slowly bleeding to death on her bed? She tossed the pendant into the black bag with the mask and then stuffed the bag into her purse. Carefully, she taped the bag with the jewelry and put it back in the box. She had found what she had come for. Now the score was even again. It would be his word against hers. And she knew she would win this match.

But she had committed a crime, had become a criminal. Now she was one of the bad guys.

Another small sacrifice for a higher purpose.

Maura had just closed the briefcase when suddenly the door opened. She winced.

Jane stood in the doorway, looking at her inquiringly.

"What are you doing here?" Jane asked. "I just came to get my laptop and saw the light on from the parking lot. I thought it might be Korsak."

"You have given me a scare. I didn't hear you come in," the lawyer said, pressing her hand to her heart.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. You're all pale."

"Chris let me in. I had to look at the evidence. I have the honor of conducting Gracker and the FBI here on Friday, after all. I didn't feel like any surprises," Maura told her quickly, licking her lips.

"Just watch out for Gracker. He'll end up taking something when you're not looking." Jane looked around. "Where's Chris now?"

"He had another interrogation."

"Where, upstairs?"

"No, downtown, I think."

Maura looked at Jane's annoyance. "He shouldn't have left you alone. He has to sign things in and out of the evidence room. He should have stayed with it."

"He told me to sign out to Becky."

"Becky left at five, just like everyone else. There's no one else here. I have to take this stuff back and sign everything in again. I'll just unlock the evidence room real quick."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. But I'm going after Chris tomorrow. Did you find what you needed?"

"Yes. I looked at everything." Maura helped the detective move the boxes down the hall to the evidence room and watched nervously as Jane carefully put piece after piece back in. Her hands grew damp as the detective sifted through the contents of the last box, which also contained the bag of miscellaneous jewelry and the box of costumes. She heaved a sigh of relief when Jane finally locked up and set the alarm.

"How did the meeting with Bantling and his lawyer go? That was this afternoon, wasn't it?" asked Jane as they walked down the hall.

Maura bit her lip. Other than Chris Masterson and Lou Ribero, Jane was the first person she'd talked to since all hell had broken loose at the prison. Maura didn't know if she could talk about it now without completely breaking down. Again, she fought back tears. "It was okay. There's not much to say."

"Does he want to negotiate?"

"No. He wants to file a motion to dismiss for the vehicle stop."

"A motion to dismiss? On what grounds?"

"He says there was no probable cause for the vehicle stop. He says Victor Chavez, the cop who pulled him over, is lying and didn't catch Bantling speeding at all. He says he made it all up to justify the stop after the fact. Bantling also says the taillight wasn't broken, another claim he lied about. All in all, he thinks Chavez is a lousy cop, out to earn golden spurs with Boogeyman." Maura didn't mention the second half of the motion, the real reason she had been called to jail today.

Jane remembered the little red plastic shard she had picked up and pocketed the night of Bantling's arrest on the Causeway. It wouldn't be the first time a cop had taken matters into his own hands, trailing with his truncheon, flashlight, or boot. Matched the tracks to the crime. "Well, great," she said, shaking her head, trying to shoo away the image of Chavez stepping on the taillight. On the Causeway, in view of the Boston Globe. "You did interrogate the cop. What do you think?"

"He's a rookie, totally inexperienced. But I think things are okay." Maura didn't feel comfortable in her skin. She could conceal things, but she wasn't a good liar. "If I could, I would have picked someone else to do the vehicle search. But I'm afraid we'll have to make do with him. So I'm working to make sure he gets it right in court."

"I don't understand. Rubio orders you to jail to discuss a motion to dismiss? Why would she do that? She could have just gone to the judge with it! She didn't have to drag you into the hole to do it. Was Bantling there, too?"

"Yes." Maura shivered.

"Anyone else?"

"No."

"Just you, Rubio, and Bantling in a locked room?" Jane watched Maura grow paler with each question. Why?

