The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

real weakness. She let him see none.
    “Now he has a partner,” she said. “Someone he can learn from. Someone he can teach in return. A hunting team.”
    “You think they’ll stay together.”
    “Warren would want to. He’d want a partner. They’ve already killed together once. That’s a powerful bond, sealed in blood.” She took a final sip of her drink, draining the glass. Would it numb her brain of nightmares tonight? Or was she beyond the comforts of anesthesia?
    “Have you requested protection?”
    His question startled her. “Protection?”
    “A cruiser, at the very least. To watch your apartment.”
    “I’m a cop.”
    He tilted his head, as though waiting for the rest of the answer.
    “If I were a man,” she said, “would you have asked that question?”
    “You’re not a man.”
    “That means I automatically need protection?”
    “Why do you sound so offended?”
    “Why does my being a woman make me incapable of defending my own home?”
    He sighed. “Do you always have to outdo the men, Detective?”
    “I’ve worked hard to be treated like everyone else,” she said. “I’m not going to ask for special favors because I’m a woman.”
    “It’s
because
you’re a woman that you’re in this position. The Surgeon’s sexual fantasies are about women. And the Dominator’s attacks aren’t about the husbands, but about the wives. He rapes the wives. You can’t tell me that your being female is irrelevant to this situation.”
    She flinched at the mention of rape. Up till now, the discussion of sexual assault had been about other women. That she was a potential victim brought the focus to a far more intimate level, a level she was not comfortable discussing with any man. Even more than the subject of rape, it was Dean himself who made her uneasy. The way he studied her, as though she held some secret he was eager to mine.
    “It’s not about you being a cop, or whether you’re capable of defending yourself,” he said. “It’s about you being a woman. A woman Warren Hoyt has probably fantasized about all these months.”
    “Not me. Cordell’s the one he wants.”
    “Cordell is out of his reach. He can’t touch her. But you’re right here. You’re within his grasp, the very woman he almost defeated. The woman he pinned to the floor in that cellar. He had his blade at your throat. He could already smell your blood.”
    “Stop it, Dean.”
    “In a way, he’s already claimed you. You’re already his. And you’re out in the open every day, working the very crimes he leaves behind. Every dead body’s a message meant for your eyes. A preview of what he has planned for you.”
    “I said,
stop it.
”
    “And you think you don’t need protection? You think a gun and an attitude is all it takes to stay alive? Then you’re ignoring your own gut feelings. You know what he’ll do next. You know what he craves, what turns him on. And what turns him on is you. What he plans to do to
you.
”
    “Shut the fuck up!” Her outburst startled them both. She stared at him, dismayed by her loss of control and by the tears that sprang from nowhere. Goddamn it, goddamn it, she would not cry. She had never let a man see her crumble, and she wouldn’t allow Dean to be the first.
    She took a deep breath and said, quietly, “I want you to leave now.”
    “I’m only asking you to listen to your own instincts. To accept the same protection you’d offer any other woman.”
    She stood and went to the door. “Good night, Agent Dean.”
    For a moment he did not move, and she wondered what it would take to eject this man from her home. At last he rose to leave, but when he reached the door he stopped and looked down at her. “You’re not invincible, Jane,” he said. “And no one expects you to be.”
    Long after he’d walked out, she stood with her back pressed to the locked door, her eyes closed, trying to calm the turmoil left in the wake of his visit. She knew she was not invincible. She had learned that a year ago, when she’d looked up into the Surgeon’s face and waited for the bite of his scalpel. She did not need to be reminded of that, and she resented the brutal manner in which Dean had brought home that lesson.
    She crossed back to the couch and picked up the phone from the end table. It would not be dawn yet in London, but she could not delay making this call.
    Moore answered on the second ring, his voice gruff but alert despite the hour.
    “It’s me,” said Rizzoli.