Maura Isles 05 - Vanish Page 5

  “Oh, jeez. Don’t call me that. It’s so not sexy.”

  “I think it’s very sexy. In fact . . .”

  Laughing, she slapped his hand. “Go. Get yourself some lunch. And bring me back a hamburger and fries.”

  “Against doctor’s orders. No food.”

  “She doesn’t have to know about it.”

  “Jane.”

  “Okay, okay. Go home and get my hospital bag.”

  He saluted her. “At your command. This is exactly why I took the month off.”

  “And can you try my parents again? They’re still not answering the phone. Oh, and bring my laptop.”

  He sighed and shook his head.

  “What?” she said.

  “You’re about to have a baby, and you want me to bring your laptop?”

  “I’ve got so much paperwork I need to clean up.”

  “You’re hopeless, Jane.”

  She blew him a kiss. “You knew that when you married me.”

  “You know,” said Jane, looking at the wheelchair, “I could just walk to Diagnostic Imaging, if you’ll only tell me where it is.”

  The volunteer shook her head and locked the brakes on the chair. “Hospital rules, ma’am, no exceptions. Patients have to be transported in a wheelchair. We don’t want you to slip and fall or something, do we?”

  Jane looked at the wheelchair, then at the silver-haired volunteer who was going to be pushing it. Poor old lady, Jane thought, I should be the one pushing her. Reluctantly she climbed out of bed and settled into the chair as the volunteer transferred the IV bottle. This morning, Jane was wrestling with Billy Wayne Rollo; now she was getting carted around like the queen of Sheba. How embarrassing. As she was rolled down the hall, she could hear the woman wheezing, could smell the old-shoe odor of cigarettes on the woman’s breath. What if her escort collapsed? What if she needed CPR? Then am I allowed to get up, or is that against the rules, too? She hunched deeper into the wheelchair, avoiding the gazes of everyone they passed in the hallway. Don’t look at me, she thought. I feel guilty enough making poor old granny work so hard.

  The volunteer backed Jane’s wheelchair into the elevator, and parked her next to another patient. He was a gray-haired man, muttering to himself. Jane noticed the Posey restraint strapping the man’s torso into the chair, and she thought: Jeez, they’re really serious about these wheelchair rules. If you try to get out, they tie you down.

  The old man glared at her. “What the hell’re you looking at, lady?”

  “Nothing,” said Jane.

  “Then stop looking.”

  “Okay.”

  The black orderly standing behind the old man gave a chuckle. “Mr. Bodine talks like that to everyone, ma’am. Don’t let him bother you.”

  Jane shrugged. “I get a lot more abuse at work.” Oh, and did I mention that bullets are involved? She stared straight ahead, watching the floor numbers change, carefully avoiding any eye contact with Mr. Bodine.

  “Too many people in this world don’t keep to their own damn business,” the old man said. “Just a bunch of busybodies. Won’t stop staring.”

  “Now Mr. Bodine,” the orderly said, “no one’s staring at you.”

  “She was.”

  No wonder they tied you up, you old coot, thought Jane.

  The elevator opened on the ground floor, and the volunteer wheeled out Jane. As they rolled down the hall toward Diagnostic Imaging, she could feel the gazes of passersby. Able-bodied people walking on their own two feet, eyeing the big-bellied invalid with her little plastic hospital bracelet. She wondered: Is this what it’s like for everyone who’s confined to a wheelchair? Always the object of sympathetic glances?

  Behind her, she heard a familiar cranky voice demand: “What the hell you looking at, mister?”

  Oh please, she thought. Don’t let Mr. Bodine be headed to Diagnostic Imaging, too. But she could hear him grumbling behind her as they rolled down the hall and around the corner, into the reception area.

  The volunteer parked Jane in the waiting room and left her there, sitting next to the old man. Don’t look at him, she thought. Don’t even glance in his direction.

  “What, you too stuck up to talk to me?” he said.

  Pretend he’s not there.

