The Surgeon (15 page)

She went rigid with anger. He had struck a blow at her most
vulnerable spot. What Andrew Capra had done to her was so
personal, so intimate, that she could not speak of the loss,
even with her own father. Detective Crowe had ripped open
that wound.
"She may be the only way to catch him," said Crowe.
"This is the best you can come up with? Use a comatose
woman as bait? Endanger other patients in this hospital by
inviting a killer to show up here?"
"What makes you think he isn't already here?" Crowe said,
and he walked away.
Already here. Catherine could not help but glance around
the unit. She saw nurses bustling between patients. A group of
resident surgeons gathered near the bank of monitors. A
phlebotomist carrying her tray of blood tubes and syringes.
How many people walked in and out of this hospital every
day? How many of them did she truly know as people? No
one. That much Andrew Capra had taught her: that she could
never really know what lurked in a person's heart.
The ward clerk said, "Dr. Cordell, telephone call."
Catherine crossed to the nurses' station and picked up the
phone.
It was Moore. "I hear you pulled her through."

"Yes, she's still alive," Catherine answered bluntly. "And no,
she's not talking yet."
A pause. "I take it this is a bad time to call."
She sank into a chair. "I'm sorry. I just spoke to Detective
Crowe, 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 to fall asleep."
"You don't have to go home. I'll bring you to a hotel."
"It doesn't matter where I hide. He'll know where I am. For

some reason, he's chosen me. He's told me I'm next."
"I don't think so. It would be an incredibly stupid move on his
part, warning his next victim. The Surgeon is not stupid."
"Why did he contact me? Why write me notes on . . ." She
swallowed.
"It could be a challenge to us. A way of taunting the police."
"Then the bastard should have written to you!" Her voice
rang out so loudly that a nurse pouring a cup of coffee turned
and stared at her.
Flushing, Catherine rose to her feet. She'd embarrassed
herself by that outburst, and she was silent as they walked out
of the hospital. He wanted to take her hand, but he thought she
would only pull away, interpreting it as a condescending
gesture. Above all, he did not want her to think him
condescending. More than any woman he'd ever met, she
commanded his respect.
Sitting in his car, she said quietly: "I lost it in there. I'm sorry."
"Under the circumstances, anyone would have."
"Not you."
His smile was ironic. "I, of course, never lose my cool."

"Yes, I've noticed."
And what did that mean? he wondered as they drove to the
Back Bay. That she thought him immune to the storms that roil
a normal human heart? Since when had clear-eyed logic
meant the absence of emotions? He knew his colleagues in
the homicide unit referred to him as Saint Thomas the
Serene. The man you turned to when situations became
explosive and a calm voice was needed. They did not know
the other Thomas Moore, the man who stood before his wife's
closet at night, inhaling the fading scent of her clothes. They
saw only the mask he allowed them to see.
She said, with a note of resentment, "It's easy for you to be
calm about this. You're not the one he's fixated on."
"Let's try to look at this rationally--"
"Look at my own death? Of course I can be rational."
"The Surgeon has established a pattern he's comfortable
with. He attacks at night, not during the day. At heart he's a
coward, unable to confront a woman on equal terms. He wants
his prey vulnerable. In bed and asleep. Unable to fight back."
"So I should never fall asleep? That's an easy solution."
"What I'm saying is, he'll avoid attacking anyone during
daylight hours, when a victim is able to defend herself. It's
after dark when everything changes."

He pulled up in front of her address. While the building
lacked the charm of the older brick residences on
Commonwealth Avenue, it had the advantage of a gated and
well-lit underground garage. Access to the front entrance
required both a key as well as the correct security code, which
Catherine punched into the keypad.
They entered a lobby, decorated with mirrors and polished
marble floors. Elegant, yet sterile. Cold. An unnervingly silent
elevator whisked them to the second floor.
At her apartment door, she hesitated, the new key in hand.
"I can go in and take a look first, if that would make you feel
better," he said.
She seemed to take his suggestion as a personal affront. In
answer, she thrust the key in the lock, opened the door, and
walked in. It was as if she had to prove to herself that the
Surgeon had not won. That she was still in control of her life.
"Why don't we go through all the rooms, one by one," he
said. "Just to make sure nothing has been disturbed."
She nodded.
Together they walked through the living room, the kitchen.
And last, the bedroom. She knew the Surgeon had taken
souvenirs from other women, and she meticulously went
through her jewelry box, her dresser drawers, searching for

