Tess Gerritsen's Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Spiegel,” she said softly. “Ginger.”

  “Yeah. Seems like a real sharp girl. Says she’s a bartender down at McGinty’s. She was walking home from work and noticed glass under the fire escape. Looked up and saw your window was broken. Called nine-one-one right away. First officer on the scene realized it was your place. He called me.”

  Dean touched her arm in silent inquiry. She ignored him. Clearing her throat, she managed to ask, with deceptive calmness, “Did he take anything?” Already she was using the word he. Without saying his name, they both knew who had done this.

  “That’s what you’ll need to tell us when you get here,” said Frost.

  “You’re there now?”

  “Standing in your living room.”

  She closed her eyes, feeling almost nauseated with rage as she pictured strangers invading her home. Opening her closets, touching her clothes. Lingering over her most intimate possessions.

  “It looks to me like things are undisturbed,” said Frost. “Your TV and CD player are here. There’s a big jar of spare change still sitting on the kitchen counter. Is there anything else they might want to steal?”

  My peace of mind. My sanity.

  “Rizzoli?”

  “I can’t think of anything.”

  A pause. He said, gently: “I’ll go through it all with you, inch by inch. When you get home, we’ll do it together. Landlord’s already boarded up the window so the rain won’t get in. If you want to stay at my house for a while, I know it’ll be fine with Alice. We got a spare room never gets used—”

  “I’m okay,” she said.

  “It’s no problem—”

  “I’m okay.”

  There was anger in her voice, and pride. Most of all, pride.

  Frost knew enough to ease off and not feel offended. He said, unruffled, “Give me a call as soon as you get in.”

  Dean was watching as she hung up. Suddenly she could not stand to be looked at while naked and afraid. To have her vulnerability on full display. She climbed out of bed, went into the bathroom, and locked the door.

  A moment later, he knocked. “Jane?”

  “I’m going to take another shower.”

  “Don’t shut me out.” He knocked again. “Come out and talk to me.”

  “When I’m finished.” She turned on the shower. Stepped in, not because she needed to wash but because running water barred conversation. It was a noisy curtain of privacy behind which to hide. As the water beat down on her, she stood with head bowed, hands braced on the tiled wall, wrestling with her fear. She imagined it sliding off her skin like dirt and gurgling down the drain. Layer by layer, shedding off. When at last she shut off the water, she felt calm. Cleansed. She dried herself, and in the steamed mirror she caught a glimpse of her face, no longer pale but flushed from the heat. Ready once again to play the public role of Jane Rizzoli.

  She stepped out of the bathroom. Dean was sitting in the armchair by the window. He said nothing, just watched as she began to dress, picking up her clothes from the floor as she circled the bed, its rumpled sheets the mute evidence of their passion. One phone call had ended it, and now she moved about the room with brittle resolve, buttoning her blouse, zipping up her slacks. Outside, it was still dark, but for her, the night was over.

  “Are you going to tell me?” he said.

  “Hoyt was in my apartment.”

  “They know it was him?”

  She turned to face him. “Who else would it be?”

  The words came out shriller than she’d intended. Flushing, she retrieved her shoes from under the bed. “I have to get home.”

  “It’s five in the morning. Your plane leaves at nine-thirty.” “Do you really expect me to go back to sleep? After this?”

  “You’ll get into Boston exhausted.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Because you’re wired on adrenaline.”

  She shoved her feet into her shoes. “Stop it, Dean.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Trying to take care of me.”

  A silence passed. Then he said, with a note of sarcasm, “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.”

  She paused with her back to him, already regretting her words. Wishing for the first time that he would take care of her. That he would put his arms around her and coax her back to bed. That they would sleep holding each other until it was time for her to leave.

