The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

they’re out of the facility?”
    “Yes.”
    “Even in the O.R., even under anesthesia, Hoyt should have had his leg or arm handcuffed to the table.”
    “He should have.”
    “Did you find the handcuffs?”
    Arlen and Canady glanced at each other.
    Canady said, “The cuffs were lying on the floor, under the table.”
    “So he
was
shackled.”
    “At one point, yes—”
    “Why would they release him?”
    “A medical reason, maybe?” suggested Arlen. “To start another I.V.? Reposition him?”
    She shook her head. “They’d need the guard in here to unlock the cuffs. The guard wouldn’t walk out, leaving his prisoner in here unshackled.”
    “Then he must have gotten careless,” said Canady. “Everyone in the E.R. was under the impression Hoyt was a very sick man, in too much pain to put up a fight. Obviously, they didn’t expect . . .”
    “Jesus,” she murmured. “He hasn’t lost his touch.” She looked at the anesthesia cart and saw that one drawer was open. Inside, vials of thiopental sparkled under the bright O.R. lights. An anesthetic. They were about to put him to sleep, she thought. He is lying on this table, with that I.V. in his arm. Moaning, pain contorting his face. They have no idea what is about to happen; they are busy doing their jobs. The nurse is thinking about which instruments to set up, what the doctor will need. The anesthetist is calculating the doses of drugs, while she watches the patient’s heart rate on the monitor. Maybe she sees his heart accelerate and assumes it’s due to pain. She doesn’t realize he is tensing for the lunge. For the kill.
    And then . . . what happened then?
    She looked at the instrument tray near the table. It was empty. “Did he use a scalpel?” she asked.
    “We haven’t found the weapon.”
    “It’s his favorite instrument. He always used a scalpel . . .” A thought suddenly raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She looked at Arlen. “Could he still be in this building?”
    Canady cut in, “He’s not in the building.”
    “He’s impersonated doctors before. He knows how to blend in with medical personnel. Have you searched this hospital?”
    “We don’t need to.”
    “Then how do you know he’s not here?”
    “Because we have proof he left the building. It’s on video.”
    Her pulse quickened. “You caught him on security cameras?”
    Canady nodded. “I suppose you’ll want to see it for yourself.”

eight
    “I t’s weird, what he does,” said Arlen. “We’ve watched this tape several times, and we still don’t get it.”
    They had moved downstairs, into the hospital conference room. In the corner was a rolling cabinet with a TV and VCR. Arlen let Canady turn on all the power switches and work the remote. Controlling the remote was an alpha male’s role, and Canady needed to be that male. Arlen was secure enough not to care.
    Canady shoved in the tape and said, “Okay. Let’s see if Boston P.D. can figure it out.” It was the verbal equivalent of tossing down the gauntlet. He pressed PLAY .
    A view of a closed door at the end of a corridor appeared on-screen.
    “This is a ceiling-mounted camera in a first-floor hallway,” said Arlen. “That door you see leads directly outside, to the staff parking lot, east of the building. It’s one of four exits. The recording time’s at the bottom.”
    “Five-ten,” she read.
    “According to the E.R. log, the prisoner was moved upstairs to the O.R. at around four forty-five, so this is twenty-five minutes later. Now watch. It happens around five-eleven.”
    On-screen, the seconds counted forward. Then, at 5:11:13, a figure suddenly walked into view, moving at a calm, unhurried pace toward the exit. His back was turned to the camera, and they saw trim brown hair above the collar of the white lab coat. He was wearing surgeon’s scrub pants and paper shoe covers. He made it all the way to the door and was pressing on the exit bar when he suddenly stopped.
    “Watch this,” said Arlen.
    Slowly the man turned. His gaze lifted to the camera.
    Rizzoli leaned forward, her throat dry, her eyes riveted on the face of Warren Hoyt. Even as she stared at him, he seemed to be staring directly at her. He walked toward the camera, and she saw he had something tucked under his left arm. A bundle of some kind. He kept walking until he was standing directly beneath the lens.
    “Here’s the weird part,” said Arlen.
    Still staring into the camera, Hoyt raised his right hand,