The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  And fear. All these months, she had suppressed it, because she knew it was irrational to be afraid of Warren Hoyt. He had been locked in a place where he could not reach her, could not hurt her. The nightmares had merely been aftershocks, lingering echoes of an old terror that she hoped would eventually fade. But now fear made perfect sense, and it had her in its jaws.

  Abruptly she shot to her feet and turned to leave.

  “Detective Rizzoli!”

  She stopped in the doorway.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I think you know where I have to go.”

  “Fitchburg P.D. and the State Police have this under control.”

  “Do they? To them, he’s just another con on the run. They’ll expect him to make the same mistakes all the others do. But he won’t. He’ll slip right through their net.”

  “You don’t give them enough credit.”

  “They don’t give Hoyt enough credit. They don’t understand what they’re dealing with,” she said.

  But I do. I understand perfectly.

  Outside, the parking lot shimmered white-hot under the glaring sun and the wind that blew from the street was thick and sulfurous. By the time she climbed into her car, her shirt was already soaked with sweat. Hoyt would like this heat, she thought. He thrived on it, the way a lizard thrives on the baking desert sand. And like any reptile, he knew how to quickly slither out of harm’s way.

  They won’t find him.

  As she drove toward Fitchburg, she thought of the Surgeon, loose in the world again. Imagined him walking city streets, the predator back among the prey. She wondered if she still had the fortitude to face him. If, having defeated him once, she had used up her lifetime quota of courage. She did not think of herself as a coward; she had never backed away from a challenge and had always plunged headlong into any fray. But the thought of confronting Warren Hoyt left her shaking.

  I fought him once, and it almost killed me. I don’t know if I can do it again. If I can wrestle the monster back into his cage.

  The perimeter was unmanned. Rizzoli paused in the hospital corridor, glancing around for a uniformed officer, but saw only a few nurses standing nearby, two of them embracing each other for comfort, the others huddled together and spoke in low tones, faces gray with shock.

  She ducked under the drooping yellow tape and walked unchallenged through the double doors, which automatically hissed open to admit her into the O.R. reception area. She saw the smears and busy tango steps of bloody footprints on the floor. A CST was already packing up his kit. This was a cold scene, picked over and trampled on, just waiting to be released for cleanup.

  But cold as it was, contaminated though it was, she could still read what had happened in this room, for it was written on the walls in blood. She saw the dried arcs of arterial spray released from a victim’s pulsing artery. It traced a sine wave across the wall and splattered the large erasable board where the day’s surgery schedule had been written, listing the O.R. room numbers, patients’ names, surgeons’ names, and operative procedures. A full day’s schedule had been booked. She wondered what had happened to the patients whose operations were abruptly canceled because the O.R. was now a crime scene. She wondered what the consequences were of a postponed cholecystectomy—whatever that was. That full schedule explained why the crime scene had been processed so quickly. The needs of the living must be served. One could not indefinitely shut down the town of Fitchburg’s busiest O.R.

  The arcs of spurted blood continued across the schedule board, around a corner, and onto the next wall. Here the peaks were smaller as the systolic pressure fell, and the pulsations began to trail downward, sliding toward the floor. They ended in a smeared lake next to the reception desk.

  The phone. Whoever died here was trying to reach the phone.

  Beyond the reception area, a wide corridor lined by sinks led past the individual operating rooms. Men’s voices, and the crackle of a portable radio, drew her toward an open doorway. She walked along the row of scrub sinks, past a CST who scarcely gave her a glance. No one challenged her, even as she stepped into O.R. #4 and halted, appalled by the evidence of carnage. Though no victims remained in the room, their blood was everywhere, spattering walls, cabinets, and countertops and tracked across the floor by all those who had come in murder’s wake.

  “Ma’am? Ma’am?”

  Two men in plainclothes stood by the instrument cabinet, frowning at her. The taller one crossed toward her, his paper shoe covers sucking against the sticky floor. He was in his mid-thirties, and he carried himself with that cocky air of superiority that all heavily muscled men exhibited. Masculine compensation, she thought, for his rapidly receding hairline.

