“I’m fine,” she said. “A few stitches on my scalp, a few sore muscles. And a really bad case of the uglies.” She waved vaguely at her bruised face and laughed. “But you should see the other guy.”
“I don’t think it’s good for you to be here,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s too soon.”
“I’m the one person who should be here.”
“You never cut yourself any slack, do you?”
“Why should I need to?”
“Because you’re not a machine. It will catch up with you. You can’t walk this site and pretend it’s just another crime scene.”
“That’s exactly how I’m treating it.”
“Even after what almost happened?”
What almost happened.
She looked down at the bloodstains in the dirt, and for an instant the road seemed to sway, as though a tremor had shaken the earth, rattling the carefully constructed walls she had put up as shields, threatening the very foundation upon which she stood.
He reached for her hand, a steady touch that brought tears to her eyes. A touch that said: Just this once, you have permission to be human. To be weak.
She said softly, “I’m sorry about Washington.”
She saw hurt in his eyes and realized that he had misunderstood her words.
“So you wish it never happened between us,” he said.
“No. No, that’s not it at all—”
“Then what are you sorry about?”
She sighed. “I’m sorry I left without telling you what that night meant to me. I’m sorry I never really said good-bye to you. And I’m sorry that . . .” She paused. “That I didn’t let you take care of me, just that once. Because the truth is, I really needed you to. I’m not as strong as I like to think I am.”
He smiled. Squeezed her hand. “None of us is, Jane.”
“Hey, Rizzoli?” It was Barry Frost, calling to her from the edge of the woods.
She blinked away tears and turned to him. “Yeah?”
“We just got a double ten fifty-four. Quik-Stop Grocery Store, Jamaica Plain. Dead store clerk and a customer. The scene’s already been secured.”
“Jesus. So early in the morning.”
“We’re next up for this one. You good to go?”
She drew in a deep breath and turned back to Dean. He had released her hand, and although she missed his touch, she felt stronger, the tremor silenced, the ground once again solid beneath her feet. But she was not ready to end this moment. Their last good-bye in Washington had been rushed; she wouldn’t let it happen again. She wouldn’t let her life turn into Korsak’s, a sad chronicle of regrets.
“Frost?” she said, her gaze still on Dean.
“Yeah?”
“I’m not coming.”
“What?”
“Let another team take it. I’m just not up to it right now.”
There was no response. She glanced at Frost and saw his stunned face.
“You mean . . . you’re taking the day off?” Frost said.
“Yeah. It’s my first sick leave. You got a problem with that?”
Frost shook his head and laughed. “About goddamn time, is all I can say.”
She watched Frost walk away. Heard him still laughing as he headed into the woods. She waited until Frost had vanished among the trees before she turned to look at Dean.
He held open his arms; she stepped into them.
twenty-six
Every two hours, they come to check my skin for bedsores. It is a rotating trio of faces: Armina on day shift, Bella on evenings, and on the night shift the quiet and timid Corazon. My ABC girls, I call them. To the unobservant, they are indistinguishable from each other, all of them with smooth brown faces and musical voices. A chirpy chorus line of Filipinas in white uniforms. But I see the differences between them. I see it in the way they approach my bed, in the various ways they grasp me as they roll my torso onto one side or the other to reposition me on the sheepskin cover. Day and night, this must be done, because I cannot turn myself and the weight of my own body pressing down upon the mattress wears away at the skin. It compresses capillaries and interrupts the nourishing flow of blood, starving the tissues, turning them pale and fragile and easily abraded. One small sore can soon fester and grow, like a rat gnawing at the flesh.
Thanks to my ABC girls, I do not have any sores—or so they tell me. I cannot verify it because I can’t see my own back or buttocks, nor can I feel any sensation below my shoulders. I am completely dependent on Armina, Bella, and Corazon to keep me healthy, and like any infant, I pay rapt attention to those who tend me. I study their faces, inhale their scents, commit their voices to memory. I know that the bridge of Armina’s nose is not quite straight, that Bella’s breath often smells of garlic, and that Corazon has just the hint of a stutter.
I also know they are afraid of me.
They know, of course, why I am here. Everyone who works on the spinal cord unit is aware of who I am, and although they treat me with the same courtesy they offer all the other patients, I notice they do not really look me in the eye, that they hesitate before touching my flesh, as though they are about to test a hot iron. I catch glimpses of the aides in the hallway, glancing at me as they whisper to each other. They chatter with the other patients, asking them about their friends and families, but no such questions are ever put to me. Oh, they ask me how I am feeling and whether I slept well, but that is the extent of our conversation.
Yet I know they are curious. Everyone is curious, everyone wants a peek at the Surgeon, but they are afraid to come too close, as though I might suddenly spring up and attack them. So they cast quick glances at me through the doorway, but do not come in unless duty calls them. The ABC girls tend to my skin, my bladder, and my bowels, and then they flee, leaving the monster alone in his den, chained to the bed by his own ruined body.
It’s no wonder I look forward so eagerly to Dr. O’Donnell’s visits.
