The Apprentice: A Novel Read online

  “I should be there,” said Moore. “I should be working this with you—”

  “No, you shouldn’t. You should be right where you are, with Catherine. I don’t think Hoyt can find her. But he’ll be trying. He never gives up; you know that. And now there are two of them, and we have no idea what this partner looks like. If he turns up in London, you won’t know his face. You need to be ready.”

  As if anyone could be ready for the Surgeon’s attack, she thought as she hung up. A year ago, Catherine Cordell had thought she was ready. She’d turned her home into a fortress and lived her life as though under siege. Yet Hoyt had slipped through her defenses; he had struck when she least expected it, in a place she thought was safe.

  Just as I think my home is safe.

  She rose and crossed to the window. Looking down at the street, she wondered if, at that moment, anyone was looking at her, watching her as she stood framed in the window’s light. She would not be difficult to find. All the Surgeon had to do was look in the phone book under “RIZZOLI J.”

  On the street below, a vehicle slowed down and pulled over to the curb. A police cruiser. She watched it for a moment, but it did not move, and the engine lights shut off, indicating it had settled in for a stay. She had not requested protective surveillance, but she knew who had.

  Gabriel Dean.

  History echoes with the screams of women.

  The pages of textbooks pay scant attention to the lurid details that we hunger to know. Instead we are told dry accounts of military strategies and flank attacks, of the cunning of generals and the massing of armies. We see illustrations of men in armor, swords locked, muscled bodies twisting in the throes of combat. We see paintings of leaders astride noble mounts, gazing at fields where soldiers stand like rows of wheat awaiting the scythe. We see maps with arrows tracing the march of conquering armies, and read the lyrics of war ballads, sung in the name of king and country. The triumphs of men are always writ large, in the blood of soldiers.

  No one speaks of the women.

  But we all know they were there, soft flesh and smooth skin, their perfume wafting through history’s pages. We all know, though we may not speak of it, that war’s savagery is not confined to the battlefield. That when the last enemy soldier has fallen, and one army stands victorious, it is toward the conquered women that the army next turns its attentions.

  So it has always been, though the brutal reality is seldom mentioned in the history books. Instead, I read of wars that are as shiny as brass, with glory for all. Of Greeks battling under the watchful eyes of the Gods, and of the fall of Troy, which the poet Virgil tells us was a war fought by heroes: Achilles and Hector, Ajax and Odysseus, names now enshrined for eternity. He writes of clanging swords and flying arrows and blood-soaked earth.

  He leaves out the best parts.

  It is the playwright Euripides who tells us of the aftermath for the Trojan women, but even he is circumspect. He does not dwell on the titillating details. He tells us that a terrified Cassandra was dragged from Athena’s temple by a Greek chieftain, but we are left to fantasize about what comes next. The tearing open of her robes, the baring of her skin. His thrusts between her virgin thighs. Her shrieks of pain and despair.

  Across the fallen city of Troy, such shrieks would have echoed from other women’s throats, as the victorious Greeks took what was due them, marking their victory in the flesh of conquered women. Were any men of Troy left alive to watch? The ancients do not mention it. But what better way to crow victory than to abuse the body of your enemy’s beloved? What more powerful proof is there that you have defeated him, humiliated him, than to force him to watch as you take your pleasure, again and again?

  This much I understand: triumph requires an audience.

  I am thinking of the Trojan women as our car glides along Commonwealth Avenue, steady with the flow of traffic. It is a busy road, and even at nine P.M., cars move slowly, giving me time to leisurely study the building.

  The windows are dark; neither Catherine Cordell nor her new husband are at home.

  That’s all I allow myself, that one look, and then the building slides out of view. I know the block is being watched, yet I could not resist that glimpse of her fortress, as impregnable as the walls of any castle. An empty castle, now, no longer of any interest to those who would storm it.

  I look at my driver, whose face is hidden in shadow. I see only a silhouette and the gleam of eyes, like two hungry sparks in the night.