  Before he could ask the obvious question, she held out her badge. “Jane Rizzoli, Homicide. Boston P.D.”

  “What’s Boston doing here?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name,” she answered.

  “Sergeant Canady. Fugitive Apprehension Section.”

  A Massachusetts State Police officer. She started to shake his hand, then saw he was wearing latex gloves. He didn’t seem inclined to offer her the courtesy, in any event.

  “Can we help you?” Canady asked.

  “Maybe I can help you.”

  Canady did not seem particularly thrilled by the offer. “How?”

  She looked at the multiple streamers of blood flung across the wall. “The man who did this—Warren Hoyt—”

  “What about him?”

  “I know him very well.”

  Now the shorter man joined them. He had a pale face and ears like Dumbo’s, and although he, too, was obviously a cop, he did not seem to share Canady’s sense of territoriality. “Hey, I know you. Rizzoli. You’re the one put him away.”

  “I worked with the team.”

  “Naw, you’re the one cornered him out in Lithia.” Unlike Canady, he was not wearing gloves and he gave her a handshake. “Detective Arlen. Fitchburg P.D. You drive all the way out here just for this?”

  “As soon as I heard.” Her gaze drifted back to the walls. “You realize who you’re up against, don’t you?”

  Canady cut in: “We have things under control.”

  “Do you know his history?”

  “We know what he did here.”

  “But do you know him?”

  “We have his files from Souza-Baranowski.”

  “And the guards there had no idea who they were dealing with. Or this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “I’ve never failed to bring one back,” said Canady. “They all make the same mistakes.”

  “Not this one.”

  “He’s only had six hours.”

  “Six hours?” She shook her head. “You’ve already lost him.”

  Canady bristled. “We’re canvassing the neighborhood. Set up roadblocks and vehicle checks. Media’s been alerted, and his photo’s been broadcast on every local TV station. As I said, it’s under control.”

  She didn’t respond but turned her attention back to the ribbons of blood. “Who died in here?” she asked softly.

  It was Arlen who answered. “The anesthetist and the O.R. nurse. Anesthetist was lying there, at that end of the table. The nurse was found over here, by the door.”

  “They didn’t scream? They didn’t alert the guard?”

  “They would have had a hard time making any noise at all. Both women were slashed right through the larynx.”

  She moved to the head of the table and looked at the metal pole where a bag of I.V. solution hung, the plastic tube and catheter trailing toward a pool of water on the floor. A glass syringe lay shattered beneath the table.

  “They had his I.V. going,” she said.

  “It was started in the E.R.,” said Arlen. “He was moved directly here, after the surgeon examined him downstairs. They diagnosed a ruptured appendix.”

  “Why didn’t the surgeon come up with him? Where was he?”

  “He was seeing another patient in the E.R
. Came up probably ten, fifteen minutes after all this happened. Walked through the double doors, saw the dead MCI guard lying out in the reception area, and ran straight for the phone. Practically the entire E.R. staff rushed up, but there was nothing they could do for any of the victims.”

  She looked at the floor and saw the swipes and smears of too many shoes, too much chaos to ever be interpreted.

  “Why wasn’t the guard in here, watching the prisoner?” she asked.

  “The O.R.’s supposed to be a sterile zone. No street clothes allowed. He was probably told to wait outside the room.”

  “But isn’t it MCI policy for their prisoners to be shackled at all times when they’re out of the facility?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even in the O.R., even under anesthesia, Hoyt should have had his leg or arm handcuffed to the table.”

  “He should have.”

  “Did you find the handcuffs?”

  Arlen and Canady glanced at each other.

  Canady said, “The cuffs were lying on the floor, under the table.”

  “So he was shackled.”

  “At one point, yes—”

  “Why would they release him?”