Maura realized the detective was trying to read her face, to find answers, and at that moment Maura was easy to read. She squeezed her bag tighter. "Jane, please, it's been a long day. He's a maniac. I don't want to talk about it now."

"Maura, what's going on with you? Why is this case taking you so hard? What is it? Talk to me. Maybe I can help you."

How she wished she could have talked to Jane! How she longed for the detective to just make this nightmare go away, to take her in the arms and make her feel safe. Like she did at her front door a few weeks ago. Safety, protection, warmth. She needed that feeling now more than ever because her life was slipping out of her control, and she was desperately trying to get the reins back. "No, no. As I said, he's a maniac, that's all. I've got to get home. It's late, and I'm exhausted."

Jane watched as the lawyer reached for the briefcase. "Does the motion have a chance?"

"No. Just hot air. Shouldn't be a problem."

"Could I see the copy?"

"It's in my office," Maura lied. Of course, she knew the press would pounce on the information as soon as the motion was filed in court, making it a public document. Her rape would be rolled out widely in the media, chewed over by young journalists trying to make a name for themselves on MSNBC. Maura would have to relive it all again and again until the public finally lost interest. And even if it wasn't enough to take her off the case, Judge Chaskel wouldn't be thrilled that she hadn't told him. Besides, she feared Small would pull her off the prosecution and appoint another prosecutor: one who didn't have such allegations as baggage. She realized that she should tell Jane before the matter went public. She needed to practice denying everything without crying every two seconds. But not tonight. Now she just couldn't.

"All right. I'll walk you out." Jane didn't press her; the detective knew that would only make her retreat further. So she changed the subject. "I was going to call Korsak and ask him to have dinner with me. I've been hanging around the South Boston clubs all afternoon, and in the middle of the day, that's pretty depressing." She locked the 'HQ' behind her and waved to the officer on watch as she walked out.

Silently, they walked to the Toyota and Maura got in. There would be no such familiar goodbyes today as there had been the other day. "Thank you, Jane," was all the lawyer could manage.

"Good night, Maura. Call me if you need me. Anytime."

Maura nodded and drove off.

Jane turned and walked to her car. She sat in the dark for a moment, thinking about their conversation, about how Maura had reacted so strangely again to the mention of Bill Bantling's name. She left a message on Korsak's cell phone, and then she checked her voice mail. Suddenly, there was a soft knock on the window. It was Maura, and the detective rolled down the window. "Jesus. You shouldn't sneak up on people like that. Especially not with people sitting in dark parking lots with guns in holsters. Is everything all right?" She looked around for Maura's car, which was probably sitting in the middle of the street with the hood open.

"Is that dinner invitation from the other night still standing?" asked Maura with an exhausted smile. "I'm starving."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was 8 p.m. in the evening, and Sarah Rubio was still sitting at the oak desk in her abandoned office. She stared at her diploma from BCU on the wall, wondering how it had all gone so wrong. Next to her diploma on the creamy white wall hung numerous medals and certificates she had been awarded over the years by various legal associations and charities.

She remembered word for word the oath she had had to take as a lawyer, when she had been sworn in by old Chief Justice Fifler, wearing a ghastly purple suit with huge shoulder pads that she had bought especially for the occasion. That had been fourteen years ago now. Judge Fifler had died, the purple suit had been discarded, and the years had somehow flown by.

To her mother's horror, Sarah Rubio had always wanted to be a criminal defense attorney. She had actually wanted to uphold the Constitution, to protect the rights of the innocent from Big Brother's intrusive eyes and ears. She had taken all the idealistic fluff from law school at face value. Then she had jumped into the deep end as a public defender and watched her illusions crumble.

There was no shelter for the homeless, no help for the mentally ill. Lawyers wanted to make money and negotiated settlements. Judges wanted to lighten their workload. Prosecutors wanted to make a name for themselves. For many, the legal system was simply a means to an end. And yet, Lourdes had still wanted to be a criminal defense attorney.

