The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

prologue
    T oday I watched a man die.
    It was an unexpected event, and I still marvel at the fact that this drama unfolded at my very feet.
So much of what passes for excitement in our lives cannot be anticipated, and we must learn to savor the spectacles as they come, and appreciate the rare thrills that punctuate the otherwise monotonous passage of time.
And my days do pass slowly here, in this world behind walls, where men are merely numbers, distinguished not by our names, nor by our god-given talents, but by the nature of our trespasses. We dress alike, eat the same meals, read the same worn books from the same prison cart. Every day is like another. And then some startling incident reminds us that life can turn on a dime.
    So it happened today, August second, which ripened gloriously hot and sunny, just the way I like it. While the other men sweat and shuffle about like lethargic cattle, I stand in the center of the exercise yard, my face turned to the sun like a lizard soaking up warmth. My eyes are closed, so I do not see the knife’s thrust, nor do I see the man stumble backward and fall. But I hear the rumble of agitated voices, and I open my eyes.
    In a corner of the yard, a man lies bleeding. Everyone else backs away and assumes their usual see-nothing, know-nothing masks of indifference.
    I alone walk toward the fallen man.
    For a moment I stand looking down at him. His eyes are open and sentient; to him, I must be merely a black cutout against the glaring sky. He is young, with white-blond hair, his beard scarcely thicker than down. He opens his mouth and pink froth bubbles out. A red stain is spreading across his chest.
    I kneel beside him and tear open his shirt, baring the wound, which is just to the left of the sternum. The blade has slid in neatly between ribs, and has certainly punctured the lung, and perhaps nicked the pericardium.
It is a mortal wound, and he knows it. He tries to speak to me, his lips moving without sound, his eyes struggling to focus. He wants me to bend closer, perhaps to hear some deathbed confession, but I am not the least bit interested in anything he has to say.
    I focus, instead, on his wound. On his blood.
    I am well acquainted with blood. I know it down to its elements. I have handled countless tubes of it, admired its many different shades of red. I have spun it in centrifuges into bicolored columns of packed cells and straw-colored serum. I know its gloss, its silken texture. I have seen it flow in satiny streams out of freshly incised skin.
    The blood pours from his chest like holy water from a sacred spring. I press my palm to the wound, bathing my skin in that liquid warmth, and blood coats my hand like a scarlet glove. He believes I am trying to help him, and a brief spark of gratitude lights his eyes. Most likely this man has not received much charity in his short life; how ironic that I should be mistaken as the face of mercy.
    Behind me, boots shuffle and voices bark commands: “Back! Everyone get back!”
    Someone grasps my shirt and hauls me to my feet. I am shoved backward, away from the dying man. Dust swirls and the air is thick with shouts and curses as we are herded into a corner. The instrument of death, the shiv, lies abandoned on the ground. The guards demand answers, but no one saw anything, no one knows anything.
    No one ever does.
    In the chaos of that yard, I stand slightly apart from the other prisoners, who have always shunned me. I raise my hand, still dripping with the dead man’s blood, and inhale its smooth and metallic fragrance. Just by its scent, I know it is young blood, drawn from young flesh.
    The other prisoners stare at me, and edge even farther away. They know I am different; they have always sensed it. As brutal as these men are, they are leery of me, because they understand who—and what—I am. I search their faces, seeking my blood brother among them. One of my kind. I do not see him, not here, even in this house of monstrous men.
    But he does exist. I know I am not the only one of my kind who walks this earth.
    Somewhere, there is another. And he waits for me.

one
    A lready the flies were swarming. Four hours on the hot pavement of South Boston had baked the pulverized flesh, releasing the chemical equivalent of a dinner bell, and the air was alive with buzzing flies. Though what remained of the torso was now covered with a sheet, there was still much exposed tissue for scavengers to feast on. Bits of gray matter and