The Surgeon (Rizzoli & Isles 1) [Paperback]

Tess Gerritsen left a very successful career as an internist to raise her children and devote more time to writing. The Surgeon, following several books that met with moderate success, is a gruesome and frightening story that should put Gerritsen among the top women thriller writers working today.

A serial killer is on the loose in Boston. The victims are killed in a particularly nasty way: cut with a scalpel on the stomach, the intestines and uterus removed, and then the throat slashed. The killer obviously has medical knowledge and has been dubbed "the Surgeon" by the media. Detective Thomas Moore and his partner Rizzoli of the Boston Homicide Unit have discovered something that makes this case even more chilling. Years ago in Savannah a serial killer murdered in exactly the same way. He was finally stopped by his last victim who shot him as he tried to cut her. That last victim is Dr Catherine Cordell, who now works as a cardiac surgeon at one of Boston's prestigious hospitals. As the murders continue, it becomes obvious that the killer is drawing closer and closer to Dr Cordell, who is becoming so frightened that she is virtually unable to function. But she is the only person who can help the police catch this copycat killer. Or is it a copycat? To complicate matters even further, Detective Moore, often referred to as Saint Thomas as he continues to mourn the loss of his wife, is getting emotionally involved with the doctor.

The suspense in The Surgeon is almost unbearable. The writing is superb and the stunning twists and turns make it almost impossible to put down. --Otto Penzler, Amazon.com --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Grabbed me by the throat and didn't let go until its hair-raising finish. Deep, dark and very disturbing.

'If you've never read Gerritsen, figure in the price of electricity when you buy your first novel by her, cause baby, you are going to be up all night' --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

'... left me breathless' --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

If it's gripping, it's Gerritsen. The terrifying first Jane Rizzoli bestseller.

In Boston, there's a killer on the loose. A killer who targets lone women, who breaks into their apartments and performs terrifying ritualistic acts of torture on them before finishing them off. His surgical skills lead police to suspect he is a physician - a physician who, instead of saving lives, takes them.

But as homicide detective Thomas Moore and his partner Jane Rizzoli begin their investigation, they make a startling discovery. Closely linked to these killings is Catherine Cordell, a beautiful medic with a mysterious past. Two years ago she was subjected to a horrifying rape and attempted murder but she shot her attacker dead. Now she is being targeted by the new killer who seems to know all about her past, her work, and where she lives.

The man she believes she killed seems to be stalking her once again, and this time he knows exactly where to find her...

As good as Patricia Cornwell or your money back... we're so convinced you'll love this that we'll refund you if you don't! See book for details. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

In Boston, there's a killer on the loose...

A killer who targets lone women and performs terrifying ritualistic acts of torture on them before finishing them off. His surgical skills lead police to suspect he is a physician who, instead of saving lives, takes them.

But as homicide detective Thomas Moore and his partner Jane Rizzoli begin their investigation, they make a startling discovery. Closely linked to these killings is Catherine Cordell, a beautiful doctor with a mysterious past. Two years ago she was subjected to a horrifying rape, and shot her attacker dead.

Now, the man she believes she killed seems to be stalking her once again. And this time he knows exactly where to find her...

Bestselling author Tess Gerritsen was a physician and brings to her novels her first-hand knowledge of emergency rooms and autopsy procedures.

The bell strikes; the church shakes.
Vibrations fill the mountain village and spread beyond: out over the hall and on across Murphy’s fields. At some point along the way, the sound loses its clanging and clanking and grows easier on the ear till, farther out, it changes into a pleasing sort of chime – almost musical. It goes out over Patsy Doran’s vegetable plot, down along the valley, across the river and up the other side, past Mrs Rourke’s house and our place; then over to where little Mikey Doyle lives – the house in the fields. And away, till it fades in the evening air over the flat townlands, where the big farmers live and the fat hangs off the cattle in the long grass.
When the bell strikes, few other things around here are more important: it must be obeyed. In school at twelve o’clock, right on the dot before the second gong goes off, the master and our class rise to our feet in the same big wave-burst, everything dropped . . . Clang! I am the bell. Stop what you’re doing right now. I am what matters most; listen to me. Come with me from this place and float with my chimes in the air, over the valley, across the flatlands and away, along to another valley the same as this one.
But, as anyone round here will tell you, the best place to listen to the bell is up the Blackstairs mountain, and the farther up the better, where the sound closes in, not by dribs and drabs on the wind but piercingly, like a baby’s yells in the middle of the night. Come Fraughan Sunday in July, six o’clock in the evening, we all straighten our backs and stand rigid till the ringing dies away. We wrap calico tablecloths, or whatever was quickest to hand at home that morning, round bundles of fraughans, bits of heather and stalks of grass, and plonk the lot into brown baskets. It’s usually a race then, down the sheep paths and round the heather that scratches our bare legs, with our mad-dog shouting to pick up where the ringing left off. Fecking mountain! It would tear the legs of a young fellow without long trousers.
It’s not a bad old mountain all the same. It has a great colour: deep purple, the exact same as the tart Mam makes from the fraughans I bring home – blueberry pie, she says, they call it over in America. The way the mountain range curves up and down, in big rolling sweeps, makes it easy on the eye; not like those great pointed needles you’d find in a magazine, scary-looking things. From up there, on a clear day in September, it’s possible to pick out the Tower of Hook to the far south, the Wicklow Mountains to the north and, eastwards, the coast – only on a very fine day, mind. The flatlands of Carlow, good scallion-eating country, stretch away westward to the marble city of Kilkenny, where the game of hurling is only mighty.
Right under where the gap in the range is biggest and the sweep is at its lowest, my village sits on a shoulder, like a loose slate about to slide down a sloped roof and drop on someone’s head. There’s the hall, where the pictures are shown on Wednesday and Sunday nights. Murphy’s own most of the village: the pub, the shop, three or four houses and the farm beside the church. The church, the tallest building in the place – despite competition from Murphy’s hayshed nearby – sits tucked in against the butt of the hill. A path runs around its three sides, and all the graves are outside of that: a garden-ful of headstones and tombstones. Another path goes from the church door, through the graves, to the street. One long village street. Round the bend, at the far end of the street, is the school, Master Mooney’s territory. And instead of headstones for a garden, it has rows of grass and dandelions shooting up through the concrete, dividing the playground into patches. I could walk that place with my eyes closed, especially those steps leading down to the backyard where the shelter is. Codd’s house beside the school is at a much lower level.
When the bell rings, Murphy’s dog sticks his head in the air and starts to howl. His moaning, like the mountain range, rises and falls with each clang, and ends only when the ringing ends. That fellow is as old as the hills, and nobody round here can recognize what breed he is. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t mangy, or didn’t have a scabby backside with his magairle puffed out. Yet his tail is always in a loop over his back. A pure beggar, he’s forever outside Murphy’s shop, waiting for tidbits from people, and likes to have his food handed to him, mind you: won’t touch any scrap just thrown on the ground. A wooden block, one time, had to be tied from his neck; he’d taken a fit of chasing cars passing on the street. That soon changed his tune, knocking the bad habit out of him. The block was removed though, because it was dinting the doorway every time he went into the pub. When missing from outside the shop, he’s usually in the pub next door: wide eyes staring up into old lads’ faces, looking for porter. All the same, there’s something likeable about the mangy old brute. Maybe it’s because he’s as much part of this place as the schoolyard, the graveyard, the mountains and . . . It’s my place, and I like everything that goes to make it up. Well, almost everything. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.