  But when she turned to face him, she saw that he was out of the chair and already getting dressed.

  twenty-four

  She fell asleep on the plane. As they started the descent into Boston, she woke up feeling drugged and desperately thirsty. The bad weather had followed her from D.C., and turbulence rattled seat-back trays and passengers’ nerves as they dropped through the clouds. Outside her window, the wing tips vanished behind a curtain of gray, but she was too tired to register even a twinge of anxiety about the flight. And Dean was still on her mind, distracting her from what she should be focused on. She stared out at the mist and remembered the touch of his hands, the warmth of his breath on her skin.

  And she remembered their last words at the airport curb, a cool and rushed good-bye under pattering rain. Not the parting of lovers but of business associates, anxious to get on with their separate concerns. She blamed herself for the new distance between them and blamed him, as well, for letting her walk away. Once again, Washington had turned into the city of regrets and stained sheets.

  The plane touched down in a driving rain. She saw ramp personnel splash across the tarmac in their hooded slickers and she was already dreading the prospect of what came next. The ride home to an apartment that would never again feel secure, because he had been there.

  Wheeling her suitcase from baggage claim, she stepped outside and was hit with a blast of wind-driven rain that angled under the overhang. A long line of dispirited people stood waiting for taxis. Scanning the row of limousines parked across the street, she was relieved to find the name RIZZOLI displayed in one of the limo windows.

  She tapped on the driver’s side, and the window rolled down. It was a different driver, not the elderly black man who’d brought her to the airport the day before.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I’m Jane Rizzoli.”

  “Going to Claremont Street, right?”

  “That’s me.”

  The driver stepped out and opened the backseat door for her. “Welcome aboard. I’ll put your suitcase in the trunk.”

  “Thank you.”

  She slid into the car and gave a tired sigh as she leaned back against rich leather. Outside, horns blared and tires skidded in the pouring rain, but the world inside this limousine was blessedly silent. She closed her eyes as they glided away from Logan Airport and headed for the Boston Expressway.

  Her cell phone rang. Shaking off her exhaustion, she sat up and dazedly dug around in her purse, dropping pens and loose change on the car floor as she hunted for the phone. She finally managed to answer it on the fourth ring.

  “Rizzoli.”

  “This is Margaret in Senator Conway’s office. I made the arrangements for your travel. I just wanted to double-check that you do have a ride home from the airport.”

  “Yes. I’m in the limo now.”

  “Oh.” A pause. “Well, I’m glad that was cleared up.”

  “What was?”

  “The limo service called to confirm that you’d canceled your airport pickup.”

  “No, he was waiting for me. Thank you.”

  She disconnected and bent down to retrieve everything that had fallen from her purse. The ballpoint pen had rolled beneath the driver’s seat. As she reached for it, fingers skimming the floor, she suddenly registered the color of the carpet. Navy blue.

  Slowly she sat up.

  They had just entered the Callahan Tunnel, which burrowed beneath the Charles River. Traffic had slowed, and they were creeping along an endless concrete tube, its int
erior lit a sickly amber.

  Navy-blue nylon six, six DuPont Antron. Standard carpet in Cadillacs and Lincolns.

  She remained perfectly still, her gaze turned toward the tunnel wall. She thought about Gail Yeager and funeral processions, the line of limousines slowly winding toward cemetery gates.

  She thought of Alexander and Karenna Ghent, who had arrived at Logan Airport just a week before their deaths.

  And she thought of Kenneth Waite and his OUIs. A man who was not allowed to drive, yet took his wife to Boston.

  Is this how he finds them?

  A couple step into his car. The woman’s pretty face is reflected in his rearview mirror. She settles back in smooth leather seats for the ride home, never realizing that she’s being watched. That a man whose face she has scarcely registered is, at that very moment, deciding that she is the one.

  The tunnel’s amber lights glided by as Rizzoli built the theory, brick by brick. Such a comfortable car, a quiet ride, the leather seats soft as human skin. A nameless man behind the wheel. All designed to make the passenger feel safe and protected. The passenger knows nothing about the man behind the wheel. But the driver would know the passenger’s name. The flight number. The street where she lives.

