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

and I am not in a good mood.”
    “He seems to have that effect on women.”
    They both laughed, tired laughs that melted any hostility between them.
    “How are you holding up, Catherine?”
    “We had some hairy moments, but I think I’ve got her stablilized.”
    “No, I mean
you
. Are you okay?”
    It was more than just a polite inquiry; she heard real concern in his voice, and she did not know what to say. She knew only that it felt good to be cared about. That his words had brought a flush to her cheeks.
    “You won’t go home, right?” he said. “Until your locks are changed.”
    “It makes me so angry. He’s taken away the one place I felt safe.”
    “We’ll make it safe again. I’ll see about getting a locksmith over there.”
    “On a Saturday? You’re a miracle worker.”
    “No. I just have a great Rolodex.”
    She leaned back, the tension easing from her shoulders. All around her, the SICU hummed with activity, yet her attention was focused completely on the man whose voice now soothed her, reassured her.
    “And how are you?” she asked.
    “I’m afraid my day’s just beginning.” A pause as he turned to answer someone’s question, something about which evidence to bag. Other voices were talking in the background. She imagined him in Nina Peyton’s bedroom, the evidence of horror all around him. Yet his voice was quiet and unruffled.
    “You’ll call me the instant she wakes up?” said Moore.
    “Detective Crowe’s hanging around here like a vulture. I’m sure he’ll know it before I do.”
    “Do you think she
will
wake up?”
    “Honest answer?” said Catherine. “I don’t know. I keep saying that to Detective Crowe, and he doesn’t accept it, either.”
    “Dr. Cordell?” It was Nina Peyton’s nurse, calling from the cubicle. The tone of her voice instantly alarmed Catherine.
    “What is it?”
    “You’ve got to come look at this.”
    “Is something wrong?” Moore said over the phone.
    “Hang on. Let me check.” She set down the receiver and went into the cubicle.
    “I was cleaning her off with a washcloth,” the nurse said. “They brought her down from the O.R. with blood still caked all over her. When I turned her on her side, I saw it. It’s behind her left thigh.”
    “Show me.”
    The nurse grasped the patient’s shoulder and hip and rolled her onto her side. “There,” she said softly.
    Fear skewered Catherine to the spot. She stared at the cheery message that had been written in black felt-tip ink on Nina Peyton’s skin.
     
    HAPPY BIRTHDAY. DO YOU LIKE MY GIFT?
     
    Moore found her in the hospital cafeteria. She was seated at a corner table, her back to the wall, assuming the position of one who knows she is threatened and wants to see any attack coming. She was still wearing surgeon’s scrubs, and her hair was tied back in a ponytail, exposing her strikingly angular features, the unadorned face, the glittering eyes. She had to be nearly as exhausted as he was, but fear had heightened her alertness, and she was like a feral cat, watching his every move as he approached the table. A half-empty cup of coffee sat in front of her. How many refills had she had? he wondered, and saw that she trembled as she reached for the cup. Not the steady hand of a surgeon, but the hand of a frightened woman.
    He sat down across from her. “There’ll be a patrol car parked outside your building all night. Did you get your new keys?”
    She nodded. “The locksmith dropped them off. He told me he put in the Rolls-Royce of dead bolts.”
    “You’ll be fine, Catherine.”
    She looked down at her coffee. “That message was meant for me.”
    “We don’t know that.”
    “It was my birthday yesterday. He knew. And he knew I was scheduled to be on call.”
    “If he’s the one who wrote it.”
    “Don’t bullshit me. You
know
it was him.”
    After a pause, Moore nodded.
    They sat without speaking for a moment. It was already late afernoon, and most of the tables were empty. Behind the counter, cafeteria workers cleared away the serving pans, and steam rose in wispy columns. A lone cashier cracked open a fresh package of coins, and they clattered into the register drawer.
    “What about my office?” she said.
    “He left no fingerprints.”
    “So you have nothing on him.”
    “We have nothing,” he admitted.
    “He moves in and out of my life like air. No one sees him. No one knows what he looks like. I could put bars on all my windows, and I’ll still be afraid