Rizzoli 02 - The Apprentice by Tess Gerritsen

Author:Tess Gerritsen
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 0345459482
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 2002-08-08T22:00:00+00:00

Beloved husband and father

Anthony Rizzoli

1901–1962

“It’s a taunt,” said Dean. “And it’s aimed straight at you.”

thirteen

The woman sitting at Korsak’s bedside had lank brown hair that looked as if it had been neither washed nor combed in days. She did not touch him but simply gazed at the bed with vacant eyes, her hands resting in her lap, lifeless as a mannequin’s. Rizzoli stood outside the ICU cubicle, debating whether to intrude. Finally the woman looked up and met her gaze through the window, and Rizzoli could not simply walk away.

She stepped into the cubicle. “Mrs. Korsak?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Rizzoli. Jane. Please call me Jane.”

The woman’s expression remained blank; clearly she did not recognize the name.

“I’m afraid I don’t know your first name,” said Rizzoli.

“Diane.” The woman was silent for a moment; then she frowned. “I’m sorry. Who are you again?”

“Jane Rizzoli. I’m with Boston P.D. I’ve been working with your husband on a case. He may have mentioned it.”

Diane gave a vague shrug and looked back at her husband. Her face revealed neither grief nor fear. Only the numb passivity of exhaustion.

For a moment Rizzoli simply stood in silent vigil over the bed. So many tubes, she thought. So many machines. And at their center was Korsak, reduced to senseless flesh. The doctors had confirmed a heart attack, and although his cardiac rhythm was now stable, he remained stuporous. His mouth hung agape, an endotracheal tube protruding like a plastic snake. A reservoir hanging at the side of the bed collected a slow trickle of urine. Though the bedsheet concealed his genitals, his chest and abdomen were bare, and one hairy leg protruded from beneath the sheet, revealing a foot with yellow unclipped toenails. Even as she took in these details, she felt ashamed of invading his privacy, of seeing him at his most vulnerable. Yet she could not look away. She felt compelled to stare, eyes drawn to all the intimate details, the very things that, were he awake, he would not want her to see.

“He needs a shave,” said Diane.

Such a trivial concern, yet it was the one spontaneous remark Diane had made. She had not moved a muscle but sat perfectly motionless, hands still limp, her placid expression carved in stone.

Rizzoli searched for something to say, something she thought she should say to comfort her, and settled on a cliché. “He’s a fighter. He won’t give up easily.”

Her words dropped like stones into a bottomless pond. No ripples, no effect. A long silence passed before Diane’s flat blue eyes at last focused on her.

“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name again.”

“Jane Rizzoli. Your husband and I were working a stakeout together.”

“Oh. You’re the one.”

Rizzoli paused, suddenly stricken by guilt. Yes, I’m the one. The one who abandoned him. Who left him lying alone in the darkness because I was so frantic to salvage my fucked-up night.

“Thank you,” said Diane.

Rizzoli frowned. “For what?”

“For whatever you did. To help him.”

Rizzoli looked into the woman’s vague blue eyes, and for the first time she noticed the tightly constricted pupils.

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