The Surgeon (6 page)

door hook, a thought suddenly occurred to her.
She crossed the hallway and stuck her head in Peter's
office. He was reviewing charts, his reading glasses perched
on his nose. Unlike her own neat office, Peter's looked like
chaos central. Paper airplanes filled the trash can. Books and
surgery journals were piled on chairs. One wall was nearly
smothered by an out-of-control philodendron. Buried in that
jungle of leaves were Peter's diplomas: an undergraduate
degree in aeronautical engineering from MIT, an M.D. from
Harvard Medical School.
"Peter? This is a stupid question. . . ."
He glanced up over his glasses. "Then you've come to the
right man."
"Have you been in my office?"
"Should I call my lawyer before I answer that?"
"Come on. I'm serious."
He straightened, and his gaze sharpened on hers. "No, I
haven't. Why?"
"Never mind. It's not a big deal." She turned to leave and
heard the creak of his chair as he stood up. He followed her
into her office.

"What's not a big deal?" he asked.
"I'm being obsessive-compulsive, that's all. I get irritated
when things aren't where they should be."
"Like what?"
"My lab coat. I always hang it on the door, and somehow it
ends up on the filing cabinet, or over a chair. I know it's not
Helen or the other secretaries. I asked them."
"The cleaning lady probably moved it."
"And then it drives me crazy that I can't find my stethoscope.
"
"It's still missing?"
"I had to borrow the nursing supervisor's."
Frowning, he glanced around the room. "Well, there it is. On
the bookshelf." He crossed to the shelf, where her
stethoscope lay coiled beside a bookend.
Silently she took it from him, staring at it as though it were
something alien. A black serpent, draped over her hand.
"Hey, what's the matter?"
She took a deep breath. "I think I'm just tired." She put the
stethoscope in the left pocket of her lab coat--the same place

she always left it.
"Are you sure that's all? Is there something else going on?"
"I need to get home." She walked out of her office, and he
followed her into the hall.
"Is it something to do with those police officers? Look, if
you're in some kind of trouble--if I can help out--"
"I don't need any help, thank you." Her answer came out
cooler than she'd intended, and she was instantly sorry for it.
Peter didn't deserve that.
"You know, I wouldn't mind if you did ask me for favors every
so often," he said quietly. "It's part of working together. Being
partners. Don't you think?"
She didn't answer.
He turned back to his office. "I'll see you in the morning."
"Peter?"
"Yes?"
"About those two police officers. And the reason they came
to see me--"
"You don't have to tell me."

"No, I should. You'll just wonder about it if I don't. They came
to ask me about a homicide case. A woman was murdered
Thursday night. They thought I might have known her."
"Did you?"
"No. It was a mistake, that's all." She sighed. "Just a
mistake."
Catherine turned the dead bolt, felt it drive home with a
satisfying thud, and then slid the chain in place. One more line
of defense against the unnamed horrors that lurked beyond
her walls. Safely barricaded in her apartment, she removed
her shoes, set her purse and car keys down on the
cherrywood butler's table, and walked in stockinged feet
across the thick white carpet of her living room. The flat was
pleasantly cool, thanks to the miracle of central air-
conditioning. Outside it was eighty-six degrees, but in here the
temperature never wavered above seventy-two in the summer
or below sixty-eight in the winter. There was so little in one's
life that could be pre-set, pre-determined, and she strove to
maintain what order she could manage within the
circumscribed boundaries of her life. She had chosen this
twelve-unit condominium building on Commonwealth Avenue
because it was brand-new, with a secure parking garage.
Though not as picturesque as the historic redbrick residences
in the Back Bay, neither was it plagued by the plumbing or
electrical uncertainties that come with older buildings.
Uncertainty was something Catherine did not tolerate well.