  “Huh. So now you’re pretending I’m not even here.”

  She looked up, relieved, as a door opened and a woman technician in a blue scrub suit came into the waiting room. “Jane Rizzoli?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Dr. Tam will be down here in a few minutes. I’ll bring you back to the room now.”

  “What about me?” the old man whined.

  “We’re not quite ready for you, Mr. Bodine,” the woman said, as she swiveled Jane’s wheelchair through the doorway. “You just be patient.”

  “But I gotta piss, goddammit.”

  “Yes, I know, I know.”

  “You don’t know nothing.”

  “Know enough not to waste my breath,” the woman muttered as she pushed Jane’s chair down the hallway.

  “I’m gonna wet your carpet!” he yelled.

  “One of your favorite patients?” Jane asked.

  “Oh, yeah.” The technician sighed. “He’s everyone’s favorite.”

  “You think he really has to pee?”

  “All the time. Got a prostate as big as my fist, and won’t let the surgeons touch it.”

  The woman wheeled Jane into a procedure room and locked the wheelchair in place. “Let me help you onto the table.”

  “I can manage.”

  “Honey, with a belly that big, you could use a hand up.” The woman grasped Jane’s arm and pulled her out of the chair. She stood by as Jane climbed the footstool and settled onto the table. “Now, you just relax here, okay?” she said, rehanging Jane’s IV bottle. “When Dr. Tam comes down, we’ll get started on your sonogram.” The woman walked out, leaving Jane alone in the room. There was nothing to look at but imaging equipment. No windows, no posters on the walls, no magazines. Not even a boring issue of Golf Digest.

  Jane settled back on the table and stared at the bare ceiling. Placing her hands on her bulging abdomen, she waited for the familiar jab of a tiny foot or elbow, but she felt nothing. Come on, baby, she thought. Talk to me. Tell me you’re going to be okay.

  Cold air wafted from the AC vent, and she shivered in the flimsy gown. She glanced at her watch and found herself gazing, instead, at the plastic band around her wrist. Patient’s name: Rizzoli, Jane. Well, this patient is not particularly patient, she thought. Let’s get on with it, people!

  The skin on her abdomen suddenly prickled, and she felt her womb tighten. The muscles gently squeezed, held for a moment, then eased off. At last, a contraction.

  She looked at the time. 11:50 A.M.

  SIX

  By noon, the temperature had soared into the nineties, baking sidewalks into griddles, and a sulfurous summer haze hung over the city. Outside the medical examiner’s building, no reporters still lingered in the parking lot; Maura was able to cross Albany Street unaccosted and walk into the medical center. She shared an elevator with half a dozen freshly minted interns, now on their first month’s rotation, and she remembered the lesson she’d learned in medical school: Don’t get sick in July. They’re all so young, she thought, looking at smooth faces, at hair not yet streaked with gray. She seemed to be noticing that more often these days, about cops, about doctors. How young they all looked. And what do these interns see when they look at me? she wondered. Just a woman pushing middle age, wearing no uniform, no name tag with MD on my lapel. Perhaps they assumed she was a patient’s relative, scarcely worth more than a glance. Once, she’d been like these interns, young and cocky in her white coat. Before she’d learned the lessons of defeat.

  The elevator opened and she followed the interns into the medical unit. They breezed right past the nurses’ station, untouchable in their white coats. It was Maura, in her civilian clothes, whom the ward clerk immediatel
y stopped with a frown, a brisk question: “Excuse me, are you looking for someone?”

  “I’m here to visit a patient,” said Maura. “She was admitted last night, through the ER. I understand she was transferred out of ICU this morning.”

  “The patient’s name?”

  Maura hesitated. “I believe she’s still registered as Jane Doe. Dr. Cutler told me she’s in room four-thirty-one.”

  The ward clerk’s gaze narrowed. “I’m sorry. We’ve had calls from reporters all day. We can’t answer any more questions about that patient.”

