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 thinned to wisps, and the afternoon has grown close and warm. The road is little more than two dirt ruts, and a few tall weeds poke up, their fragile seed heads undisturbed by the recent passage of any car. I hear cawing, and look up to see that the three crows have followed me, and are waiting for the show.
Everyone likes to watch.
A thin curl of dust rises beyond the trees. A car is coming. I wait, my heart beating faster, my hands sweating with anticipation. At last it swings into view, a gleaming black behemoth moving slowly up the dirt road, taking its dignified time. Bringing my friend to see me.
It will be a long visit, I think. Glancing up, I see that the sun is still high, leaving us hours of daylight. Hours of summer fun.
I move to the center of the road and the limousine rolls to a stop in front of me. The driver steps out. We don’t need to exchange a word; we merely look at each other and smile. The smile of two brothers, united not by family bonds, but by shared desires, shared cravings. Words on a page brought us together. In long letters did we spin our fantasies and forge our alliance, the words flowing from our pens like the silky strands of a spider-web binding us together. Bringing us to these woods where crows watch with eager eyes.
Together we walk to the rear of the car. He is excited about fucking her. I can see the bulge in his pants, and I hear the sharp rattle of the car keys in his hands. His pupils are dilated, and his upper lip gleams with sweat. We stand beside the trunk, both of us hungry for the first look at our guest. For the first delicious whiff of her terror.
He thrusts the key in the lock and turns it. The trunk hood rises.
She lies curled on her side, blinking up at us, her eyes dazed by the sudden light. I am so focused on her, I do not immediately register the significance of the white bra, trailing from one corner of the small suitcase. Only as my partner leans forward to haul her from the trunk do I understand what it means. I shout, “No!”
But already she has brought both her hands forward. Already she is pulling the trigger.
His head explodes in a mist of blood. It is a strangely graceful ballet, the way his body arches as it falls backward. The way her arms swing toward me with unerring precision. I have time only to twist sideways, and then the second bullet bursts from her gun.
I do not feel it pierce the back of my neck. The strange ballet continues, only now it is my own body that performs the dance, arms flinging a circle as I hurtle through the air in a swan’s dive. I land on my side, but there is no pain on impact, only the sound of my torso slamming against dirt. I lie waiting for the ache, the throb, but there is nothing. Only a sense of surprise.
I hear her struggle out of the car. She has been lying cramped in there for over an hour, and it takes her several minutes to make her legs obey.
She approaches me. Shoves her foot against my shoulder, rolling me onto my back. I am fully conscious, and I look up at her with full comprehension of what is about to happen. She points the weapon at my face, her hands shaking, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Smeared blood has dried on her left cheek like war paint. Every muscle in her body is primed to kill. Every instinct screams at her to squeeze the trigger. I stare back, unafraid, watching the battle play out in her eyes. Wondering which form of defeat she will choose. In her hands she holds the weapon of her own destruction; I am merely the catalyst.
Kill me, and the consequences will destroy you.
Let me live, and I will forever inhabit your nightmares.
She releases a soft sob. Slowly she lowers the weapon. “No,” she whispers. And again, louder. Defiantly: “No.” Then she straightens, takes a deep breath.
And walks back to the car.
TWENTY-FIVE
Rizzoli stood in the clearing, looking down at the four iron stakes that had been pounded into the earth. Two for the arms, two for the legs. Knotted cord, already looped and waiting to be tightened around wrists and ankles, had been found nearby. She avoided lingering over the obvious purpose of those stakes. Instead she moved around the site with the businesslike demeanor of any cop looking over a crime scene. That it would have been her limbs restrained to the stakes, her flesh rent by the instruments contained in Hoyt’s knapsack, was a detail she kept at a distance. She could feel her colleagues watching her, could hear the way their voices grew hushed when she came near. The bandage over her sutured scalp conspicuously labeled her as the walking wounded, and they were all dealing with her as though she were glass, easily shattered. She could not abide that, not now, when she needed, more than ever, to believe she was not a victim. That she was in full control of her emotions.
And so she walked the site, as she would have any other crime scene. The site had already been photographed and picked over by the State Police the evening before and the scene was officially released, but this morning Rizzoli and her team felt compelled to examine it as well. She tramped with Frost into the woods, tape measure whicking in and out of the canister as they measured the distance from the road to the small clearing where the State Police had discovered Warren Hoyt’s knapsack. Despite the personal significance of this circle of trees, she viewed the clearing with detachment. Recorded in her notebook was a catalog of what had been found inside the knapsack: scalpels and clamps, retractor and gloves. She’d studied the photos of Hoyt’s footwear impressions, now cast in plaster, and had stared at evidence bags holding knotted cords, without stopping to think about whose wrists those cords were intended for. She glanced up to check the changing weather, without acknowledging to herself that this same view of treetops and sky would have been her last. Jane Rizzoli the victim was not here today. Although her colleagues might watch her, waiting for a glimpse, they would not see her. No one would.