She has been coming once a week. She brings her cassette recorder and her legal notepad and a purse full of blue rollerball pens with which to take notes. And she brings her curiosity, wearing it fearlessly and unashamedly, like a red cloak. Her curiosity is purely professional, or so she believes. She moves her chair close to my bed and sets up the microphone on the tray table so it will catch every word. Then she leans forward, her neck arching toward me as though offering me her throat. It is a lovely throat. She is a natural blonde, and quite pale, and her veins course in delicate blue lines beneath the whitewash of skin. She looks at me, unafraid, and asks her questions.
“Do you miss John Stark?”
“You know I do. I’ve lost a brother.”
“A brother? But you don’t even know his real name.”
“And the police, they keep asking me about it. I can’t help them, because he never told me.”
“Yet you corresponded with him all that time from prison.”
“Names were unimportant to us.”
“You knew each other well enough to kill together.”
“Only the one time, on Beacon Hill. It’s like making love, I think. The first time, you’re still learning to trust each other.”
“So killing together was a way of getting to know him?”
“Is there a better way?”
She raises an eyebrow, as though she’s not quite sure if I’m serious. I am.
“You refer to him as a brother,” she says. “What do you mean by that?”
“We had a bond, the two of us. A sacred bond. It’s so hard to find people who completely understand me.”
“I can imagine.”
I’m alert to the merest hint of sarcasm, but I don’t hear it in her voice, or see it in her eyes.
“I know there must be others like us out there,” I say. “The challenge is to find them. To connect. We all want to be with our own kind.”
“You talk as though you’re a separate species.”
“Homo sapiens
reptilis,” I quip.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve read that there’s a part of our brain that dates back to our reptilian origins. It controls our most primitive functions. Fight and flight. Mating. Aggression.”
“Oh. You mean the Archipallium.”
“Yes. The brain we had before we became human and civilized. It holds no emotions, no conscience. No morals. What you see when you look in the eyes of a cobra. The same part of our brain that responds directly to olfactory stimulation. It’s why reptiles have such a keen sense of smell.”
“That’s true. Neurologically speaking, our olfactory system is closely related to the Archipallium.”
“Did you know I’ve always had an extraordinary sense of smell?”
For a moment she simply gazes at me. Again, she does not know if I am serious or I am spinning this theory for her because she is a neuropsychiatrist and I know she will appreciate it.
Her next question reveals she has decided to take me seriously: “Did John Stark also have an extraordinary sense of smell?”
“I don’t know.” My stare is intent. “Now that he’s dead, we’ll never know.”
She studies me like a cat about to pounce. “You look angry, Warren.”
“Don’t I have reason to be?” My gaze drops to my useless body, lying inert on the sheepksin pad. I don’t even think of it as my body any longer. Why should I? I can’t feel it. It is just a lump of alien flesh.
“You’re angry at the policewoman,” she says.
Such an obvious statement does not even deserve a response, so I give none.
But Dr. O’Donnell is trained to zero in on feelings, to peel away scar tissue and expose the raw and bloody wound beneath. She has sniffed the aroma of festering emotions and now she moves in to tweeze and scrape and dig.
“Do you still think about Detective Rizzoli?” she asks.
“Every day.”
“What sort of thoughts?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I’m trying to understand you, Warren. What you think, what you feel. What makes you kill.”
“So I’m still your little lab rat. I’m not your friend.”
A pause. “Yes, I can be your friend—”
“It’s not why you come here, though.”
“To be honest, I come here because of what you can teach me. What you can teach all of us about why men kill.” She leans even closer. Says, quietly: “So tell me. All your thoughts, however disturbing they may be.”
There is a long silence. Then I say, softly, “I have fantasies. . . .”
“What fantasies?”
“About Jane Rizzoli. About what I would like to do to her.”
“Tell me.”
“They’re not nice fantasies. I’m sure you’ll find them disgusting.”
“Nevertheless, I would like to hear them.”
Her eyes have a strange glow to them, as though they are lit from within. The muscles of her face have tensed with anticipation. She is holding her breath.
I stare at her and I think: Oh yes, she would like to hear them. Like everyone else, she wants to hear every dark detail. She claims her interest is merely academic, that what I tell her is only for her research. But I see the spark of eagerness in her eyes. I sniff her pheromonal scent of excitement.
I see the reptile, stirring in its cage.
She wants to know what I know. She wants to walk in my world. She is finally ready for the journey.
It’s time to invite her in.
Also by Tess Gerritsen
Harvest
Life Support
Bloodstream
Gravity
The Surgeon
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 2002 by Tess Gerritsen
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gerritsen, Tess.
The apprentice : a novel / Tess Gerritsen.—1st ed.
p. cm.
eISBN 0-345-45948-2
1. Police—Massachusetts—Boston—Fiction. 2. Boston (Mass.)—Fiction. 3. Serial murders—Fiction. 4. Policewomen—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3557.E687 A84 2002
813'.54—dc21
2002023185
Tess Gerritsen, The Apprentice
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