Her flat was kept spotless, and except for a few startling
splashes of color, she'd chosen to furnish it mostly in white.
White couch, white carpets, white tile. The color of purity.
Untouched, virginal.
In her bedroom she undressed, hung up her skirt, set aside
the blouse to be dropped off at the dry cleaner's. She
changed into loose slacks and a sleeveless silk blouse. By
the time she walked barefoot into the kitchen, she was feeling
calm, and in control.
She had not felt that way earlier today. The visit by the two
detectives had left her shaken, and all afternoon she had
caught herself making careless mistakes. Reaching for the
wrong lab slip, writing the incorrect date on a medical chart.
Only minor errors, but they were like faint ripples that mar the
surface of waters that are deeply disturbed. For the last two
years she had managed to suppress all thoughts of what had
happened to her in Savannah. Every so often, without warning,
a remembered image might return, as sharp as a knife's
slash, but she would dance away from it, deftly turning her
mind to other thoughts. Today, she could not avoid the
memories. Today, she could not pretend that Savannah had
never happened.
The kitchen tiles were cool under her bare feet. She fixed
herself a screwdriver, light on the vodka, and sipped it as she
grated Parmesan cheese and chopped tomatoes and onions
and herbs. She had not eaten since breakfast, and the alcohol

sluiced straight into her bloodstream. The vodka buzz was
pleasant and anesthetizing. She took comfort in the steady
rap of her knife against the cutting board, the fragrance of
fresh basil and garlic. Cooking as therapy.
Outside her kitchen window, the city of Boston was an
overheated cauldron of gridlocked cars and flaring tempers,
but in here, sealed behind glass, she calmly saut�ed the
tomatoes in olive oil, poured a glass of Chianti, and heated a
pot of water for fresh angel-hair pasta. Cool air hissed from
the air-conditioning vent.
She sat down with her pasta and salad and wine and ate to
the background strains of Debussy on the CD player. Despite
her hunger and the careful attention to the preparation of her
meal, everything seemed tasteless. She forced herself to eat,
but her throat felt full, as though she had swallowed something
thick and glutinous. Even drinking a second glass of wine
could not dislodge the lump in her throat. She put down her
fork and stared at her half-eaten dinner. The music swelled
and swept over her in breaking waves.
She dropped her face in her hands. At first no sound came
out. It was as if her grief had been bottled up so long, the seal
had permanently frozen shut. Then a high keening escaped
her throat, the thinnest thread of sound. She gasped in a
breath, and a cry burst forth as two years' worth of pain came
pouring out all at once. The violence of her emotions scared
her, because she could not hold them back, could not fathom

how deep her pain went or if there would ever be an end to it.
She cried until her throat was raw, until her lungs were
stuttering with spasms, the sound of her sobbing trapped in
that hermetically sealed apartment.
At last, drained of all tears, she lay down on the couch and
fell at once into a deep and exhausted sleep.
She came sharply awake to find herself in darkness. Her
heart was pounding, her blouse soaked in sweat. Had there
been a noise? The crack of glass, the tread of a footstep?
Was that what had startled her from such a deep sleep? She
dared not move a muscle, for fear she would miss the telltale
sound of an intruder.
Moving lights shone through the window, the headlights of a
passing car. Her living room briefly brightened, then slid back
into darkness. She listened to the hiss of cool air from the
vent, the growl of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Nothing alien.
Nothing that should inspire this crushing sense of dread.
She sat up and summoned the courage to turn on the lamp.
Imagined horrors instantly vanished in the warm glow of light.
She rose from the couch, moving deliberately from room to
room, turning on lights, looking into closets. On a rational level,
she knew that there was no intruder, that her home, with its
sophisticated alarm system and its dead bolts and its tightly
latched windows, was as protected as any home could be.
But she did not rest until this ritual had been completed and
every dark nook had been searched. Only when she was

satisfied that her security had not been breached did she
allow herself to breathe easily again.
It was ten-thirty. A Wednesday. I need to talk to someone.
Tonight I cannot deal with this alone.
She sat down at her desk, booted up her computer, and
watched as the screen flickered on. It was her lifeline, her
therapist, this bundle of electronics and wires and plastic, the
only safe place into which she could pour her pain.
She typed in her screen name, CCORD, signed onto the
Internet, and with a few clicks of the mouse, a few words typed
on the keyboard, she navigated her way into the private chat
room called, simply: womanhelp.
Half a dozen familiar screen names were already there.
Faceless, nameless women, all of them drawn to this safe and
anonymous haven in cyberspace. She sat for a few moments,
watching the messages scroll down the computer screen.
Hearing, in her mind, the wounded voices of women she had
never met, except in this virtual room.
LAURIE45: So what did you do then?
VOTIVE: I told him I wasn't ready. I was still having
flashbacks. I told him if he cared about me, he'd wait.

