The Surgeon: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel: With Bonus Content

contest of wits. At last he could see his opponent’s moves, could appreciate the genius behind them.
    “Here he was,” said Zucker. “Handling their blood. Knowing their most shameful secrets.” He straightened and gazed around the lab, as though seeing it for the first time. “Did you ever stop to think what a medical lab knows about you?” he said. “All the personal information you give them when you open your arm and let them stick a needle in your vein? Your blood reveals your most intimate secrets. Are you dying of leukemia or AIDS? Did you smoke a cigarette or drink a glass of wine in the last few hours? Are you taking Prozac because you’re depressed, or Viagra because you can’t get it up? He was holding the very
essence
of those women. He could study their blood, touch it, smell it. And they never knew. They never knew that part of their own body was being fondled by a stranger.”
    “The victims never knew him,” said Moore. “Never met him.”
    “But the Surgeon knew
them
. And on the most intimate of terms.” Zucker’s eyes were feverishly bright. “The Surgeon doesn’t hunt like any serial killer I’ve ever come across. He is unique. He stays hidden from view, because he chooses his prey sight unseen.” He stared in wonder at a rack of tubes on the countertop. “This lab is his hunting ground. This is how he finds them. By their blood. By their pain.”
    *     *     *
    When Moore stepped out of the medical center, the night air felt cooler, crisper, than it had in weeks. Across the city of Boston, fewer windows would be left open, fewer women lying vulnerable to attack.
    But tonight, the Surgeon will not be hunting. Tonight, he’ll be enjoying his latest catch.
    Moore came to a sudden halt beside his car and stood there, paralyzed by despair. Even now, Warren Hoyt might be reaching for his scalpel. Even now . . .
    Footsteps approached. He summoned the strength to raise his head, to look at the man standing a few feet away in the shadows.
    “He has her, doesn’t he?” said Peter Falco.
    Moore nodded.
    “God. Oh, god.” Falco looked up in anguish at the night sky. “I walked her to her car. She was
right there
with me, and I let her go home. I let her drive away. . . .”
    “We’re doing everything we can to find her.” It was a stock phrase. Even as he said it, Moore heard the hollowness of his own words. It’s what you said when matters are grim, when you know that even your best efforts will likely come to nothing.
    “What
are
you doing?”
    “We know who he is.”
    “But you don’t know where he’s taken her.”
    “It will take time to track him down.”
    “Tell me what I can do. Anything at all.”
    Moore fought to keep his voice calm, to hide his own fears, his own dread. “I know how hard it is to stand on the sidelines and let others do the work. But this is what we’re trained to do.”
    “Oh yes,
you’re
the professionals! So what the hell went wrong?”
    Moore had no answer.
    In agitation, Falco crossed toward Moore and came to stand beneath the parking lot lamp. The light fell on his face, haggard with worry. “I don’t know what happened between you two,” he said. “But I do know she trusted you. I hope to god that means something to you. I hope she’s more than just another case. Just another name on the list.”
    “She is,” said Moore.
    The men stared at each other, acknowledging in silence what they both knew. What they both felt.
    “I care more than you’ll ever know,” said Moore.
    And Falco said softly, “So do I.”

     

twenty-three
    H e’s going to keep her alive for a while,” said Dr. Zucker. “The way he kept Nina Peyton alive for a whole day. He is now in complete control of the situation. He can take all the time he wants.”
    A shudder went through Rizzoli as she considered what that meant,
All the time he wants
. She considered how many tender nerve endings the human body possessed and wondered how much pain must be endured before Death took pity. She looked across the conference room and saw Moore drop his head into his hands. He looked sick, exhausted. It was after midnight, and the faces she saw around the conference table looked sallow and discouraged. Rizzoli stood outside that circle, her back sagging against the wall. The invisible woman, whom no one acknowledged, allowed to listen in but not participate. Restricted to administrative duty, deprived of her service weapon, she was now little more than