Tess Gerritsen's Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle Page 5

  Peter eyed the tubes and machinery bristling around Mr. Gwadowski’s bed. “I heard you made a great save. A twelve-unit bleeder.”

  “I don’t know if you’d call it a save.” Her gaze returned to her patient. “Everything works but the gray matter.”

  They said nothing for a moment, both of them watching Mr. Gwadowski’s chest rise and fall.

  “Helen told me two policemen came by to see you today,” said Peter. “What’s going on?”

  “It wasn’t important.”

  “Forgot to pay those parking tickets?”

  She forced a laugh. “Right, and I’m counting on you to bail me out.”

  They left the SICU and walked into the hallway, lanky Peter striding beside her in that easy lope of his. As they rode the elevator, he asked:

  “You okay, Catherine?”

  “Why? Don’t I look okay?”

  “Honestly?” He studied her face, his blue eyes so direct she felt invaded. “You look like you need a glass of wine and a nice dinner out. How about joining me?”

  “A tempting invitation.”

  “But?”

  “But I think I’ll stay in for the night.”

  Peter clutched his chest, as though mortally wounded. “Shot down again! Tell me, is there any line that works on you?”

  She smiled. “That’s for you to find out.”

  “How about this one? A little bird told me it’s your birthday on Saturday. Let me take you up in my plane.”

  “Can’t. I’m on call that day.”

  “You can switch with Ames. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Oh, Peter. You know I don’t like to fly.”

  “Don’t tell me you have phobias about flying?”

  “I’m just not good at relinquishing control.”

  He nodded gravely. “Classic surgical personality.”

  “That’s a nice way of saying I’m uptight.”

  “So it’s a no-go on the flying date? I can’t change your mind?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He sighed. “Well, that’s it for my lines. I’ve gone through my entire repertoire.”

  “I know. You’re starting to recycle them.”

  “That’s what Helen says, too.”

  She shot him a look of surprise. “Helen’s giving you tips on how to ask me out?”

  “She said she couldn’t stand the pathetic spectacle of a man banging his head against an impregnable wall.”

  They both laughed as they stepped off the elevator and walked to their suite. It was the comfortable laugh of two colleagues who knew this game was all tongue-in-cheek. Keeping it on that level meant no feelings were hurt, no emotions were at stake. A safe little flirtation that kept them both insulated from real entanglements. Playfully he’d ask her out; just as playfully she’d turn him down, and the whole office was in on the joke.

  It was already five-thirty, and their staff was gone for the day. Peter retreated to his office and she went into hers to hang up her lab coat and get her purse. As she put the coat on the door hook, a thought suddenly occurred to her.

  She crossed the hallway and stuck her head in Peter’s office. He was reviewing charts, his reading glasses perched on his nose. Unlike her own neat office, Peter’s looked like chaos central. Paper airplanes filled the trash can. Books and surgery journals were piled on chairs. One wall was nearly smothered by an out-of-control philodendron. Buried in that jungle of leaves were Peter’s diplomas: an undergraduate degree in aeronautical engineering from MIT, an M.D. from Harvard Medical School.

  “Peter? This is a stupid question.…”

  He glanced up over his glasses. “Then you’ve come to the right man.”

  “Have you been in my office?”

  “Should I call my lawyer before I answer that?”

  “Come on. I’m serious.”

  He straightened, and his gaze sharpened on hers. “No, I haven’t. Why?”

  “Never mind. It’s not a big deal.” She turned to leave and heard the creak of his chair as he stood up. He followed her into her office.

  “What’s not a big deal?” he asked.

  “I’m being obsessive-compulsive, that’s all. I get irritated when things aren’t where they should be.”

  “Like what?”

  “My lab coat. I always hang it on the door, and somehow it ends up on the filing cabinet, or over a chair. I know it’s not Helen or the other secretaries. I asked them.”

  “The cleaning lady probably moved it.”

  “And then it drives me crazy that I can’t find my stethoscope.”

  “It’s still missing?”