HBREAKER: Good for you.
WINKY98: Don't let him rush you.
LAURIE45: How did he react?
VOTIVE: He said I should just GET OVER IT. Like I'm a
wimp or something.
WINKY98: Men should get raped!!!!
HBREAKER: It took me two years before I was ready.
LAURIE45: Over a year for me.
WINKY98: All these guys think about are their dicks. It's all
about them. They just want their THING satisfied.
LAURIE45: Ouch. You're pissed off tonight, Wink.
WINKY98: Maybe I am. Sometimes I think Lorena Bobbitt
had the right idea.
HBREAKER: Wink's getting out her cleaver!
VOTIVE: I don't think he's willing to wait. I think he's given
up on me.
WINKY98: You're worth waiting for. You're WORTH IT!

A few seconds passed, with the message box blank. Then,
LAURIE45: Hello, CCord. It's good to see you back.
Catherine typed.
CCORD: I see we're talking about men again.
LAURIE45: Yeah. How come we can't ever get off this tired
subject?
VOTIVE: Because they're the ones who hurt us.
There was another long pause. Catherine took a deep
breath and typed.
CCORD: I had a bad day.
LAURIE45: Tell us, CC. What happened?

Catherine could almost hear the coo of female voices,
gentle, soothing murmurs through the ether.
CCORD: I had a panic attack tonight. I'm here, locked in my
house, where no one can touch me and it still happens.
WINKY98: Don't let him win. Don't let him make you a
prisoner.
CCORD: It's too late. I am a prisoner. Because I realized
something terrible tonight.
WINKY98: What's that?
CCORD: Evil doesn't die. It never dies. It just takes on a
new face, a new name. Just because we've been
touched by it once, it doesn't mean we're immune to ever
being hurt again. Lightning can strike twice.
No one typed anything. No one responded.
No matter how careful we are, evil knows where we live,
she thought. It knows how to find us.
A drop of sweat slid down her back.

And I feel it now Closing in.
.
Nina Peyton goes nowhere, sees no one. She has not been
to her job in weeks. Today I called her office in Brookline,
where she works as a sales representative, and her
colleague told me he doesn't know when she will return to
them. She is like a wounded beast, holed up in her cave,
terrified of taking even one step out into the night. She
knows what the night holds for her, because she has been
touched by its evil, and even now she feels it seeping like
vapor through the walls of her home. The curtains are
closed tight, but the fabric is thin, and I see her moving
about inside. Her silhouette is balled up, arms squeezed to
her chest, as though her body has folded into itself. Her
movements are jerky and mechanical as she paces back
and forth.
She is checking the locks on the doors, the latches on the
windows. Trying to shut out the darkness.
It must be stifling inside that little house. The night is like
steam, and there are no air conditioners in any of her
windows. All evening she has stayed inside, the windows
closed despite the heat. I picture her gleaming with sweat,
suffering through the long hot day and into the night,
desperate to let in fresh air, but afraid of what else she might

let in.
She walks past the window again. Stops. Lingers there,
framed by the rectangle of light. Suddenly the curtains flick
apart, and she reaches through to unlock the latch. She
slides up the window Stands before it, taking in hungry gulps
.
of fresh air. She has finally surrendered to the heat.
There is nothing so exciting to a hunter as the scent of
wounded prey. I can almost smell it wafting out, the scent of
a bloodied beast, of defiled flesh. Just as she breathes in
the night air, so, too, am I breathing in her scent. Her fear.
My heart beats faster. I reach into my bag, to caress the
instruments. Even the steel is warm to my touch.
She closes the window with a bang. A few deep gulps of
fresh air was all she dared allow herself, and now she
retreats to the misery of her stuffy little house.
After a while, I accept disappointment and I walk away,
leaving her to sweat through the night in that oven of a
bedroom.
Tomorrow they say, it will be even hotter.
,

five
T  his unsub is a classic picquerist," said Dr.
Lawrence Zucker. "Someone who uses a knife to achieve
secondary or indirect sexual release. Picquerism is the act of
stabbing or cutting, any repeated penetration of the skin with a
sharp object. The knife is a phallic symbol--a substitution for
the male sexual organ. Instead of performing normal sexual
intercourse, our unsub achieves his release by subjecting his
victim to pain and terror. It's the power that thrills him. Ultimate
power, over life and death."