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

perhaps even hoped, that she would fail. While they stood waiting for her to humiliate herself, Rizzoli had focused all her resentment, all her rage, on that door. With only two kicks, she’d splintered it open, and charged through like the Tasmanian Devil.
    That same adrenaline was roaring through her now as she pointed her weapon at the frame and squeezed off three shots. She slammed her heel against the door. Wood splintered. She kicked it again. This time it flew open and she was through, wheeling in a crouch, gaze and weapon simultaneously sweeping the room. A kitchen. Shades down, but enough light to see there was no one there. Dirty dishes in the sink. The refrigerator humming, burbling.
    Is he here? Is he in the next room, waiting for me?
    Christ, she should have worn a vest. But she had not expected this.
    Sweat slid between her breasts, soaking into her sports bra. She spotted a phone on the wall. Edged toward it and lifted the receiver off the hook. No dial tone. No chance to call for backup.
    She left it hanging and sidled to the doorway. Glanced into the next room and saw a living room, a shabby couch, a few chairs.
    Where was Hoyt? Where?
    She moved into the living room. Halfway across, she gave a squeak of fright as her beeper vibrated. Shit. She turned it off and continued across the living room.
    In the foyer she halted, staring.
    The front door hung wide open.
    He’s out of the house.
    She stepped onto the porch. As mosquitoes whined around her head, she scanned the front yard, looking beyond the dirt driveway, where her car was parked, to the tall grass and the nearby fringe of woods with its ragged edge of advancing saplings. Too many places out there to hide. While she’d been battering like a stupid bull at the back door, he’d slipped out the front door and fled into the woods.
    Cordell is in the house. Find her.
    She stepped back into the house and hurried up the stairs. It was hot in the upper rooms, and airless, and she was sweating rivers as she quickly searched the three bedrooms, the bathroom, the closets. No Cordell.
    God, she was going to suffocate in here.
    She went back down the stairs, and the silence of the house made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. All at once, she knew that Cordell was dead. That what she’d heard from the barn must have been a mortal cry, the last sound uttered from a dying throat.
    She returned to the kitchen. Through the window over the sink, she had an unobstructed view of the barn.
    He saw me walk through the grass, cross to that barn. He saw me open those doors. He knew I’d find the Mercedes. He knew his time was up.
    So he finished it. And he ran.
    The refrigerator clunked a few times and fell silent. She heard her own heartbeat, pattering like a snare drum.
    Turning, she saw the door to the cellar. The only place she hadn’t searched.
    She opened the door and saw darkness gaping below. Oh hell, she hated this, walking from the light, descending down those steps to what she knew would be a scene of horror. She didn’t want to do it, but she knew Cordell had to be down there.
    Rizzoli reached into her pocket for the mini-Maglite. Guided by its narrow beam, she took a step down, then another. The air felt cooler, moister.
    She smelled blood.
    Something brushed across her face and she jerked back, startled. Let out a sharp breath of relief when she realized it was only a pull chain for a light, swinging above the stairs. She reached up and gave the chain a tug. Nothing happened.
    The penlight would have to do.
    She aimed the beam at the steps again, lighting her way as she descended, holding her weapon close to her body. After the stifling heat upstairs, the air down here felt almost frigid, chilling the sweat on her skin.
    She reached the bottom of the stairs, her shoes landing on packed earth. Even cooler down here, the smell of blood stronger. The air thick and damp. Silent, so silent; still as death. The loudest sound was her own breath, rushing in and out of her lungs.
    She swung the beam in an arc, almost screamed when her reflection flashed right back at her. She stood with weapon aimed, her heart hammering, as she saw what it was that reflected the light.
    Glass jars. Large apothecary jars, lined up on a shelf. She did not need to look at the objects floating inside to know what those jars contained.
    His souvenirs.
    There were six jars, each one labeled with a name. More victims than they ever knew.
    The last one was empty,