  “I had to borrow the nursing supervisor’s.”

  Frowning, he glanced around the room. “Well, there it is. On the bookshelf.” He crossed to the shelf, where her stethoscope lay coiled beside a bookend.

  Silently she took it from him, staring at it as though it were something alien. A black serpent, draped over her hand.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?”

  She took a deep breath. “I think I’m just tired.” She put the stethoscope in the left pocket of her lab coat—the same place she always left it.

  “Are you sure that’s all? Is there something else going on?”

  “I need to get home.” She walked out of her office, and he followed her into the hall.

  “Is it something to do with those police officers? Look, if you’re in some kind of trouble—if I can help out—”

  “I don’t need any help, thank you.” Her answer came out cooler than she’d intended, and she was instantly sorry for it. Peter didn’t deserve that.

  “You know, I wouldn’t mind if you did ask me for favors every so often,” he said quietly. “It’s part of working together. Being partners. Don’t you think?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He turned back to his office. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Peter?”

  “Yes?”

  “About those two police officers. And the reason they came to see me—”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “No, I should. You’ll just wonder about it if I don’t. They came to ask me about a homicide case. A woman was murdered Thursday night. They thought I might have known her.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. It was a mistake, that’s all.” She sighed. “Just a mistake.”

  Catherine turned the dead bolt, felt it drive home with a satisfying thud, and then slid the chain in place. One more line of defense against the unnamed horrors that lurked beyond her walls. Safely barricaded in her apartment, she removed her shoes, set her purse and car keys down on the cherrywood butler’s table, and walked in stockinged feet across the thick white carpet of her living room. The flat was pleasantly cool, thanks to the miracle of central air-conditioning. Outside it was eighty-six degrees, but in here the temperature never wavered above seventy-two in the summer or below sixty-eight in the winter. There was so little in one’s life that could be pre-set, pre-determined, and she strove to maintain what order she could manage within the circumscribed boundaries of her life. She had chosen this twelve-unit condominium building on Commonwealth Avenue because it was brand-new, with a secure parking garage. Though not as picturesque as the historic redbrick residences in the Back Bay, neither was it plagued by the plumbing or electrical uncertainties that come with older buildings. Uncertainty was something Catherine did not tolerate well. Her flat was kept spotless, and except for a few startling splashes of color, she’d chosen to furnish it mostly in white. White couch, white carpets, white tile. The color of purity. Untouched, virginal.

  In her bedroom she undressed, hung up her skirt, set aside the blouse to be dropped off at the dry cleaner’s. She changed into loose slacks and a sleeveless silk blouse. By the time she walked barefoot into the kitchen, she was feeling calm, and in control.

  She had not felt that way earlier today. The visit by the two detectives had left her shaken, and all afternoon she had caught
herself making careless mistakes. Reaching for the wrong lab slip, writing the incorrect date on a medical chart. Only minor errors, but they were like faint ripples that mar the surface of waters that are deeply disturbed. For the last two years she had managed to suppress all thoughts of what had happened to her in Savannah. Every so often, without warning, a remembered image might return, as sharp as a knife’s slash, but she would dance away from it, deftly turning her mind to other thoughts. Today, she could not avoid the memories. Today, she could not pretend that Savannah had never happened.

  The kitchen tiles were cool under her bare feet. She fixed herself a screwdriver, light on the vodka, and sipped it as she grated Parmesan cheese and chopped tomatoes and onions and herbs. She had not eaten since breakfast, and the alcohol sluiced straight into her bloodstream. The vodka buzz was pleasant and anesthetizing. She took comfort in the steady rap of her knife against the cutting board, the fragrance of fresh basil and garlic. Cooking as therapy.

  Outside her kitchen window, the city of Boston was an overheated cauldron of gridlocked cars and flaring tempers, but in here, sealed behind glass, she calmly sautéed the tomatoes in olive oil, poured a glass of Chianti, and heated a pot of water for fresh angel-hair pasta. Cool air hissed from the air-conditioning vent.