She had come to terms with the weaknesses of the system by leaving the Public Defense Office and opening her own law firm. Not enough that she was a woman, her family was from Cuba. So she had had to struggle for years to make a name for herself in a world where there were almost only men, her clients included. After eight hard years, she had made it; she could compete with the most successful of them. She was at the top, among the highest-paid and most respected criminal defense lawyers in Boston. But now she looked at her degree with disgust instead of pride. Thought of her client with hatred instead of sympathy.

When had she allowed herself to be corrupted by the system she hated, the system she claimed to have fought against for years, day after day? How had she allowed a victim to confront her rapist, who used his crime as a legal means to achieve his freedom? Of course, to win, sometimes you had to be tough as nails, no matter what the cost. She knew Bantling's allegations could bring the case to a swift conclusion. It would be a quick victory.

She tidied up the files to head home. She would cook her elderly mother dinner and maybe watch a movie on TV. But then she stopped suddenly and put her head in her hands.

Today she had mistaken victory for justice, and she deeply regretted it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Maura Isles. The hot little law student from Queens had grown up to play district attorney. Boy, time had taken its toll on her. He almost hadn't recognized her with the stuffy clothes that covered far too much of her once-crisp ass and perky tits. But that face. It was a face he never forgot. Especially not one like Maura's. That was why he'd chosen her back then, after all. She wasn't just pretty, she was a beauty.

And now he had her again. After twelve years, he had found her, happily reunited. Her expression when his lawyer told her the news had been stunning. Simply stunning. Shock. Then fear. And finally horror. He had caught her. Her captor had caught her again. Now she had to look him in the eye and admit that she was finished. She had lost to him again.

He cleaned the spaces between his teeth with the envelope of his notepad. He sat in his cell on the cot reeking of old fish and piss.

Shut up and sit down. His useless defender had actually yelled at him. Shut up and sit down. Who the hell did she think she was? He had to rethink her role in all of this. Originally, he had thought she was the right choice, but now... On the other hand, she had gotten him the police report from New York, and it had made wonderful bedtime reading. Seeing in black and white what he'd done, from a third party's point of view. Especially those puny cops from the NYPD who didn't know their ass from their face. Quite a stimulating pastime. And then Rubio had helped him give the DA the shock of her life with her motions and objections. But now, all of a sudden, this stupid cow of a defense attorney was claiming that she couldn't file the motion yet, that she still had to do research. And he was beginning to wonder if she could keep up with the big boys in the First Division.

Let me do it. You'd be admitting you're a brutal, knife-wielding rapist. If you just say, 'I did it then, but I didn't do it now,' and accuse your victim, the prosecutor, you've got to be clear about one thing, Bill, everybody will then think you're guilty and hate you even more, and they'll feel sorry for her. It's a very delicate situation, and we can't just throw around allegations like that. She denies everything, and, frankly, your word doesn't carry the slightest weight in court, not against that of the prosecutor. You need evidence.

You can have the evidence. Even if I am extremely reluctant to part with it.

Outbursts like the one you had today won't help you, God knows. You're acting exactly like the serial killer you're being made out to be. You have to let me do this, and you have to do it the way I see fit. And you can't say anything else. From now on, you just keep your mouth shut.

She was scared. Now that Sarah Rubio knew who she was dealing with, who she was sitting in the courtroom whispering to in the cell. And he had his doubts about whether she would look as convincing to the jury now as she would have if she had thought him completely innocent. The trusty doe look was gone.

Bill Bantling was pacing up and down the cell like a wild animal in a cage. He was in solitary confinement because he was supposedly a security risk. Shit. It dawned on him now that they only locked him up in solitary because Maura, Beany, the woman prosecutor had known who he was all along. She had him locked away for her own protection. For her own salvation. The more bars that locked him in, the better she could sleep. But now he knew her game, and he would keep up. He would enjoy watching her slowly collapse.

What a big mouth she had. But he knew she could only say things like that because he was handcuffed and leg cuffed to a damn table.

He knew she was scared, that she was consumed with fear. And she should be.

Because if he got out of here, he was going to kill her.