Tess Gerritsen - The Apprentice

And Karenna Ghent has probably been dead for two days, she thought. But death wouldn’t deter her killer. It would whet his appetite. He’d look at her corpse and see only an object of desire. Someone he can control. She doesn’t resist him. She is cool, passive flesh, yielding to any and all indignities. She is the perfect lover.

The CD was still playing softly, Alexander’s cello weaving its mournful spell. She knew where this was going, knew what Korsak wanted. And she didn’t know how to turn him down. She rose from the couch and turned off the CD. Even in the silence, the strains of the cello seemed to linger.

“If it’s like the last time, he’ll dump her tonight,” said Korsak.

“We’ll be ready for him.”

“So am I part of the team or what?”

“We’ve already got our stakeout crew.”

“You don’t have me. You could use another warm body.”

“We’ve already assigned the positions. Look, I’ll call you as soon as anything-”

“Fuck this ‘calling me’ shit, okay? I’m not gonna sit by the phone like some goddamn wallflower. I’ve known this perp longer than you, longer than anyone. How would you feel, someone cuts in on your dance? Leaves you outta the takedown? You think about that.”

She did. And she understood the anger that was now raging through him. Understood it better than anyone, because it had once happened to her. The shunting aside, bitter view from the sidelines while others moved in claim her victory.

She looked at her watch. “I’m leaving right now. If you want to join me, you’ll have to meet me there.”

“What’s your stakeout position?”

“The parking area across the road from Smith Playground. We can meet at the golf course.”

“I’ll be there.”

At two A.M. in Stony Brook Reservation, the air as muggy and thick as soup. Rizzoli and Korsak sat in her parked car, closely abutting dense shrubbery. From their position, they could observe all cars entering Stony Brook from the east. Additional surveillance vehicles were stationed along Enneking Parkway, the main thoroughfare winding through the reservation. Any vehicle that pulled off onto one of the dirt parking areas could swiftly be hemmed in on all sides by converging vehicles. It was a purse-string trap, from which no car could escape.

Rizzoli was sweating in her vest. She rolled down the window and breathed in the scent of decaying leaves and damp earth. Forest smells.

“Hey, you’re letting in mosquitoes,” complained Korsdk.

“I need the fresh air. It smells like cigarettes in here.”

“I only lit up one. I don’t smell it.”

“Smokers never do.”

He looked at her. “Jeez, you been snapping at me all night. You got a problem with me, maybe we should talk about it.”

She stared out the window, toward the road, which remained dark and untraveled. “It’s not about you,” she said.

“Who, then?”

When she didn’t answer, he gave a grunt of comprehension. “Oh. Dean again. So what’d he do now?”

“Few days ago, he complained about me to Marquette.”

“What’d he tell him?”

“That I’m not the right man for the job. That maybe I need counseling for unresolved issues .”

“He talking about the Surgeon?”

“What do you think?”

“What an asshole.”

“And today, I find out we got instant feedback from CODIS. It’s never happened before. All Dean has to do is snap his fingers, and everyone jumps. I just wish I knew what he was doing here.”

“Well, that’s the thing about fibbies. They say information is power, right? So they keep it from us, ‘cause it’s a macho game to them. You and me, we’re just pawns to Mr. James Fucking Bond.”

“You’re getting confused with the CIA.”

“CIA, FBI.” He shrugged. “All those alphabet agencies, they’re all about secrets.”

The radio crackled. “Watcher Three. We got a vehicle, late-model sedan, moving south on Enneking Parkway.”

Rizzoli tensed, waiting for the next team to report in.

Now Frost’s voice, in the next vehicle. “Watcher Two. We see him. Still moving south. Doesn’t look like he’s slowing down.”

Seconds later, a third unit reported: “Watcher Five. He’s just passed the intersection of Bald Knob Road. Heading out of the park.”

Not our boy . Even at this early-morning hour. Enneking Parkway was well traveled. They had lost count of how many vehicles they’d tracked through the reservation. Too many false alarms punctuating long intervals of boredom had burned up all her adrenaline, and she was fast sliding into sleep-deprived torpor.

She leaned back with a disappointed sigh. Beyond the windshield she saw the blackness of woods, lit only by the occasional spark of a firefly. “Come on, you son of a bitch,” she murmured. “Come to Mama…”

“You want some coffee?” asked Korsak.

“Thanks.”

He poured a cup from his thermos and handed it to her. The coffee was black and bitter and utterly disgusting, but she drank it anyway.

“Made it extra strong tonight,” he said. “Two scoops of Folgers instead of one. Puts hair on your chest.”

“Maybe that’s what I need.”

“I figure, I drink enough of this stuff, some of that hair might migrate back up to my head.”

She looked off toward the woods, where darkness hid rotting leaves and foraging animals. Animals with teeth. She remembered the gnawed remains of Rickets Lady and thought of raccoons chewing on ribs and dogs rolling skulls around like balls, and what she imagined, staring into the trees, was not Bambi.

“I can’t even talk about Hoyt anymore,” she said. “Can’t mention him without people giving me that pitying look . Yesterday, I tried to point Out the parallels between the Surgeon and our new boy, and I could see Dean thinking: She’s still got the Surgeon on the brain . He thinks I’m obsessed.” She sighed. “Maybe I am. Maybe that’s how it’ll always be. I’ll walk onto any crime scene and I’ll see his handiwork. Every perp will have his face.”

They both glanced at the radio as Dispatch said, “We have a request for a premises check, Fairview Cemetery. Any units in the area?”

No one responded.

Dispatch repeated the request: “We have a call for a premises check, Fairview Cemetery. Possible unauthorized entry. Unit Twelve, are you still in the area?”

“Unit Twelve. We’re on the ten-forty, River Street. It’s a code one. We’re unable to respond.”

“Roger that. Unit Fifteen? What’s your ten-ten?”

“Unit Fifteen. West Roxbury. Still on that Missile six. These folks are not calming down. Estimate at least a half hour, hour till we can get to Fairview.”

“Any units?” said Dispatch, trolling the radio waves for an available patrol car. On a warm Saturday night, a routine premises check of a cemetery was not a high-priority call. The dead are beyond caring about frolicking couples or teenage vandals. It is the living who must command a cop’s first attention.

Radio silence was broken by a member of Rizzoli’s stakeout team. “Uh, this is Watcher Five. We’re situated on Enneking Parkway. Fairview Cemetery’s in our immediate vicinity-”

Rizzoli grabbed the mike and hit the transmit button. “Watcher Five, this is Watcher One,” she cut in. “Do not abandon your position. You copy?”

“We have five vehicles on stakeout-”

“The cemetery is not our priority.”

“Watcher One,” said Dispatch. “All units are on calls right now. Any chance you could release one?”

“Negative. I want my team to hold position. Copy, Watcher Five?”

“Ten-four. We are holding. Dispatch, we can’t respond to that premises-check call.”