  She sat down with her pasta and salad and wine and ate to the background strains of Debussy on the CD player. Despite her hunger and the careful attention to the preparation of her meal, everything seemed tasteless. She forced herself to eat, but her throat felt full, as though she had swallowed something thick and glutinous. Even drinking a second glass of wine could not dislodge the lump in her throat. She put down her fork and stared at her half-eaten dinner. The music swelled and swept over her in breaking waves.

  She dropped her face in her hands. At first no sound came out. It was as if her grief had been bottled up so long, the seal had permanently frozen shut. Then a high keening escaped her throat, the thinnest thread of sound. She gasped in a breath, and a cry burst forth as two years’ worth of pain came pouring out all at once. The violence of her emotions scared her, because she could not hold them back, could not fathom how deep her pain went or if there would ever be an end to it. She cried until her throat was raw, until her lungs were stuttering with spasms, the sound of her sobbing trapped in that hermetically sealed apartment.

  At last, drained of all tears, she lay down on the couch and fell at once into a deep and exhausted sleep.

  She came sharply awake to find herself in darkness. Her heart was pounding, her blouse soaked in sweat. Had there been a noise? The crack of glass, the tread of a footstep? Was that what had startled her from such a deep sleep? She dared not move a muscle, for fear she would miss the telltale sound of an intruder.

  Moving lights shone through the window, the headlights of a passing car. Her living room briefly brightened, then slid back into darkness. She listened to the hiss of cool air from the vent, the growl of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Nothing alien. Nothing that should inspire this crushing sense of dread.

  She sat up and summoned the courage to turn on the lamp. Imagined horrors instantly vanished in the warm glow of light. She rose from the couch, moving deliberately from room to room, turning on lights, looking into closets. On a rational level, she knew that there was no intruder, that her home, with its sophisticated alarm system and its dead bolts and its tightly latched windows, was as protected as any home could be. But she did not rest until this ritual had been completed and every dark nook had been searched. Only when she was satisfied that her security had not been breached did she allow herself to breathe easily again.

  It was ten-thirty. A Wednesday. I need to talk to someone. Tonight I cannot deal with this alone.

  She sat down at her desk, booted up her computer, and watched as the screen flickered on. It was her lifeline, her therapist, this bundle of electronics and wires and plastic, the only safe place into which she could pour her pain.

  She typed in her screen name, CCORD, signed onto the Internet, and with a few clicks of the mouse, a few words typed on the keyboard, she navigated her way into the private chat room called, simply: womanhelp.

  Half a dozen familiar screen names were already there. Faceless, nameless women, all of them drawn to this safe and anonymous haven in cyberspace. She sat for a few moments, watching the messages scroll down the computer screen. Hearing, in her mind, the wounded voices of women she had never met, except in this virtual room.

  LAURIE45: So what did you do then?

  VOTIVE: I told him I wasn’t ready. I was still having flashbacks. I told him if he cared about me, he’d wait.

  HBREAKER: Good for you.

  WINKY98: Don’t let him rush you.

  LAURIE45: How did he react?

  VOTIVE: He said I should just GET OVER IT. Like I’m a wimp or something.

  WINKY98: Men should get raped!!!!

  HBREAKER: It took me two years before I was ready.

  LAURIE45: Over a year for me.

  WINKY98: All these guys think about are their dicks. It’s all about them. They just want their THING satisfied.

  LAURIE45: Ouch. You’re pissed off tonight, Wink.

  WINKY98: Maybe I am. Sometimes I think Lorena Bobbitt had the right idea.

  HBREAKER: Wink’s getting out her cleaver!

  VOTIVE: I don’t think he’s willing to wait. I think he’s given up on me.

  WINKY98: You’re worth waiting for. You’re WORTH IT!

  A few seconds passed, with the message box blank. Then,

  LAURIE45: Hello, CCord. It’s good to see you back.

  Catherine typed.

  CCORD: I see we’re talking about men again.