  “A medical reason, maybe?” suggested Arlen. “To start another I.V.? Reposition him?”

  She shook her head. “They’d need the guard in here to unlock the cuffs. The guard wouldn’t walk out, leaving his prisoner in here unshackled.”

  “Then he must have gotten careless,” said Canady. “Everyone in the E.R. was under the impression Hoyt was a very sick man, in too much pain to put up a fight. Obviously, they didn’t expect …”

  “Jesus,” she murmured. “He hasn’t lost his touch.” She looked at the anesthesia cart and saw that one drawer was open. Inside, vials of thiopental sparkled under the bright O.R. lights. An anesthetic. They were about to put him to sleep, she thought. He is lying on this table, with that I.V. in his arm. Moaning, pain contorting his face. They have no idea what is about to happen; they are busy doing their jobs. The nurse is thinking about which instruments to set up, what the doctor will need. The anesthetist is calculating the doses of drugs, while she watches the patient’s heart rate on the monitor. Maybe she sees his heart accelerate and assumes it’s due to pain. She doesn’t realize he is tensing for the lunge. For the kill.

  And then … what happened then?

  She looked at the instrument tray near the table. It was empty. “Did he use a scalpel?” she asked.

  “We haven’t found the weapon.”

  “It’s his favorite instrument. He always used a scalpel …” A thought suddenly raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She looked at Arlen. “Could he still be in this building?”

  Canady cut in, “He’s not in the building.”

  “He’s impersonated doctors before. He knows how to blend in with medical personnel. Have you searched this hospital?”

  “We don’t need to.”

  “Then how do you know he’s not here?”

  “Because we have proof he left the building. It’s on video.”

  Her pulse quickened. “You caught him on security cameras?”

  Canady nodded. “I suppose you’ll want to see it for yourself.”

  eight

  “It’s weird, what he does,” said Arlen. “We’ve watched this tape several times, and we still don’t get it.”

  They had moved downstairs, into the hospital conference room. In the corner was a rolling cabinet with a TV and VCR. Arlen let Canady turn on all the power switches and work the remote. Controlling the remote was an alpha male’s role, and Canady needed to be that male. Arlen was secure enough not to care.

  Canady shoved in the tape and said, “Okay. Let’s see if Boston P.D. can figure it out.” It was the verbal equivalent of tossing down the gauntlet. He pressed PLAY.

  A view of a closed door at the end of a corridor appeared on-screen.

  “This is a ceiling-mounted camera in a first-floor hallway,” said Arlen. “That door you see leads directly outside, to the staff parking lot, east of the building. It’s one of four exits. The recording time’s at the bottom.”

  “Five-ten,” she read.

  “According to the E.R. log, the prisoner was moved upstairs to the O.R. at around four forty-five, so this is twenty-five minutes later. Now watch. It happens around five-eleven.”

  On-screen, the seconds counted forward. Then, at 5:11:13, a figure suddenly walked into view, moving at a calm, unhurried pace toward the exit. His back was turned to the camera, and they saw trim brown hair above the collar of the white lab coat. He was wearing surgeon’s scrub pants and paper shoe covers. He made it all the way to the door and was pressing on the exit bar when he suddenly stopped.

  “Watch this,” said Arlen.

  Slowly the man turned. His gaze lifted to the camera.

  Rizzoli leaned forward, her throat dry, her eyes riveted on the face of Warren Hoyt. Even as she stared at him, he seemed to be staring directly at her. He walked toward the camera, and she saw he had something tucked under his left arm. A bundle of some kind. He kept walking until he was standing directly beneath the lens.

  “Here’s the weird part,” said Arlen.

  Still staring into the camera, Hoyt raised his right hand, palm facing forward, as though he were about to swear in court to tell the truth. With his left hand, he pointed to his open palm. And he smiled.

  “What the hell’s that all about?” said Canady.

  Rizzoli didn’t answer. In silence she watched as Hoyt turned, walked to the exit, and vanished out the door.