  “I’m not a reporter. I’m Dr. Isles, from the medical examiner’s office. I told Dr. Cutler I’d be coming by to check on the patient.”

  “May I see some identification?”

  Maura dug into her purse and placed her ID on the countertop. This is what I get for showing up without my lab coat, she thought. She could see the interns cruising down the hall, unimpeded, like a flock of strutting white geese.

  “You could call Dr. Cutler,” Maura suggested. “He knows who I am.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s okay,” said the ward clerk, handing back the ID. “There’s been so much fuss over this patient, they had to send over a security guard.” As Maura headed up the hall, the clerk called out: “He’ll probably want to see your ID as well!”

  Prepared to endure another round of questions, she kept her ID in hand as she walked to room 431, but she found no guard standing outside the closed door. Just as she was about to knock, she heard a thud inside the room, and the clang of falling metal.

  At once, she pushed into the room and found a confusing tableau. A doctor stood at the bedside, reaching up toward the IV bottle. Opposite him, a security guard was leaning over the patient, trying to restrain her wrists. A bedside stand had just toppled, and the floor was slick with spilled water.

  “Do you need help?” called Maura.

  The doctor glanced over his shoulder at her, and she caught a glimpse of blue eyes, blond hair cut short as a brush. “No, we’re fine. We’ve got her,” he said.

  “Let me tie that restraint,” she offered, and moved to the guard’s side of the bed. Just as she reached for the loose wrist strap, she saw the woman’s hand snap free. Heard the guard give a grunt of alarm.

  The explosion made Maura flinch. Warmth splashed her face, and the guard suddenly staggered sideways, against her. She stumbled under his weight, landing on her back beneath him. Cold water soaked into her blouse from the wet floor, and from above seeped the liquid heat of blood. She tried to shove aside the body now weighing down on her, but he was heavy, so heavy he was crushing the breath from her lungs.

  His body began to shake, seized by agonal twitches. Fresh heat splashed her face, her mouth, and she gagged at the taste. I’m drowning in it. With a cry, she pushed against him, and the body, slippery with blood, slid off her.

  She scrambled to her feet, and focused on the woman, who was now free of all her restraints. Only then did she see what the woman was gripping in both hands.

  A gun. She has the guard’s gun.

  The doctor had vanished. Maura was alone with Jane Doe, and as they stared at each other, every detail of the woman’s face stood out with terrible clarity. The tangled black hair, the wild-eyed gaze. The inexorable tightening of the tendons in her arm as she slowly squeezed the grip.

  Dear god, she’s going to pull the trigger.

  “Please,” whispered Maura. “I only want to help you.”

  The sound of running footsteps made the woman’s attention jerk sideways. The door flew open and a nurse stared, openmouthed, at the carnage in the room.

  Suddenly Jane Doe sprang out of the bed. It happened so fast that Maura had no time to react. She snapped rigid as the woman grabbed her arm, as the gun barrel bit into her neck. Heart slamming against her ribs, Maura let herself be shoved to the door, cold steel pressed against her flesh. The nurse backed away, too terrified to say a word. Maura was forced out of the room, into the hallway. Where was security? Was anyone calling for help? They kept moving, toward the nurses’ station, the woman’s sweating body pressed close, her panicked breaths roaring in Maura’s ear.

  “Watch out! Get out of the way, she’s got a gun!” Maura heard, and she glimpsed the group of interns she’d seen only moments earlier. Not so cocky now in their white coats, they were backing off, wide-eyed. So many witnesses; so many useless people.

  Someone help me, goddammit!

  Jane Doe and her hostage now moved into full view of the nurses’ station, and the stunned women behind the counter watched their progress, silent as a group of wax figurines. The phone rang, unanswered.

  The elevator was straight ahead.

  The woman punched the down button. The door slid open, and the woman gave Maura a shove into the elevator, stepped in behind her, and pressed ONE.

  Four floors. Will I still be alive when that door opens again?