  LAURIE45: Yeah. How come we can’t ever get off this tired subject?

  VOTIVE: Because they’re the ones who hurt us.

  There was another long pause. Catherine took a deep breath and typed.

  CCORD: I had a bad day.

  LAURIE45: Tell us, CC. What happened?

  Catherine could almost hear the coo of female voices, gentle, soothing murmurs through the ether.

  CCORD: I had a panic attack tonight. I’m here, locked in my house, where no one can touch me and it still happens.

  WINKY98: Don’t let him win. Don’t let him make you a prisoner.

  CCORD: It’s too late. I am a prisoner. Because I realized something terrible tonight.

  WINKY98: What’s that?

  CCORD: Evil doesn’t die. It never dies. It just takes on a new face, a new name. Just because we’ve been touched by it once, it doesn’t mean we’re immune to ever being hurt again. Lightning can strike twice.

  No one typed anything. No one responded.

  No matter how careful we are, evil knows where we live, she thought. It knows how to find us.

  A drop of sweat slid down her back.

  And I feel it now. Closing in.

  Nina Peyton goes nowhere, sees no one. She has not been to her job in weeks. Today I called her office in Brookline, where she works as a sales representative, and her colleague told me he doesn’t know when she will return to them. She is like a wounded beast, holed up in her cave, terrified of taking even one step out into the night. She knows what the night holds for her, because she has been touched by its evil, and even now she feels it seeping like vapor through the walls of her home. The curtains are closed tight, but the fabric is thin, and I see her moving about inside. Her silhouette is balled up, arms squeezed to her chest, as though her body has folded into itself. Her movements are jerky and mechanical as she paces back and forth.

  She is checking the locks on the doors, the latches on the windows. Trying to shut out the darkness.

  It must be stifling inside that little house. The night is like steam, and there are no air conditioners in any of her windows. All evening she has stayed inside, the windows closed despite the heat. I picture her gleaming with sweat, suffering through the long hot day and into the night, desperate to let in fresh air, but afraid of what e
lse she might let in.

  She walks past the window again. Stops. Lingers there, framed by the rectangle of light. Suddenly the curtains flick apart, and she reaches through to unlock the latch. She slides up the window. Stands before it, taking in hungry gulps of fresh air. She has finally surrendered to the heat.

  There is nothing so exciting to a hunter as the scent of wounded prey. I can almost smell it wafting out, the scent of a bloodied beast, of defiled flesh. Just as she breathes in the night air, so, too, am I breathing in her scent. Her fear.

  My heart beats faster. I reach into my bag, to caress the instruments. Even the steel is warm to my touch.

  She closes the window with a bang. A few deep gulps of fresh air was all she dared allow herself, and now she retreats to the misery of her stuffy little house.

  After a while, I accept disappointment and I walk away, leaving her to sweat through the night in that oven of a bedroom.

  Tomorrow, they say, it will be even hotter.

  five

  This unsub is a classic picquerist,” said Dr. Lawrence Zucker. “Someone who uses a knife to achieve secondary or indirect sexual release. Picquerism is the act of stabbing or cutting, any repeated penetration of the skin with a sharp object. The knife is a phallic symbol—a substitution for the male sexual organ. Instead of performing normal sexual intercourse, our unsub achieves his release by subjecting his victim to pain and terror. It’s the power that thrills him. Ultimate power, over life and death.”

  Detective Jane Rizzoli was not easily spooked, but Dr. Zucker gave her the creeps. He looked like a pale and hulking John Malkovich, and his voice was whispery, almost feminine. As he spoke, his fingers moved with serpentine elegance. He was not a cop but a criminal psychologist from Northeastern University, a consultant for the Boston Police Department. Rizzoli had worked with him once before on a homicide case, and he’d given her the creeps then, too. It was not just his appearance but the way he so thoroughly insinuated himself into the perp’s mind and the obvious pleasure he derived from wandering in that satanic dimension. He enjoyed the journey. She could hear that almost subliminal hum of excitement in his voice.