  On the Discovery Channel, I have watched videos of lions at night, the green fire of their eyes burning in the darkness. I am reminded of those lions, of how they stared with hungry purpose, waiting for the moment to spring. I now see that hunger in the eyes of my companion.

  The same hunger he surely sees in mine.

  I roll down my window and inhale deeply as the warm scent of the city wafts in. The lion, sniffing the air over the savanna. Searching for the scent of prey.

  fifteen

  They drove together in Dean’s car, heading west toward the town of Shirley, forty-five miles from Boston. Dean said little during the drive, but the silence between them only seemed to magnify her awareness of his scent, his calm assurance. She scarcely gave him a glance for fear he’d see, in her eyes, the turmoil he’d inspired.

  Instead, she glanced down and saw dark-blue carpet at her feet. She wondered if it was nylon six, six, #802 blue, wondered how many cars had similar carpeting. Such a popular color; it seemed that everywhere she looked now, she saw blue carpets, and imagined countless shoe soles trailing #802 nylon fibers all over the streets of Boston.

  The air conditioner was too cold; she shut the vent by her knees and stared out at fields of tall grass, longing to feel the heat outside this overcooled bubble. Outside, morning haze hung like gauze over green fields and trees stood motionless, their leaves unstirred by even the faintest breeze. Rizzoli seldom ventured into rural Massachusetts. She was a city girl, born and bred, and she felt no affinity for the countryside with its empty spaces and biting bugs. Nor did she feel its lure today.

  Last night, she had not slept well. She had startled awake several times, had lain with heart pounding as she listened for footsteps, for the whisper of an intruder’s breath. At five A.M. she rose from bed feeling drugged and unrested. Only after two cups of coffee had she felt alert enough to call the hospital and ask about Korsak’s condition.

  He was still in the ICU. Still on a ventilator.

  She lowered the window a crack and warm air blew in, smelling of grass and earth. She considered the sad possibility that Korsak might never again enjoy such smells or feel the wind in his face. She tried to remember if the last words they’d exchanged were good ones, friendly ones, but she could not remember.

  At Exit 36, Dean followed the signs to MCI-Shirley. Souza-Baranowski, the level-six security facility where Warren Hoyt had been housed, loomed off to their right. He parked in the visitors’ lot and turned to look at her.

  “You feel the need to walk out any time,” he said, “just do it.”

  “Why are you expecting me to bail?”

  “Because I know what he did to you. Anyone in your position would have problems working this case.”

  She saw genuine concern in his eyes, and she did not want it; it only reinforced how fragile was her courage.

  “Let’s just do it, okay?” she said, and shoved open her car door. Pride kept her walking with grim determination into the building. It propelled her through the security check-in at the outer control desk, where she and Dean presented their badges and handed in their weapons. As they waited for an escort, she read the Dress Code, posted in the visitor process area:

  The following items are not allowed to be worn by any visitor: Bare feet. Bathing suits or shorts. Any clothing that displays gang affiliation. Any clothing similar to that issued to an inmate or uniformed personnel. Double-layered clothing. Drawstring clothing. Easy-access clothing. Excessively baggy, loose, thick, or heavy clothing . . .


  The list was endless, proscribing everything from hair ribbons to underwire bras.

  A corrections officer finally appeared, a heavyset man dressed in MCI summer blues. “Detective Rizzoli and Agent Dean? I’m Officer Curtis. Come this way.”

  Curtis was friendly, even jovial, as he escorted them through the first locked door and into the pedestrian trap. Rizzoli wondered if he would be so pleasant if they were not law enforcement officers, part of the same brotherhood. He told them to remove their belts, shoes, jackets, watches, and keys and to place them on the table for his examination. Rizzoli took off her Timex and laid it down next to Dean’s gleaming Omega. Then she proceeded to shrug off her blazer, just as Dean was doing. There was something uncomfortably intimate about the process. As she unbuckled her belt and pulled it out of her trouser loops, she felt Curtis staring at her, the way a man watches a woman undress. She took off her low-heeled pumps, set them down beside Dean’s shoes, and coolly met Officer Curtis’s gaze. Only then did he avert his eyes. Next, she turned her pockets inside out and followed Dean through the metal detector.