  Traffic was stalled now. Far ahead, she could see the tunnel’s opening, a small portal of gray light. She kept her face turned to the window, not daring to look at the driver. Not wanting him to see her apprehension. Her hands were sweating as she reached into her purse and grasped the cell phone. She did not take it out but just sat with her hand around it, thinking about what, if anything, she should do next. So far the driver had done nothing to alarm her, nothing to make her think he was anything but what he claimed to be.

  Slowly she took the phone from her purse. Flipped it open. In the dim tunnel, she strained to see the numbers so she could dial. Keep it casual, she thought. As though you’re just checking in with Frost, not shrieking out an S.O.S. But what would she say? “I think I’m in trouble, but I can’t be sure?” She hit the speed-dial for Frost. Heard ringing, then a faint “hello” followed by static.

  The tunnel. I’m in the goddamn tunnel.

  She disconnected. Looked ahead to see how close they were to emerging. At that instant her gaze flicked involuntarily to the driver’s rearview mirror. She made the mistake of meeting his eyes, of registering the fact that he was watching her. That’s when they both knew, they both understood.

  Get out. Get out of the car!

  She lunged for the door handle, but he had already triggered the locks. Scrambling to override it, she clawed in panic at the release button.

  It was all the time he needed to reach back over the seat, aim the Taser, and fire.

  The probe hit her in the shoulder. Fifty thousand volts pulsed into her torso, an electrical jolt that shot like lightning through her nervous system. Her vision went black. She dropped to the seat, her hands useless, all her muscles contracting in a storm of convulsions, her body out of control, quivering in submission.

  A drumming noise, pattering above, drew her from the darkness. A fog of gray light slowly brightened on her retinas. She tasted blood, warm and metallic, and her tongue throbbed where she had bitten it. The fog slowly melted, and she saw daylight. They were out of the tunnel, heading … where? Her vision was still blurred, but through the window she could make out the shapes of tall buildings against a background of gray sky. She tried to move her arm, but it was heavy and sluggish, the muscles spent from the convulsion. And the view of buildings and trees sliding past the window was so dizzying she had to close her eyes. She focused all her effort on making her limbs obey her commands. She felt muscles twitch, and her fingers closed into a fist. Tighter. Stronger.

  Open the door. Unlock the door.

  She opened her eyes, fighting vertigo, her stomach roiling as the world spun past the window. She forced her arm to straighten, every inch a small victory. Hand now reaching toward the door, toward the lock release button. She pressed it and heard the loud click as it snapped open.

  Suddenly there was pressure on her thigh. She saw his face glancing back over the seat as he shoved the Taser against her leg. Another burst of energy pulsed into her body.

  Her limbs spasmed. Darkness fell like a hood.

  A drop of cold water falling on her cheek. The screech of duct tape being peeled off a roll. She came awake as he bound her wrists behind her back, wrapping the tape several times around before he slit it off the roll. Next he pulled off her shoes, let them thud onto the floor. Peeled off both her trouser socks so the tape would adhere to bare skin. Her vision slowly cleared as he worked, and she saw the top of his head as he leaned into the car, his attention focused on binding her ankles. Behind him, through the open car door, was an expanse of green. Marsh and trees. No buildings. The fens? Had he pulled off in the Back Bay Fens?

  Another screech of duct tape, and then the smell of adhesive as it pressed to her mouth.

  He stared down at her, and she saw details that she had not bothered to register when the car window had first rolled down. Details that had then been irrelevant. Dark eyes, a face of sharp angles, an expression of feral alertness. And excitement about what came next. A face that no one would register from the backseat of a car. They are the faceless army dressed in uniforms, she thought. The people who clean our hotel rooms and haul our luggage and drive the limousines in which we ride. They move in a parallel world, seldom noticed until they are needed.

  Until they intrude into ours.

  He picked up her cell phone from the floor where it had fallen. Dropped it onto the road and slammed his heel down, smashing the phone into a bundle of crumpled plastic and wires, which he kicked into the bushes. No enhanced 911 would lead the police to her.

