The Surgeon by Tess Gerritsen

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