any sign of a trespasser's hand. Moore stood in the doorway
watching her sort through blouses and sweaters and lingerie.
And suddenly he was hit with an unsettling memory of another
woman's clothes, not nearly as elegant, folded in a suitcase.
He remembered a gray sweater, a faded pink blouse. A
cotton nightgown with blue cornflowers. Nothing brand-new,
nothing expensive. Why had he never bought Mary anything
extravagant? What did he think they were saving for? Not what
the money had eventually gone to. Doctors and nursing home
bills and physical therapists.
He turned from the bedroom doorway and walked out to the
living room, where he sat down on the couch. The late
afternoon sun streamed through the window and its brightness
stung his eyes. He rubbed them and dropped his head in his
hands, afflicted by guilt that he had not thought of Mary all day.
For that he felt ashamed. He felt even more ashamed when he
raised his head to look at Catherine and all thoughts of Mary
instantly vanished. He thought: This is the most beautiful
woman I've ever known.
The most courageous woman I've ever known.
"There's nothing missing," she said. "Not as far as I can tell.
"
"Are you sure you want to stay here? I'd be happy to bring
you to a hotel."
She crossed to the window and stared out, her profile lit by

the golden light of sunset. "I've spent the last two years being
afraid. Locking out the world with dead bolts. Always looking
behind doors and searching closets. I've had enough of it."
She looked at him. "I want my life back. This time I won't let
him win."
This time, she had said, as though this was a battle in a
much longer war. As though the Surgeon and Andrew Capra
had blended into a single entity, one she had briefly subdued
two years ago but had not truly defeated. Capra. The
Surgeon. Two heads of the same monster.
"You said there'd be a patrol car outside tonight," she said.
"There will be."
"You guarantee it?"
"Absolutely."
She took a deep breath, and the smile she gave him was
an act of sheer courage. "Then I have nothing to worry about,
do I?" she said.
It was guilt that made him drive toward Newton that evening
instead of going straight home. He had been shaken by his
reaction to Cordell and troubled by how thoroughly she now
monopolized his thoughts. In the year and a half since Mary's

death, he had lived a monk's existence, feeling no interest
whatsoever in women, all passions dampened by grief. He
did not know how to deal with this fresh spark of desire. He
only knew that, given the situation, it was inappropriate. And
that it was a sign of disloyalty to the woman he had loved.
So he drove to Newton to make things right. To assuage his
conscience.
He was holding a bouquet of daisies as he stepped into the
front yard and latched the iron gate behind him. It's like
carrying coals to Newcastle, he thought, looking around at the
garden, now falling into the shadows of evening. Every time he
visited, there seemed to be more flowers crammed into this
small space. Morning glory vines and rose canes had been
trained up the side of the house, so that the garden seemed to
be expanding skyward as well. He felt almost embarrassed by
his meager offering of daisies. But daisies were what Mary
had loved best, and it was almost a habit for him now, to
choose them at the flower stand. She'd loved their cheery
simplicity, the fringes of white around lemony suns. She'd
loved their scent--not sweet and cloying like other flowers, but
pungent. Assertive. She'd loved the way they sprang up wild in
vacant lots and roadsides, reminders that true beauty is
spontaneous and irrepressible.
Like Mary herself.
He rang the bell. A moment later the door swung open, and
the face that smiled at him was so much like Mary's, he felt a

familiar twinge of pain. Rose Connelly had her daughter's blue
eyes and round cheeks, and although her hair was almost
entirely gray and age had etched its mark on her face, the
similarities left no doubt that she was Mary's mother.
"It's so good to see you, Thomas," she said. "You haven't
been by lately."
"I'm sorry about that, Rose. It's hard to find time lately. I
hardly know which day it is."
"I've been following the case on the TV. What a terrible
business you're in."
He stepped into the house and handed her the daisies.
"Not that you need any more flowers," he said wryly.
"One can never have too many flowers. And you know how
much I love daisies. Would you like some iced tea?"
"I'd love some, thank you."
They sat in the living room, sipping their tea. It tasted sweet
and sunny, the way they drank it in South Carolina where Rose
was born. Not at all like the somber New England brew that
Moore had grown up drinking. The room was sweet as well,
hopelessly old-fashioned by Boston standards. Too much
chintz, too many knickknacks. But oh, how it reminded him of
Mary! She was everywhere. Photos of her hung on the walls.
Her swimming trophies were displayed on the bookshelves.