  “Hey, lucky you,” said Curtis as she stepped through. “You just missed being the patdown search of the day.”

  “What?”

  “Every day, our shift commander sets a random number for which visitor gets patted down. You just missed it. Next person who comes through’s gonna be it.”

  Rizzoli said, dryly, “Getting felt up would’ve been the highlight of my day.”

  “You can put everything back on now. And you two get to keep your watches on.”

  “You say that like it’s a privilege.”

  “Only attorneys and officers of the law can wear watches beyond this point. Everyone else has to check in all their jewelry. Now I gotta stamp your left wrists, and you can go into the pods.”

  “We have an appointment to see Superintendent Oxton at nine,” said Dean.

  “He’s running behind schedule. Asked me to take you to see the prisoner’s cell first. Then I’ll bring you over to Oxton’s office.”

  Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center was MCI’s newest facility, with a state-of-the-art keyless security system operated by forty-two graphic-interfaced computer terminals, Officer Curtis explained. He pointed out numerous surveillance cameras.

  “They’re recording live twenty-four hours a day. Most visitors never even see a live guard. They just hear the intercom telling them what to do next.”

  As they walked through a steel door, down a long hallway, and through another series of barred gates, Rizzoli was fully aware that every move she made was being monitored. With just a few taps on a computer keyboard, guards could lock down every passage, every cell, without leaving their control room.

  At the entrance to Cell Block C, a voice on the intercom instructed them to hold up their passes against the window for inspection. They restated their names, and Officer Curtis said: “Two visitors here to inspect Prisoner Hoyt’s cell.”

  The steel gate slid open and they entered Cell Block C’s dayroom, the common area for prisoners. It was painted a depressing shade of hospital green. Rizzoli saw a wall-mounted TV set, couch and chairs, and a Ping-Pong table where two men were clacking a ball back and forth. All the furniture was bolted down. A dozen men dressed in prisoners’ blue denim simultaneously turned and stared.

  In particular, they stared at Rizzoli, the only woman in the room.

  The two men playing Ping-Pong abruptly halted their game. For a moment, the only sound was the TV, tuned to CNN. She gazed straight back at the prisoners, refusing to be intimidated, even though she could guess what each man was surely thinking. Imagining. She did not notice that Dean had moved closer until she felt his arm brush hers and she realized he was standing right beside her.

  A voice from the intercom said: “Visitors, you may proceed to Cell C-8.”

  “It’s this way,” said Officer Curtis. “Up one level.”

  They ascended the stairway, their shoes setting off clangs against the metal steps. From the upper gallery, which led past individual cells, they could look down into the well of the dayroom. Curtis led them along the walkway until he came to #8.

  “This is the one. Prisoner Hoyt’s cell.”

  Rizzoli stood at the threshold and stared into the cage. She saw nothing that distinguished this cell from any other—no photographs, no personal possessions that told her Warren Hoyt had once inhabited this space—yet her scalp crawled. Though he was gone, his presence had imprinted the very air. If it was possible for malevolence to linger, then surely this place was now contaminated.

  “You can step in if you want,” said Curtis.

  She entered the cell. She saw three bare walls, a sleeping platform and mattress, a sink, and a toilet. A stark cube. This was how Warren would have liked it. He was a neat man, a precise man, who had once worked in the sterile world of a medical laboratory, a world where the only splashes of color came from the tubes of blood he handled every day. He did not need to surround himself with lurid images; the ones he carried in his mind were horrifying enough.

  “This cell hasn’t been reassigned?” said Dean.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “And no other prisoner’s been in here since Hoyt left?”

  “That’s right.”

  Rizzoli went to the mattress and lifted up one corner. Dean grasped the other corner, and together they hoisted up the mattress and looked beneath it. They found nothing. They rolled the mattress completely over, then searched the ticking for any tears in the fabric, any hiding places where he might have stashed contraband. They found only a small rip on the side barely an inch long. Rizzoli probed it with her finger and found nothing inside.

