Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

She took another stitch as she thought about how much she liked Peter as a colleague, how much she respected him and he respected her. She didn’t want that to change. She didn’t want to endanger that precious relationship with an ill-fated step toward intimacy.

But oh, how she missed the days when she could enjoy a night out! When an evening was something to look forward to, not dread.

The room was still silent. Waiting.

At last she looked up at him.”Pick me up at eight.”

Catherine poured a glass of merlot and stood by the window, sipping wine as she gazed out at the night. She could hear laughter and could see people strolling below on Commonwealth Avenue. Fashionable Newbury Street was only one block away, and on a Friday night in summer this Back Bay neighborhood was a magnet for tourists. Catherine had chosen to live in the Back Bay for just that reason; she took comfort in knowing that other people were around, even if they were strangers. The sound of music and laughter meant she was not alone, not isolated.

Yet here she was, behind her sealed window, drinking her solitary glass of wine, trying to convince herself that she was ready to join that world out there.

A world Andrew Capra stole from me.

She pressed her hand to the window, fingers arched against the glass, as though to shatter her way out of this sterile prison.

Recklessly she drained her wine and set the glass down on the windowsill. I will not stay a victim, she thought. I won’t let him win.

She went into her bedroom and surveyed the clothes in her closet. She pulled a green silk dress from her closet and zipped herself into it. How long had it been since she’d worn this dress? She couldn’t remember.

From the other room came a cheery: “You’ve got mail!” announcement over her computer. She ignored the message and went into the bathroom to put on makeup. War paint, she thought as she brushed on mascara, dabbed on lipstick. A mask of courage, to help her face the world. With every stroke of the makeup brush, she was painting on confidence. In the mirror she saw a woman she scarcely recognized. A woman she had not seen in two years.

“Welcome back,” she murmured, and smiled.

She turned off the bathroom light and walked out to the living room, her feet reacquainting themselves with the torment of high heels. Peter was late; it was already eight-fifteen. She remembered the “You’ve got mail” announcement she’d heard from the bedroom and went to her computer to click on the mailbox icon.

There was one message from a sender named SavvyDoc, with the subject heading: “Lab Report.” She opened the e-mail.

Dr. Cordell,

Attached are pathology photos which will interest you.

It was unsigned.

She moved the arrow to the “download file” icon, then hesitated, her finger poised on the mouse. She did not recognize the sender, SavvyDoc, and normally she would not download a file from a stranger. But this message was clearly related to her work, and it had addressed her by name.

She clicked “download.”

A color photograph materialized on the screen.

With a gasp, she jerked from her seat as though scalded, and the chair toppled to the floor. She stumbled backward, hand clasped over her mouth.

Then she ran for the phone.

Thomas Moore stood in her doorway, his gaze tight on her face. “Is the photo still on the screen?”

“I haven’t touched it.”

She stepped aside and he walked in, all business, always the policeman. He focused at once on the man who was standing beside the computer.

“This is Dr. Peter Falco,” said Catherine. “My partner in the practice.”

“Dr. Falco,” said Moore, as the two men shook hands.

“Catherine and I were planning to go out for dinner tonight,” said Peter. “I was held up at the hospital. Got here just before you did, and…” He paused and looked at Catherine. “I take it dinner’s off?”

She answered with a sickly nod.

Moore sat down at the computer. The screen saver had activated and bright tropical fish swam across the monitor. He nudged the mouse.

The downloaded photograph appeared.

At once Catherine turned away and went to the window, where she stood hugging herself, trying to block out the image she’d just seen on the monitor. She could hear Moore tapping on the keyboard behind her. Heard him make a phone call and say, “I’ve just forwarded the file. Got it?” The darkness below her window had fallen strangely silent. Is it already so late? she wondered. Looking down at the deserted street, she could scarcely believe that only an hour ago she’d been ready to step out into that night and rejoin the world.

Now she wanted only to bolt the doors and hide.

Peter said, “Who the hell would send you something like this? It’s sick.”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” she said.

“Have you gotten stuff like this before?”

“No.”

“Then why are the police involved?”

“Please stop , Peter. I don’t want to discuss it!”

A pause. “You mean you don’t want to discuss it with me.”

“Not now. Not tonight.”

“But you will talk about it with the police?”

“Dr. Falco,” said Moore, “it really would be better if you left now.”

“Catherine? What do you want?”

She heard the hurt in his voice, but she did not turn to look at him. “I’d like you to go. Please.”

He didn’t answer. Only when the door closed did she know Peter had left.

A long silence passed.

“You haven’t told him about Savannah?” asked Moore.

“No. I could never bring myself to tell him.” Rape is a subject too intimate, too shameful, to talk about. Even with someone who cares about you.

She asked: “Who is the woman in the picture?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know who sent it, either.”

The chair creaked as he stood up. She felt his hand on her shoulder, his warmth penetrating the green silk. She had not changed clothes and was still dressed up, glossied up for the evening. The whole idea of stepping out on the town now struck her as pitiful. What had she been thinking? That she could go back to being like everyone else? That she could be whole again?

“Catherine,” he said. “You need to talk to me about this photo.”

His fingers tightened on her shoulder, and she was suddenly aware that he’d called her by her first name. He was standing close enough for her to feel his breath warm her hair, yet she did not feel threatened. Any other man’s touch would have seemed like an invasion, but Moore’s was genuinely comforting.

She nodded. “I’ll try.”

He pulled up another chair and they both sat down in front of the computer. She forced herself to focus on the photograph.

The woman had curly hair, splayed out like corkscrews on the pillow. Her lips were sealed beneath a silvery strip of duct tape, but her eyes were open and aware, the retinas reflecting bloodred in the camera’s flash. The photograph showed her from the waist up. She was bound to the bed, and she was nude.

“Do you recognize her?” he asked.

“No.”

“Is there anything about this photo that strikes you as familiar? The room, the furniture?”

“No. But…”

“What?”

“He did it to me, too,” she whispered. “Andrew Capra took photos of me. Tied to my bed…” She swallowed, humiliation washing over her, as though it were her own body so intimately exposed to Moore’s gaze. She found herself crossing her arms over her chest, to shield her breasts from further violation.

“This file was transmitted at seven fifty-five P.M. And the sender’s name, SavvyDoc — do you recognize it?”