Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

“It makes me so angry. He’s taken away the one place I felt safe.”

“We’ll make it safe again. I’ll see about getting a locksmith over there.”

“On a Saturday? You’re a miracle worker.”

“No. I just have a great Rolodex.”

She leaned back, the tension easing from her shoulders. All around her, the SICU hummed with activity, yet her attention was focused completely on the man whose voice now soothed her, reassured her.

“And how are you?” she asked.

“I’m afraid my day’s just beginning.” A pause as he turned to answer someone’s question, something about which evidence to bag. Other voices were talking in the background. She imagined him in Nina Peyton’s bedroom, the evidence of horror all around him. Yet his voice was quiet and unruffled.

“You’ll call me the instant she wakes up?” said Moore.

“Detective Crowe’s hanging around here like a vulture. I’m sure he’ll know it before I do.”

“Do you think she will wake up?”

“Honest answer?” said Catherine. “I don’t know. I keep saying that to Detective Crowe, and he doesn’t accept it, either.”

“Dr. Cordell?” It was Nina Peyton’s nurse, calling from the cubicle. The tone of her voice instantly alarmed Catherine.

“What is it?”

“You’ve got to come look at this.”

“Is something wrong?” Moore said over the phone.

“Hang on. Let me check.” She set down the receiver and went into the cubicle.

“I was cleaning her off with a washcloth,” the nurse said. “They brought her down from the O.R. with blood still caked all over her. When I turned her on her side, I saw it. It’s behind her left thigh.”

“Show me.”

The nurse grasped the patient’s shoulder and hip and rolled her onto her side. “There,” she said softly.

Fear skewered Catherine to the spot. She stared at the cheery message that had been written in black felt-tip ink on Nina Peyton’s skin.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY. DO YOU LIKE MY GIFT?

Moore found her in the hospital cafeteria. She was seated at a corner table, her back to the wall, assuming the position of one who knows she is threatened and wants to see any attack coming. She was still wearing surgeon’s scrubs, and her hair was tied back in a ponytail, exposing her strikingly angular features, the unadorned face, the glittering eyes. She had to be nearly as exhausted as he was, but fear had heightened her alertness, and she was like a feral cat, watching his every move as he approached the table. A half-empty cup of coffee sat in front of her. How many refills had she had? he wondered, and saw that she trembled as she reached for the cup. Not the steady hand of a surgeon, but the hand of a frightened woman.

He sat down across from her. “There’ll be a patrol car parked outside your building all night. Did you get your new keys?”

She nodded. “The locksmith dropped them off. He told me he put in the Rolls-Royce of dead bolts.”

“You’ll be fine, Catherine.”

She looked down at her coffee. “That message was meant for me.”

“We don’t know that.”

“It was my birthday yesterday. He knew. And he knew I was scheduled to be on call.”

“If he’s the one who wrote it.”

“Don’t bullshit me. You know it was him.”

After a pause, Moore nodded.

They sat without speaking for a moment. It was already late afernoon, and most of the tables were empty. Behind the counter, cafeteria workers cleared away the serving pans, and steam rose in wispy columns. A lone cashier cracked open a fresh package of coins, and they clattered into the register drawer.

“What about my office?” she said.

“He left no fingerprints.”

“So you have nothing on him.”

“We have nothing,” he admitted.

“He moves in and out of my life like air. No one sees him. No one knows what he looks like. I could put bars on all my windows, and I’ll still be afraid to fall asleep.”

“You don’t have to go home. I’ll bring you to a hotel.”

“It doesn’t matter where I hide. He’ll know where I am. For some reason, he’s chosen me. He’s told me I’m next.”

“I don’t think so. It would be an incredibly stupid move on his part, warning his next victim. The Surgeon is not stupid.”

“Why did he contact me? Why write me notes on…” She swallowed.

“It could be a challenge to us . A way of taunting the police.”

“Then the bastard should have written to you !” Her voice rang out so loudly that a nurse pouring a cup of coffee turned and stared at her.

Flushing, Catherine rose to her feet. She’d embarrassed herself by that outburst, and she was silent as they walked out of the hospital. He wanted to take her hand, but he thought she would only pull away, interpreting it as a condescending gesture. Above all, he did not want her to think him condescending. More than any woman he’d ever met, she commanded his respect.

Sitting in his car, she said quietly: “I lost it in there. I’m sorry.”

“Under the circumstances, anyone would have.”

“Not you.”

His smile was ironic. “I, of course, never lose my cool.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.”

And what did that mean? he wondered as they drove to the Back Bay. That she thought him immune to the storms that roil a normal human heart? Since when had clear-eyed logic meant the absence of emotions? He knew his colleagues in the homicide unit referred to him as Saint Thomas the Serene. The man you turned to when situations became explosive and a calm voice was needed. They did not know the other Thomas Moore, the man who stood before his wife’s closet at night, inhaling the fading scent of her clothes. They saw only the mask he allowed them to see.

She said, with a note of resentment, “It’s easy for you to be calm about this. You’re not the one he’s fixated on.”

“Let’s try to look at this rationally—”

“Look at my own death? Of course I can be rational.”

“The Surgeon has established a pattern he’s comfortable with. He attacks at night, not during the day. At heart he’s a coward, unable to confront a woman on equal terms. He wants his prey vulnerable. In bed and asleep. Unable to fight back.”

“So I should never fall asleep? That’s an easy solution.”

“What I’m saying is, he’ll avoid attacking anyone during daylight hours, when a victim is able to defend herself. It’s after dark when everything changes.”

He pulled up in front of her address. While the building lacked the charm of the older brick residences on Commonwealth Avenue, it had the advantage of a gated and well-lit underground garage. Access to the front entrance required both a key as well as the correct security code, which Catherine punched into the keypad.

They entered a lobby, decorated with mirrors and polished marble floors. Elegant, yet sterile. Cold. An unnervingly silent elevator whisked them to the second floor.

At her apartment door, she hesitated, the new key in hand.

“I can go in and take a look first, if that would make you feel better,” he said.

She seemed to take his suggestion as a personal affront. In answer, she thrust the key in the lock, opened the door, and walked in. It was as if she had to prove to herself that the Surgeon had not won. That she was still in control of her life.

“Why don’t we go through all the rooms, one by one,” he said. “Just to make sure nothing has been disturbed.”

She nodded.

Together they walked through the living room, the kitchen. And last, the bedroom. She knew the Surgeon had taken souvenirs from other women, and she meticulously went through her jewelry box, her dresser drawers, searching for any sign of a trespasser’s hand. Moore stood in the doorway watching her sort through blouses and sweaters and lingerie. And suddenly he was hit with an unsettling memory of another woman’s clothes, not nearly as elegant, folded in a suitcase. He remembered a gray sweater, a faded pink blouse. A cotton nightgown with blue cornflowers. Nothing brand-new, nothing expensive. Why had he never bought Mary anything extravagant? What did he think they were saving for? Not what the money had eventually gone to. Doctors and nursing home bills and physical therapists.