  “Play it again,” she said softly.

  “You have any idea what that hand thing was all about?”

  “Play it again.”

  Canady scowled and hit REWIND, then PLAY.

  Once again, Hoyt walked to the door. Turned. Walked back to the camera, his gaze focused on those who were now watching.

  She sat with every muscle tensed, her heart racing, as she waited for his next gesture. The one she already understood.

  He raised his palm.

  “Pause it,” she said. “Right here!”

  Canady hit PAUSE.

  On the screen, Hoyt stood frozen with a smile on his face, his left index finger pointing to the open palm of his right hand. The image left her stunned.

  It was Arlen who finally broke the silence. “What does it mean? Do you know?”

  She swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Well, what?” snapped Canady.

  She opened her hands, which had been closed into fists on her lap. On both her palms were the scars left from Hoyt’s attack a year ago, thick knots that had healed over the two holes torn by his scalpels.

  Arlen and Canady stared at her scars.

  “Hoyt did that to you?” said Arlen.

  She nodded. “That’s what it means. That’s why he raised his hand.” She looked at the TV, where Hoyt was still smiling, his palm open to the camera. “It’s a little joke, just between us. His way of saying hello. The Surgeon is talking to me.”

  “You must have pissed him off big-time,” said Canady. He waved the remote at the screen. “Look at that. It’s like he’s saying, ‘Up yours.’ ”

  “Or ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ ” Arlen said quietly.

  His words chilled her. Yes, I know I’ll be seeing you. I just don’t know when or where.

  Canady pressed PLAY, and the tape continued. They watched Hoyt lower his hand, and he turned once again toward the exit. As he walked away, Rizzoli focused on the bundle wedged under his arm.

  “Stop it again,” she said.

  Canady hit PAUSE.

  She leaned forward and touched the screen. “What is this thing he’s carrying? It looks like a rolled-up towel.”

  “It is,” said Canady.

  “Why would he walk out with that?”

  “It’s not the towel. It’s what he has inside it.”

  She frowned, thinking about what she had just seen upstairs in the O.R. Re
membered the empty tray next to the table.

  She looked at Arlen. “Instruments,” she said. “He took surgical instruments.”

  Arlen nodded. “There’s a laparotomy set missing from the room.”

  “Laparotomy? What’s that?”

  “It’s medical-speak for cutting open the abdomen,” said Canady.

  On-screen, Hoyt had walked out the exit and they saw only an empty hallway, a closed door. Canady shut off the TV and turned to her. “Looks like your boy’s anxious to go back to work.”

  The chirp of her cell phone made her flinch. She could feel her heart hammering as she reached for her phone. The two men were watching her, so she stood and turned to the window before answering the call.

  It was Gabriel Dean. “You’re aware the forensic anthropologist is meeting us at three o’clock?” he said.

  She looked at her watch. “I’ll be there on time.” Barely.

  “Where are you?”

  “Look, I’ll be there, okay?” She hung up. Staring out the window, she drew in a deep breath. I can’t keep up, she thought. The monsters are stretching me too thin.…

  “Detective Rizzoli?” said Canady.

  She turned to him. “I’m sorry. I have to get back to the city. You’ll call me the instant you hear anything about Hoyt?”

  He nodded. Smiled. “We don’t think it’ll take long.”

  The last person she felt like speaking to was Dean, but as she drove into the M.E.’s parking lot she saw him stepping out of his car. She quickly pulled into a space and turned off her engine, thinking that if she just waited a few minutes, he would walk into the building first, and she could avoid any unnecessary conversation with him. Unfortunately, he had already spotted her, and he stood waiting in the parking lot, an unavoidable obstacle. She had no choice but to deal with him.

  She stepped out into the wilting heat and walked toward him, at the pace of one with no time to waste.

  “You never came back to the meeting this morning,” he said.

  “Marquette called me into his office.”

  “He told me about it.”

  She stopped and looked at him. “Told you what?”