The Apprentice

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 stu

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 Maria 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 Kare

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.

Then I hear the rustle of wings and I look up to seethree crows perched on the branches overhead. They watch with strange eagerness, as though anticipating what comes next. Already they know what this place is, and now they wait, flicking their black wings, drawn here by the promise of carrion.

Sunshine warms the ground and steam curls from the wet leaves. I have hung my knapsack on a branch to keep it dry, and it droops there like heavy fruit, weighed down by the instruments inside. I do not need to inventory the contents; I have assembled them with care, fondling their cold steel as I placed them into the knapsack. Even a year of confinement has not dulled my familiarity, and when my fingers close around a scalpel, it feels as comfortable as a handshake with an old friend.

Now I am about to greet another old friend.

I walk out to the road to wait.

The clouds have thi