  He was all efficiency now. The seasoned professional, doing what he does best. He leaned into the car, dragged her toward the door, then lifted her into his arms without even a grunt of effort. A special ops soldier who can march for miles with a hundred-pound pack strapped to his back would find little challenge in the transfer of a 115-pound woman. Rain splattered her face as she was carried to the rear of the car. She caught a glimpse of trees, silvery in the mist, and a dense tangle of undergrowth. But no other cars, even though she could hear them beyond the trees, the whish-whish of traffic, like the sound of the ocean when you hold a seashell to your ear. Close enough to raise a muffled howl of despair in her throat.

  The trunk was already open, the drab-green parachute laid out and waiting to receive her body. He dropped her inside, went back to the car for her shoes, and threw those in with her as well. Then he closed the trunk, and she heard him turn the key in the lock. Even if she got her hands free, she would not be able to escape this black coffin.

  She heard his door slam shut; then the car was moving again. Heading toward a meeting with a man she knew would be waiting for her.

  She thought of Warren Hoyt. Thought of his bland smile, his long fingers encased in latex gloves. She thought of what he would be holding in those gloved hands, and terror engulfed her. Her breaths quickened and she felt she was suffocating and could not suck in air deeply enough, quickly enough, to keep from smothering. She twisted in panic, thrashing like a crazed animal, desperate to live. Her face slammed against her suitcase, and the blow momentarily stunned her. She lay exhausted, cheek throbbing.

  The car slowed down and stopped.

  She went rigid, heart punching at her chest, as she waited for what came next. She heard a man say, “Have a nice day.” The car was rolling again, picking up speed.

  A tollbooth. They were on the Turnpike.

  She thought of all the small towns that lay to the west of Boston, all the empty fields and tracts of forest, the places where no one else would think to stop. Places where a body might never be found. She remembered Gail Yeager’s corpse, bloated and veined with black, and Marla Jean Waite’s scattered bones, lying in the stillness of woods. So goes the way of all flesh.

  She closed her
eyes, focusing on the rumble of the road beneath the tires. Going very fast. By now, well beyond the Boston city limits. And what would Frost be thinking as he waited for her call? How long before he realized something had gone wrong?

  It makes no difference. He won’t know where to look. No one will.

  Her left arm was growing numb from her weight, the tingling now unbearable. She rolled onto her belly, and her face pressed against the silky parachute fabric. The same fabric that had shrouded the corpses of Gail Yeager and Karenna Ghent. She imagined she could smell death in its folds. The odor of putrescence. Repulsed, she tried to rise to a kneeling position and hit her head against the roof of the trunk. Pain bit her scalp. The suitcase, small as it was, left little room in which to maneuver, and claustrophia was making her panic again.

  Control. Goddamn it, Rizzoli. Take control.

  But she could not shut out images of the Surgeon. She remembered his face looming above her as she’d lain immobilized on the cellar floor. Remembered waiting for the slash of his scalpel, and knowing that she could not escape it. That the best she could hope for was a swift death.

  And that the alternative was infinitely worse.

  She forced herself to breathe slowly, deeply. A drop of warmth slid down her cheek, and the back of her head stung. She had cut her scalp and now it was bleeding in a steady trickle, dripping onto the parachute. Evidence, she thought. My passage marked by blood.

  I’m bleeding. What did I hit my head against?

  She raised her arms behind her, fingers skimming the trunk roof, seeking whatever it was that had pierced her scalp. She felt molded plastic, a smooth expanse of metal. Then, suddenly, a sharp edge of a protruding screw pricked her skin.

  She paused to ease her aching arm muscles, to blink blood from her eyes. She listened to the steady thrum of the tires over the road.

  Still moving fast, Boston far behind them.

  It is lovely, here in the woods. I stand surrounded by a ring of trees, whose tops pierce the sky like the spires of a cathedral. All morning it has rained, but now a shaft of sunlight breaks through the clouds and spills onto the ground where I have hammered four iron stakes, to which I have looped four lengths of rope. Except for the steady drip from the leaves, it is silent.