Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

But she was no Ed Geiger; she was no loser who’d eat her gun. She turned off the engine and reluctantly stepped out of the car to do her job.

Rizzoli had lived all her life in the city, and the silence of this place was eerie to her. She climbed the porch steps, and every creak of the wood seemed magnified. Flies buzzed around her head. She knocked on the door, waited. Gave the knob an experimental twist and found it locked. She knocked again, then called out, her voice ringing with startling loudness: “Hello?”

By now the mosquitoes had found her. She slapped at her face and saw a dark smear of blood on her palm. To hell with country life; at least in the city the bloodsuckers walked on two legs and you could see them coming.

She gave the door a few more loud knocks, slapped at a few more mosquitoes, then gave up. No one seemed to be home.

She circled around to the back of the house, scanning for signs of forced entry, but all the windows were shut; all the screens were in place. The windows were too high for an intruder to climb through without a ladder, as the house was built upon a raised stone foundation.

She turned from the house and surveyed the backyard. There was an old barn and a farm pond, green with scum. A lone mallard drifted dejectedly in the water — probably the reject of his flock. There was no sign of any attempt at a garden — just knee-high weeds and grass and more mosquitoes. A lot of them.

Tire ruts led to the barn. A swath of grass had been flattened by the recent passage of a car.

One last place to check.

She tramped along the track of squashed grass to the barn and hesitated. She had no search warrant, but who was going to know? She’d just take a peek to confirm there was no car inside.

She grasped the handles and swung open the heavy doors.

Sunlight streamed in, slicing a wedge through the barn’s gloom, and motes of dust swirled in the abrupt disturbance of air. She stood frozen, staring at the car parked inside.

It was a yellow Mercedes.

Icy sweat trickled down her face. So quiet; except for a fly buzzing in the shadows, it was too damn quiet.

She didn’t remember unsnapping her holster and reaching for her weapon. But suddenly there it was in her hand, as she moved toward the car. She looked in the driver’s window, one quick glance to confirm it was unoccupied. Then a second, longer look, scanning the interior. Her gaze fell on a dark clump lying on the front passenger seat. A wig.

Where does the hair for most black wigs come from? The Orient.

The black-haired woman.

She remembered the hospital surveillance video on the day Nina Peyton was killed. In none of the tapes had they spotted Warren Hoyt arriving on Five West.

Because he walked onto the surgical ward as a woman, and walked out as a man.

A scream.

She spun around to face the house, her heart pounding. Cordell?

She was out of the barn like a shot, sprinting through the knee-high grass, straight toward the back door of the house.

Locked.

Lungs heaving like bellows, she backed up, eyeing the door, the frame. Kicking open doors had more to do with adrenaline than muscle power. As a rookie cop and the only female on her team, Rizzoli had been the one ordered to kick down a suspect’s door. It was a test, and the other cops expected, perhaps even hoped, that she would fail. While they stood waiting for her to humiliate herself, Rizzoli had focused all her resentment, all her rage, on that door. With only two kicks, she’d splintered it open, and charged through like the Tasmanian Devil.

That same adrenaline was roaring through her now as she pointed her weapon at the frame and squeezed off three shots. She slammed her heel against the door. Wood splintered. She kicked it again. This time it flew open and she was through, wheeling in a crouch, gaze and weapon simultaneously sweeping the room. A kitchen. Shades down, but enough light to see there was no one there. Dirty dishes in the sink. The refrigerator humming, burbling.

Is he here? Is he in the next room, waiting for me?

Christ, she should have worn a vest. But she had not expected this.

Sweat slid between her breasts, soaking into her sports bra. She spotted a phone on the wall. Edged toward it and lifted the receiver off the hook. No dial tone. No chance to call for backup.

She left it hanging and sidled to the doorway. Glanced into the next room and saw a living room, a shabby couch, a few chairs.

Where was Hoyt? Where?

She moved into the living room. Halfway across, she gave a squeak of fright as her beeper vibrated. Shit. She turned it off and continued across the living room.

In the foyer she halted, staring.

The front door hung wide open.

He’s out of the house.

She stepped onto the porch. As mosquitoes whined around her head, she scanned the front yard, looking beyond the dirt driveway, where her car was parked, to the tall grass and the nearby fringe of woods with its ragged edge of advancing saplings. Too many places out there to hide. While she’d been battering like a stupid bull at the back door, he’d slipped out the front door and fled into the woods.

Cordell is in the house. Find her.

She stepped back into the house and hurried up the stairs. It was hot in the upper rooms, and airless, and she was sweating rivers as she quickly searched the three bedrooms, the bathroom, the closets. No Cordell.

God, she was going to suffocate in here.

She went back down the stairs, and the silence of the house made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. All at once, she knew that Cordell was dead. That what she’d heard from the barn must have been a mortal cry, the last sound uttered from a dying throat.

She returned to the kitchen. Through the window over the sink, she had an unobstructed view of the barn.

He saw me walk through the grass, cross to that barn. He saw me open those doors. He knew I’d find the Mercedes. He knew his time was up.

So he finished it. And he ran.

The refrigerator clunked a few times and fell silent. She heard her own heartbeat, pattering like a snare drum.

Turning, she saw the door to the cellar. The only place she hadn’t searched.

She opened the door and saw darkness gaping below. Oh hell, she hated this, walking from the light, descending down those steps to what she knew would be a scene of horror. She didn’t want to do it, but she knew Cordell had to be down there.

Rizzoli reached into her pocket for the mini-Maglite. Guided by its narrow beam, she took a step down, then another. The air felt cooler, moister.

She smelled blood.

Something brushed across her face and she jerked back, startled. Let out a sharp breath of relief when she realized it was only a pull chain for a light, swinging above the stairs. She reached up and gave the chain a tug. Nothing happened.

The penlight would have to do.

She aimed the beam at the steps again, lighting her way as she descended, holding her weapon close to her body. After the stifling heat upstairs, the air down here felt almost frigid, chilling the sweat on her skin.

She reached the bottom of the stairs, her shoes landing on packed earth. Even cooler down here, the smell of blood stronger. The air thick and damp. Silent, so silent; still as death. The loudest sound was her own breath, rushing in and out of her lungs.

She swung the beam in an arc, almost screamed when her reflection flashed right back at her. She stood with weapon aimed, her heart hammering, as she saw what it was that reflected the light.

Glass jars. Large apothecary jars, lined up on a shelf. She did not need to look at the objects floating inside to know what those jars contained.