The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

was suffocating and could not suck in air deeply enough, quickly enough, to keep from smothering. She twisted in panic, thrashing like a crazed animal, desperate to live. Her face slammed against her suitcase, and the blow momentarily stunned her. She lay exhausted, cheek throbbing.
    The car slowed down and stopped.
    She went rigid, heart punching at her chest, as she waited for what came next. She heard a man say, “Have a nice day.” The car was rolling again, picking up speed.
    A tollbooth. They were on the Turnpike.
    She thought of all the small towns that lay to the west of Boston, all the empty fields and tracts of forest, the places where no one else would think to stop. Places where a body might never be found. She remembered Gail Yeager’s corpse, bloated and veined with black, and Marla Jean Waite’s scattered bones, lying in the stillness of woods. So goes the way of all flesh.
    She closed her eyes, focusing on the rumble of the road beneath the tires. Going very fast. By now, well beyond the Boston city limits. And what would Frost be thinking as he waited for her call? How long before he realized something had gone wrong?
    It makes no difference. He won’t know where to look. No one will.
    Her left arm was growing numb from her weight, the tingling now unbearable. She rolled onto her belly, and her face pressed against the silky parachute fabric. The same fabric that had shrouded the corpses of Gail Yeager and Karenna Ghent. She imagined she could smell death in its folds. The odor of putrescence. Repulsed, she tried to rise to a kneeling position and hit her head against the roof of the trunk. Pain bit her scalp. The suitcase, small as it was, left little room in which to maneuver, and claustrophia was making her panic again.
    Control. Goddamn it, Rizzoli. Take control.
    But she could not shut out images of the Surgeon. She remembered his face looming above her as she’d lain immobilized on the cellar floor. Remembered waiting for the slash of his scalpel, and knowing that she could not escape it. That the best she could hope for was a swift death.
    And that the alternative was infinitely worse.
    She forced herself to breathe slowly, deeply. A drop of warmth slid down her cheek, and the back of her head stung. She had cut her scalp and now it was bleeding in a steady trickle, dripping onto the parachute. Evidence, she thought. My passage marked by blood.
    I’m bleeding. What did I hit my head against?
    She raised her arms behind her, fingers skimming the trunk roof, seeking whatever it was that had pierced her scalp. She felt molded plastic, a smooth expanse of metal. Then, suddenly, a sharp edge of a protruding screw pricked her skin.
    She paused to ease her aching arm muscles, to blink blood from her eyes. She listened to the steady thrum of the tires over the road.
    Still moving fast, Boston far behind them.

    It is lovely, here in the woods. I stand surrounded by a ring of trees, whose tops pierce the sky like the spires of a cathedral. All morning it has rained, but now a shaft of sunlight breaks through the clouds and spills onto the ground where I have hammered four iron stakes, to which I have looped four lengths of rope. Except for the steady drip from the leaves, it is silent.
    Then I hear the rustle of wings and I look up to see three crows perched on the branches overhead. They watch with strange eagerness, as though anticipating what comes next. Already they know what this place is, and now they wait, flicking their black wings, drawn here by the promise of carrion.
    Sunshine warms the ground and steam curls from the wet leaves. I have hung my knapsack on a branch to keep it dry, and it droops there like heavy fruit, weighed down by the instruments inside. I do not need to inventory the contents; I have assembled them with care, fondling their cold steel as I placed them into the knapsack. Even a year of confinement has not dulled my familiarity, and when my fingers close around a scalpel, it feels as comfortable as a handshake with an old friend.
    Now I am about to greet another old friend.
    I walk out to the road to wait.
    The clouds have thinned to wisps, and the afternoon has grown close and warm. The road is little more than two dirt ruts, and a few tall weeds poke up, their fragile seed heads undisturbed by the recent passage of any car. I hear cawing, and look up to see that the three crows have followed me, and are waiting for the show.
    Everyone likes to watch.
    A thin curl