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

breaths came in quickening gasps as the footsteps moved down the stairs and then
he
was there, standing above her. The light from the lone bulb cast shadows on his face, turning it into a smiling skull with hollows for eyes.
    “You want a drink, don’t you?” he said. Such a quiet voice. Such a sane voice.
    She could not speak because of the tape over her mouth, but he could see the answer in her feverish eyes.
    “Look what I have, Catherine.” He held up a tumbler and she heard the delicious clink of ice cubes and saw bright beads of water sweating on the cold surface of the glass. “Wouldn’t you like a sip?”
    She nodded, her gaze not on him but on the tumbler. Thirst was driving her mad, but she was already thinking ahead, beyond that first glorious sip of water. Plotting her moves, weighing her chances.
    He swirled the water, and the ice rang like chimes against the glass. “Only if you behave.”
    I will,
her eyes promised him.
    The tape stung as it was peeled off. She lay completely passive, let him slip a straw into her mouth. She took a greedy sip, but it was barely a trickle against the raging fire of her thirst. She drank again and immediately began to cough, precious water dribbling from her mouth.
    “Can’t—can’t drink lying down,” she gasped. “Please, let me sit up. Please.”
    He set down the glass and studied her, his eyes bottomless pools of black. He saw a woman on the verge of fainting. A woman who had to be revived if he wanted the full pleasure of her terror.
    He began to cut the tape that bound her right wrist to the bedframe.
    Her heart was thumping hard, and she thought that surely he would see it surging against her breastbone. The right bond came free, and her hand lay limp. She did not move, did not tense a single muscle.
    There was an endless silence.
Come on. Cut my left hand free. Cut it!
    Too late she realized she’d been holding her breath and he had noticed it. In despair she heard the screech of fresh duct tape peeling off the roll.
    It’s now or never.
    She grabbed blindly at the instrument tray, and the glass of water went flying, ice cubes clattering to the floor. Her fingers closed around steel. The scalpel!
    Just as he lunged at her, she swung the scalpel and felt the blade strike flesh.
    He flinched away, howling, clutching his hand.
    She twisted sideways, slashed the scalpel across the tape that bound her left wrist. Another hand free!
    She shot upright in bed, and her vision suddenly dimmed. A day without water had left her weak, and she fought to focus, to direct the blade at the tape binding her right ankle. She slashed blindly and pain nipped her skin. One hard kick and her ankle was free.
    She reached out toward the last binding.
    The heavy retractor slammed into her temple, a blow so brutal she saw bright flashes of light.
    The second blow caught her on the cheek, and she heard bone crack.
    She never remembered dropping the scalpel.
    When she surfaced back to consciousness, her face was throbbing and she could not see out her right eye. She tried to move her limbs and found her wrists and ankles were once again bound to the bedframe. But he had not yet taped her mouth; he had not yet silenced her.
    He was standing above her. She saw the stains on his shirt.
His
blood, she realized with a feral sense of satisfaction. His prey had lashed back and had drawn blood.
I am not so easily conquered. He feeds on fear; I will show him none of it.
    He picked up a scalpel from the tray and came toward her. Though her heart was slamming against her chest, she lay perfectly still, her gaze on his. Taunting him, daring him. She now knew her death was inevitable, and with that acceptance came liberation. The courage of the condemned. For two years she’d cowered like a wounded animal in hiding. For two years, she had let Andrew Capra’s ghost rule her life. No longer.
    Go ahead, cut me. But you will not win. You will not see me die defeated.
    He touched the blade to her abdomen. Involuntarily her muscles snapped taut. He was waiting to see fear on her face.
    She showed him only defiance. “You can’t do it without Andrew, can you?” she said. “You can’t even get it up on your own. Andrew had to do the fucking. All you could do was watch him.”
    He pressed the blade, pricking her skin. Even through her pain, even as the first drops of blood trickled out, she kept her gaze locked on his, showing no fear, denying him all satisfaction.
    “You can’t even fuck