Tess Gerritsen - Die Again

On the surface, they’d been strictly business, especially the aloof and chilly Gabriel Dean. But over dinner, after a few glasses of wine, they started to talk about their marriage and their daughter and the life they shared in Boston. A complicated life, I think, because of their demanding jobs. Now their work has brought them all the way to my remote corner of the Western Cape.

I tiptoe past their closed door into the kitchen and pour a generous splash of scotch into a glass. Just enough to make me drowsy, but not drunk. I know by experience that while a little scotch will help me fall asleep, too much will make me wake up in a few hours with nightmares. I settle into a chair at the kitchen table and slowly nurse the drink as the clock ticks loudly on the wall. If Chris were awake, we’d take our drinks outside to the garden and sit together in the moonlight to enjoy the scent of night-blooming jasmine. I never go out in the dark by myself. Chris tells me I’m the bravest woman he knows, but courage wasn’t what kept me alive in Botswana. Even the lowliest creature does not want to die and will fight to stay alive; in that way, I am no braver than any rabbit or sparrow.

A noise behind me makes me bolt straight in my chair. I turn to see Detective Rizzoli walk barefoot into the kitchen. Her uncombed hair looks like a wild crown of black thorns and she’s dressed in an oversized T-shirt and men’s boxer shorts.

“Sorry if I startled you,” she says. “I just came out for a glass of water.”

“I can offer you something stronger, if you’d like.”

She eyes my glass of scotch. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to drink alone.” She pours herself a glass, adds an equal part of water, and settles into the chair across from me. “So do you do this often?”

“Do what?”

“Drink alone.”

“It helps me fall asleep.”

“Having trouble with that, huh?”

“You already know I do.” I take another sip, but it doesn’t help me relax because she’s watching me with dark, probing eyes. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Jet lag. It’s six P.M. Boston time, and my body refuses to be fooled.” She takes a sip and doesn’t flinch in the least at the bite of the scotch. “Thank you again for offering your guest room.”

“We couldn’t have you driving all the way back to Cape Town tonight. Not after the hours you spent with me. I hope you don’t have to fly back to the States right away. It’d be a shame if you didn’t see some of the country.”

“We get one more night in Cape Town tomorrow.”

“Only one?”

“I had a tough enough time convincing my boss to approve this trip. We’re all about cost cutting these days. God forbid we have any fun on their dime.”

I look down at my scotch, which gleams like liquid amber. “Do you actually like your work?”

“It’s what I always wanted to do.”

“Catch killers?” I shake my head. “I don’t think I’d be able to stomach it. Seeing the things you see. Coming face-to-face every day with what people are capable of.”

“That’s something you’ve already seen firsthand.”

“And I never want to see it again.” I tip the rest of the drink into my mouth and swallow it in one gulp. Suddenly it’s not enough, not nearly enough to settle my nerves. I get up to pour myself a refill.

“I used to have nightmares, too,” she says.

“No wonder, with your line of work.”

“I got over them. You can, too.”

“How?”

“The same way I did. Slay the monster. Put him away where he can’t hurt you or anyone else.”

I laugh as I recork the bottle. “Do I look like a policewoman?”

“You look like a woman who’s terrified of just going to sleep.”

I set the bottle down on the counter and turn to her. “You didn’t live through what I did. You may hunt killers, but they aren’t hunting you .”

“You’re wrong, Millie,” she says quietly. “I know exactly what you’re living through. Because I’ve been hunted, too.” She fixes me with a steady gaze as I sink back into the chair.

“What happened?” I ask.

“It was several years ago, around the time I met my husband. I was searching for a man who’d killed a number of women. Considering what this killer did to them, I’m not sure I’d call him human, but some other species. A creature who fed off pain and fear. Who took pleasure in their terror. The more afraid you were, the more he desired you.” She lifts the glass to her lips, takes a deep swallow. “And he knew I was afraid.”

I’m surprised she admits it, this woman who projects such fearlessness. Over dinner she’d described how she’d kicked down her first door, how she had chased killers across rooftops and into dark alleys. Now, sitting in her T-shirt and boxer shorts, with her messy mop of dark hair, she looks like any other woman. Small, vulnerable. Defeatable.

“You were his target?” I ask.

“Yeah. Lucky me.”

“Why you?”

“Because he’d trapped me once before. Had me right where he wanted me.” She raises her hands and shows me her scarred palms. “He did this. With scalpels.”

Earlier today, I had noticed those peculiarly placed scars, like healed wounds of a crucifixion. I stare at them in horror because I now know how those wounds were inflicted.

“Even after he went to prison, even though I knew he couldn’t reach me, I had nightmares about what he almost did to me. How could I forget, when I carry these permanent reminders of him on my hands? The bad dreams did start to fade, though. After a year, I hardly dreamed of him at all, and that should have been the end of it. It would have been the end of it.”

“Why wasn’t it?”

“Because he escaped.” She meets my gaze, and I see my own fear reflected in her eyes. I see a woman who knows what it means to live in a killer’s crosshairs, without any idea when the trigger will be pulled. “That’s when my nightmares started again.”

I stand up and get the bottle of scotch. Bring it back to the table and set it between us. “For the nightmares,” I offer.

“You can’t drink them away, Millie. No matter how many bottles you guzzle.”

“What do you suggest I do?”

“The same thing I did. Hunt down the monster who’s been chasing you in your dreams. Cut him to pieces and bury him. Then, and only then, will you sleep soundly again.”

“And do you sleep soundly?”

“Yes. But only because I chose not to run and hide. I knew that as long as he was out there, circling me, I’d never rest easy. So I became the hunter. Gabriel knew I was putting myself at risk and he tried to keep me off the case, but I had to be part of it. For my own sanity, I had to be in the fight, not hiding behind locked doors, waiting for the attack.”

“And your husband didn’t try to stop you?”

“Oh, we weren’t married then, so he couldn’t stop me.” She laughs. “Not that he can now, either. Though he tries his hardest to keep me in line.”

I think of Chris, peacefully snoring in our bed. How he bundled me up and brought me to this farm to keep me safe. “That’s what my husband tries to do.”

“Keep you behind a locked door?”

“To protect me.”

“Yet you don’t feel safe. Even six years later.”

“I do feel safe here. At least, I did. Until you brought it back into my life.”

“I’m just doing my job, Millie. Don’t blame me. I didn’t put those nightmares in your head. I’m not the one who made you a prisoner.”

“I’m not a prisoner.”

“Aren’t you?”

We stare at each other across the table. She has dark, luminous eyes. Dangerous eyes that see straight through my skull, to the deepest folds of my brain where I hide my secret terrors. I can’t deny anything she’s said. I am a prisoner. I’m not merely avoiding the world; I’m cowering from it.