Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

“It matches a perp named Karl Pacheco. Arrested 1997, charged with sexual assault, but acquitted. He claimed it was consensual. The jury believed him.”

“He’s Nina Peyton’s rapist?”

“And we got the DNA to prove it.”

She gave a triumphant punch in the air. “What’s the address?”

“Four-five-seven-eight Columbus Ave. The team’s just about all here.”

“I’m on my way.”

She was already running out the door when her mother called: “Janie! What about dinner?”

“Gotta go, Ma.”

“But it’s Frankie’s last night!”

“We’re making an arrest.”

“Can’t they do it without you?”

Rizzoli stopped, her hand on the doorknob, her temper hissing dangerously toward detonation. And she saw, with startling clarity, that no matter what she achieved or how distinguished her career might be, this one moment would always represent her reality: Janie, the trivial sister. The girl .

Without a word, she walked out and slammed the door.

Columbus Avenue was on the northern edge of Roxbury, smack in the center of the Surgeon’s killing grounds. To the south was Jamaica Plain, the home of Nina Peyton. To the southeast was Elena Ortiz’s residence. To the northeast was the Back Bay, and the homes of Diana Sterling and Catherine Cordell. Glancing at the tree-lined streets, Rizzoli saw brick row houses, a neighborhood populated by students and staff from nearby Northeastern University. Lots of coeds.

Lots of good hunting.

The traffic light ahead turned yellow. Adrenaline spurting, she floored the accelerator and barreled through the intersection. The honor of making this arrest should be hers. For weeks, Rizzoli had lived, breathed, even dreamed of the Surgeon. He had infiltrated every moment of her life, both awake and asleep. No one had worked harder to catch him, and now she was in a race to claim her prize.

A block from Karl Pacheco’s address, she screeched to a halt behind a cruiser. Four other vehicles were parked helter-skelter along the street.

Too late, she thought, running toward the building. They’ve already gone in.

Inside she heard thudding footsteps and men’s shouts echoing in the stairwell. She followed the sound to the second floor and stepped into Karl Pacheco’s apartment.

There she confronted a scene of chaos. Splintered wood from the door littered the threshold. Chairs had been overturned, a lamp smashed, as though wild bulls had raged through the room, trailing destruction. The air itself was poisoned with testosterone, cops on a rampage, hunting for the perp who a few days before had slaughtered one of their own.

On the floor, a man lay facedown. Black — not the Surgeon. Crowe had his heel brutally pressed to the back of the black man’s neck.

“I asked you a question, asshole,” yelled Crowe. “Where’s Pacheco?”

The man whimpered and made the mistake of trying to lift his head. Crowe brought his heel down, hard, slamming the prisoner’s chin against the floor. The man made a choking sound and began to thrash.

“Let him up!” yelled Rizzoli.

“He won’t hold still!”

“Get off him and maybe he’ll talk to you!” Rizzoli shoved Crowe aside. The prisoner rolled onto his back, gasping like a landed fish.

Crowe yelled, “Where’s Pacheco?”

“Don’t — don’t know—”

“You’re in his apartment!”

“Left. He left—”

“When?”

The man began to cough, a deep, violent hacking that sounded like his lungs were ripping apart. The other cops had gathered around, staring with undisguised hatred at the prisoner on the floor. The friend of a cop-killer.

Disgusted, Rizzoli headed up the hall to the bedroom. The closet door hung open and clothes on the hangers had been thrown to the floor. The search of the flat had been thorough and brutish, every door flung open, every possible hiding place exposed. She pulled on gloves and began going through dresser drawers, poking through pockets, searching for a datebook, an address book, anything that could tell her where Pacheco might have fled.

She looked up as Moore came into the room. “You in charge of this mess?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Marquette gave the go-ahead. We had information that Pacheco was in the building.”

“Then where is he?” She slammed the drawer shut and crossed to the bedroom window. It was closed but unlatched. The fire escape was right outside. She opened the window and stuck her head out. A squad car was parked in the alley below, radio chattering, and she saw a patrolman shining his flashlight into a Dumpster.

She was about to pull her head back in when she felt something tap her on the back of the scalp, and she heard the faint clatter of gravel bouncing off the fire escape. Startled, she looked up. The night sky was awash with city lights, and the stars were barely visible. She stared for a moment, scanning the outline of the roof against that anemic black sky, but nothing moved.

She climbed out the window onto the fire escape and started up the ladder to the third story. On the next landing she stopped to check the window of the flat above Pacheco’s; the screen had been nailed in place, and the window was dark.

Again she looked up, toward the roof. Though she saw nothing, heard nothing from above, the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up.

“Rizzoli?” Moore called out the window. She didn’t answer but pointed to the roof, a silent signal of her intentions.

She wiped her damp palms on her slacks and quietly started up the ladder leading to the roof. At the last rung she paused, took a deep breath, and slowly, slowly raised her head to peer over the edge.

Beneath the moonless sky, the rooftop was a forest of shadows. She saw the silhouette of a table and chairs, a tangle of arching branches. A rooftop garden. She scrambled over the edge, dropped lightly onto the asphalt shingles, and drew her weapon. Two steps, and her shoe hit an obstacle, sent it clattering. She inhaled the pungent scent of geraniums. Realized she was surrounded by plants in clay pots. An obstacle course of them at her feet.

Off to her left, something moved.

She strained to make out a human form in that jumble of shadows. Saw him then, crouching like a black homunculus.

She raised her weapon and commanded: “Freeze!”

She did not see what he already held in his hand. What he was preparing to hurl at her.

A split second before the garden trowel hit her face, she felt the air rush toward her, like an evil wind whistling out of the darkness. The blow slammed into her left cheek with such force she saw lights explode.

She landed on her knees, a tidal wave of pain roaring up her synapses, pain so terrible it sucked her breath away.

“Rizzoli?” It was Moore. She hadn’t even heard him drop onto the rooftop.

“I’m okay. I’m okay….” She squinted toward where the figure had been crouching. It was gone. “He’s here,” she whispered. “I want that son of a bitch.”

Moore eased into the darkness. She clutched her head, waiting for the dizziness to pass, cursing her own carelessness. Fighting to keep her head clear, she staggered to her feet. Anger was a potent fuel; it steadied her legs, strengthened her grip on the weapon.

Moore was a few yards to her right; she could just make out his silhouette, moving past the table and chairs.

She moved left, circling the roof in the opposite direction. Every throb in her cheek, every poker stab of pain, was a reminder that she’d screwed up. Not this time. Her gaze swept the feathery shadows of potted trees and shrubs.

A sudden clatter made her whirl to her right. She heard running footsteps, saw a shadow dart across the roof, straight toward her.