  She straightened and scanned the cell, taking in the same surroundings that Hoyt had once stared at. Imagined him lying on that mattress, eyes focused on the bare ceiling as he spun fantasies that would appall any normal human being. But Hoyt would be excited by them. He would lie sweating, aroused by the shrieks of women echoing in his head.

  She turned to Officer Curtis. “Where are his possessions? His personal items? Correspondence?”

  “In the superintendent’s office. We’ll go there next.”

  “Right after you called this morning, I had the prisoner’s belongings brought up here for your inspection,” said Superintendent Oxton, gesturing to a large cardboard box on his desk. “We’ve already gone through it all. We found absolutely no contraband.” He emphasized this last point as though it absolved him of all responsibility for what had gone wrong. Oxton struck Rizzoli as a man who did not tolerate infractions, who’d be ruthless at enforcing rules and regulations. He would certainly ferret out all contraband, isolate all troublemakers, demand that lights-out was on the dot every night. Just a glance around his office, with photos showing a fierce-looking young Oxton in an army uniform, told her this was the domain of someone who needed to be in control. Yet for all his efforts, a prisoner had escaped, and Oxton was now on the defensive. He had greeted them with a stiff handshake and barely a smile in his remote blue eyes.

  He opened the box and removed a large Ziploc bag, which he handed to Rizzoli. “The prisoner’s toiletries,” he said. “The usual personal care items.”

  Rizzoli saw a toothbrush, comb, washcloth, and soap. Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion. She quickly set the bag down, repulsed by the thought that Hoyt had used these items every day to groom himself. She could see light-brown hairs still clinging to the comb’s teeth.

  Oxton continued removing items from the box. Underwear. A stack of National Geographic magazines and several issues of the Boston Globe. Two Snickers bars, a pad of yellow legal paper, white envelopes, and three plastic rollerball pens. “And his correspondence,” said Oxton as he removed another Ziploc bag, this one containing a bundle of letters.

  “We’ve gone through every piece of his mail,” Oxton said. “The State Police have the names and addresses of all these correspondents.” He handed the bundle to Dean. “Of cours
e, this is only the mail he kept. There was probably a certain amount he threw out.”

  Dean opened the Ziploc bag and removed the contents. There were about a dozen letters, still in their envelopes.

  “Does MCI censor prisoner mail?” Dean asked. “Do you screen it before you give it to them?”

  “We have the authority to do so. Depending on the type of mail.”

  “Type?”

  “If it’s classified privileged, the guards are only allowed to glance inside for contraband. But they’re not allowed to read it. The correspondence is private, between sender and prisoner.”

  “So you’d have no idea what was written to him.”

  “If it’s privileged mail.”

  “What’s the difference between privileged and unprivileged mail?” asked Rizzoli.

  Oxton responded to her interruption with a glint of annoyance in his eyes. “Nonprivileged mail is from friends and family or the general public. For instance, a number of our inmates have picked up pen pals from the outside who think they’re performing a charitable service.”

  “By corresponding with murderers? Are they crazy?”

  “Many of them are naive and lonely women. Susceptible to being used by a con artist. Those types of letters are nonprivileged and the guards have the authority to read and censor them. But we don’t always have time to read them all. We deal with a large volume of mail here. In Prisoner Hoyt’s case, there was a lot of mail to inspect.”

  “From whom? I’m not aware he had much family,” said Dean.

  “He got a lot of publicity last year. It caught the interest of the public. They all wanted to write to him.”

  Rizzoli was appalled. “Are you saying he got fan mail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus. People are nuts.”

  “The public gets a thrill from talking to a killer. Something about being in touch with fame. Manson and Dahmer and Gacy, they all got fan mail. Our prisoners get marriage proposals. Women send them cash, or photos of themselves in bikinis. Men write wanting to know what it feels like to commit murder. The world is full of sick fucks, pardon my French, who get a charge out of knowing a real live killer.”