The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

that you understand every aspect of who I am.”
    “Yes, I appreciate that. It’s not often I get the chance to interview someone as verbal as you. Certainly not anyone who’s tried to be as analytical as you are about your own behavior.”
    Hoyt shrugged. “Well, you know the saying about the unexamined life. That it’s not worth living.”
    “Sometimes, though, we can take the self-analysis too far. It’s a defense mechanism. Intellectualism as a means of distancing ourselves from our raw emotions.”
    Hoyt paused. Then said, with a faintly mocking note: “You want me to talk about feelings.”
    “Yes.”
    “Any feelings in particular?”
    “I want to know what makes men kill. What draws them to violence. I want to know what goes through your head. What you feel, when you kill another human being.”
    He said nothing for a moment, pondering the question. “It’s not easy to describe.”
    “Try to.”
    “For the sake of science?” The mockery was back in his voice.
    “Yes. For the sake of science. What do you feel?” A long pause. “Pleasure.”
    “So it feels good?”
    “Yes.”
    “Describe it for me.”
    “Do you really want to know?”
    “It’s the core of my research, Warren. I want to know what you experience when you kill. It’s not morbid curiosity. I need to know if you experience any symptoms which may indicate neurologic abnormalities. Headaches, for instance. Strange tastes or smells.”
    “The smell of blood is quite nice.” He paused. “Oh. I think I’ve shocked you.”
    “Go on. Tell me about blood.”
    “I used to work with it, you know.”
    “Yes, I know. You were a lab technician.”
    “People think of blood as just a red fluid that circulates in our veins. Like motor oil. But it’s quite complex and individual. Everyone’s blood is unique. Just as every kill is unique. There is no typical one to describe.”
    “But they all gave you pleasure?”
    “Some more than others.”
    “Tell me about one that stands out for you. One that you remember in particular. Is there one?”
    He nodded. “There’s one that I always think about.”
    “More than the others?”
    “Yes. It’s been on my mind.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I didn’t finish it. Because I never got the chance to enjoy it. It’s like having an itch you can’t scratch.”
    “That makes it sound trivial.”
    “Does it? But over time, even a trivial itch begins to consume your attention. It’s always there, prickling your skin. One form of torture, you know, is to tickle the feet. It may seem like nothing, at first. But then it goes on for days and days without relief. It becomes the cruelest form of torture. I think I’ve mentioned in my letters that I know a thing or two about the history of man’s inhumanity to man. The art of inflicting pain.”
    “Yes. You wrote me about your, uh, interest in that subject.”
    “Torturers through the ages have always known that the subtlest of discomforts, over time, become quite intolerable.”
    “And has this itch you mentioned become intolerable?”
    “It keeps me up at night. Thoughts of what might have been. The pleasure I was denied. All my life I’ve been meticulous about finishing what I start. So this disturbs me. I think about it all the time. The images keep playing back in my head.”
    “Describe them. What you see, what you feel.”
    “I see her. She is different, not like the others at all.”
    “How so?”
    “She hates me.”
    “The others didn’t?”
    “The others were naked and afraid. Conquered. But this one is still fighting me. I feel it when I touch her. Her skin is electric with rage, even though she knows I’ve defeated her.” He leaned forward, as though about to share his most intimate thoughts. His gaze was no longer on O’Donnell but on the camera, as though he could see through the lens and stare directly at Rizzoli. “I feel her anger,” he said. “I absorb her rage, just by touching her skin. It’s like white heat. Something liquid and dangerous. Pure energy. I’ve never felt so powerful. I want to feel that way again.”
    “Does it arouse you?”
    “Yes. I think about her neck. Very slender. She has a nice, white neck.”
    “What else do you think about?”
    “I think about taking off her clothes. About how firm her breasts are. And her belly. A nice, flat belly . . .”
    “So your fantasies about Dr. Cordell—they’re sexual?”
    He paused. Blinked, as though shaken from a trance. “Dr.