Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

Moore heard the lilt of excitement in Zucker’s voice. It was the game that fascinated Zucker, the contest of wits. At last he could see his opponent’s moves, could appreciate the genius behind them.

“Here he was,” said Zucker. “Handling their blood. Knowing their most shameful secrets.” He straightened and gazed around the lab, as though seeing it for the first time. “Did you ever stop to think what a medical lab knows about you?” he said. “All the personal information you give them when you open your arm and let them stick a needle in your vein? Your blood reveals your most intimate secrets. Are you dying of leukemia or AIDS? Did you smoke a cigarette or drink a glass of wine in the last few hours? Are you taking Prozac because you’re depressed, or Viagra because you can’t get it up? He was holding the very essence of those women. He could study their blood, touch it, smell it. And they never knew. They never knew that part of their own body was being fondled by a stranger.”

“The victims never knew him,” said Moore. “Never met him.”

“But the Surgeon knew them . And on the most intimate of terms.” Zucker’s eyes were feverishly bright. “The Surgeon doesn’t hunt like any serial killer I’ve ever come across. He is unique. He stays hidden from view, because he chooses his prey sight unseen.” He stared in wonder at a rack of tubes on the countertop. “This lab is his hunting ground. This is how he finds them. By their blood. By their pain.”

When Moore stepped out of the medical center, the night air felt cooler, crisper, than it had in weeks. Across the city of Boston, fewer windows would be left open, fewer women lying vulnerable to attack.

But tonight, the Surgeon will not be hunting. Tonight, he’ll be enjoying his latest catch.

Moore came to a sudden halt beside his car and stood there, paralyzed by despair. Even now, Warren Hoyt might be reaching for his scalpel. Even now…

Footsteps approached. He summoned the strength to raise his head, to look at the man standing a few feet away in the shadows.

“He has her, doesn’t he?” said Peter Falco.

Moore nodded.

“God. Oh, god.” Falco looked up in anguish at the night sky. “I walked her to her car. She was right there with me, and I let her go home. I let her drive away….”

“We’re doing everything we can to find her.” It was a stock phrase. Even as he said it, Moore heard the hollowness of his own words. It’s what you said when matters are grim, when you know that even your best efforts will likely come to nothing.

“What are you doing?”

“We know who he is.”

“But you don’t know where he’s taken her.”

“It will take time to track him down.”

“Tell me what I can do. Anything at all.”

Moore fought to keep his voice calm, to hide his own fears, his own dread. “I know how hard it is to stand on the sidelines and let others do the work. But this is what we’re trained to do.”

“Oh yes, you’re the professionals! So what the hell went wrong?”

Moore had no answer.

In agitation, Falco crossed toward Moore and came to stand beneath the parking lot lamp. The light fell on his face, haggard with worry. “I don’t know what happened between you two,” he said. “But I do know she trusted you. I hope to god that means something to you. I hope she’s more than just another case. Just another name on the list.”

“She is,” said Moore.

The men stared at each other, acknowledging in silence what they both knew. What they both felt.

“I care more than you’ll ever know,” said Moore.

And Falco said softly, “So do I.”

He’s going to keep her alive for a while,” said Dr. Zucker. “The way he kept Nina Peyton alive for a whole day. He is now in complete control of the situation. He can take all the time he wants.”

A shudder went through Rizzoli as she considered what that meant, All the time he wants . She considered how many tender nerve endings the human body possessed and wondered how much pain must be endured before Death took pity. She looked across the conference room and saw Moore drop his head into his hands. He looked sick, exhausted. It was after midnight, and the faces she saw around the conference table looked sallow and discouraged. Rizzoli stood outside that circle, her back sagging against the wall. The invisible woman, whom no one acknowledged, allowed to listen in but not participate. Restricted to administrative duty, deprived of her service weapon, she was now little more than an observer in a case that she knew better than anyone at this table.

Moore’s gaze lifted in her direction, but he looked straight through her, not at her. As though he didn’t want to look at her.

Dr. Zucker summarized what they’d learned about Warren Hoyt. The Surgeon.

“He’s been working toward this one goal for a long time,” said Zucker. “Now that he’s attained it, he’s going to prolong the pleasure as long as possible.”

“Then Cordell’s always been his goal?” said Frost. “The other victims — they were just for practice?”

“No, they gave him pleasure as well. They tided him over, helped him release sexual tension while he worked toward this prize. In any hunt, the predator’s excitement is most intense when he’s stalking the most difficult of prey. And Cordell was probably the one woman he could not easily reach. She was always on alert, always careful about security. She barricaded herself behind locks and alarm systems. She avoided close relationships. She seldom went out at night, except to work at the hospital. She was the most challenging prey he could pursue, and the one he wanted most. He made his hunt even more difficult by letting her know she was prey. He used terror as part of the game. He wanted her to feel him closing in. The other women were just the buildup. Cordell was the main event.”

“Is,” said Moore, his voice tight with rage. “She’s not dead yet.”

The room suddenly hushed, all eyes averted from Moore.

Zucker nodded, icy calm unbroken. “Thank you for correcting me.”

Marquette said, “You’ve read his background files?”

“Yes,” said Zucker. “Warren was an only child. Apparently an adored child, born in Houston. Father was a rocket scientist — I kid you not. His mother came from an old oil family. Both of them are dead now. So Warren was blessed with smart genes and family money. There’s no record of criminal behavior as a child. No arrests, no traffic tickets, nothing that raised a red flag. Except for that one incident in medical school, in the anatomy lab, I find no warning signs. No clues that tell me he was destined to be a predator. By all accounts, he was a perfectly normal boy. Polite and reliable.”

“Average,” said Moore softly. “Ordinary.”

Zucker nodded. “This is a boy who never stood out, never alarmed anyone. This is the most frightening killer of all, because there’s no pathology, no psychiatric diagnosis. He’s like Ted Bundy. Intelligent, organized, and, on the surface, quite functional. But he has one personality quirk: he enjoys torturing women. This is someone you might work with every day. And you’d never suspect that when he’s looking at you, smiling at you, he’s thinking about some new and creative way to rip out your guts.”

Shuddering at Zucker’s hiss of a voice, Rizzoli looked around the room. What he’s saying is true. I see Barry Frost every day. He seems like a nice guy. Happily married. Never in a foul mood. But I have no idea what he’s really thinking.

Frost caught her gaze, and he reddened.