  The woman backed away to the opposite wall. Maura stared back, unflinching. Force her to see who I am. Make her look me in the eye when she pulls the trigger. The elevator was chilly, and Jane Doe was naked under the flimsy hospital gown, but sweat glistened on her face, and her hands trembled around the grip.

  “Why are you doing this?” Maura asked. “I never hurt you! Last night, I tried to help you. I’m the one who saved you.”

  The woman said nothing. Uttered not a word, not a sound. All Maura heard was her breaths, harsh and rapid with fear.

  The elevator bell rang, and the woman’s gaze shot to the door. Frantically Maura tried to remember the layout of the hospital lobby. She recalled an information kiosk near the front door, staffed by a silver-haired volunteer. A gift shop. A bank of telephones.

  The door opened. The woman grabbed Maura’s arm and shoved her out of the elevator first. Once again, the gun was at Maura’s jugular. Her throat was dry as ash as she emerged into the lobby. She glanced left, then right, but saw no people, no witnesses. Then she spotted the lone security guard, cowering behind the information kiosk. One look at his white hair, and Maura’s heart sank. This was no rescuer; he was just a scared old guy in a uniform. A guy who was just as likely to shoot the hostage.

  Outside, a siren howled, like an approaching banshee.

  Maura’s head was snapped back as the woman grabbed her hair, yanking her so close she could feel hot breath against the back of her neck, could smell the woman’s sharp scent of fear. They moved toward the lobby exit, and Maura caught a panicked glimpse of the elderly guard, quaking behind the desk. Saw silver balloons bobbing in the gift shop window, and a telephone receiver, dangling by its cord. Then she was forced out the door, straight into the heat of afternoon.

  A Boston PD cruiser screeched to a stop at the curb, and two cops scrambled out, weapons drawn. They froze, their gazes on Maura, who now stood blocking their line of fire.

  Another siren screamed closer.

  The woman’s breaths were now desperate gasps as she confronted her rapidly narrowing options. No way forward; she yanked Maura backward, dragging her once again into the building, retreating into the lobby.

  “Please,” Maura whispered as she was tugged toward the hallway. “There’s no way out! Just put it down. Put the gun down, and we’ll meet them together, okay? We’ll walk over to them, and they won’t hurt you . . .”

  She saw the two cops edge forward step by step, matching their quarry’s pace the whole way. Maura still blocked their line of fire, and they could do nothing but watch, helpless, as the woman retreated up the hall pulling her hostage with her. Maura heard a gasp, and out of the corner of her eye, she spotted shocked bystanders frozen in place.

  “Back away, people!” one of the cops yelled. “Everyone get out of the way!”

  This is where it ends, thought Maura. I’m cornered with a madwoman who can’t be talked into surrender. She could hear the woman’s breathing accelerating to frantic whimpers, could feel the fear running through the woman’s arm, like a current through high-voltage wi
res. She felt herself being dragged inexorably toward a bloody conclusion, and she could almost see it through the eyes of the cops who were now inching forward. The blast of the woman’s gun, the gore exploding from the hostage’s head. The inevitable hail of bullets that would finally end it. Until then, the police were stalemated. And Jane Doe, trapped in the jaws of panic, was just as helpless and unable to change the course of events.

  I’m the only one who can change things. Now is the time to do it.

  Maura took a breath, released it. As the air whooshed from her lungs she let her muscles go slack. Her legs collapsed, and she sagged to the floor.

  The woman gave a grunt of surprise, struggling to support Maura. But a limp body is heavy, and already her hostage was sliding to the ground, her human shield collapsing. Suddenly Maura was free, rolling sideways. She wrapped her arms around her head and curled into a ball, waiting for the blast of gunfire. But all she heard was running footsteps and shouts.

  “Shit. I can’t get a clean shot!”

  “Everyone, move the fuck out of the way!”

  A hand grabbed her, shook her. “Lady? Are you okay? Are you okay?”

  Trembling, she finally looked up into the face of the cop. She heard radios crackle, and sirens keened like women grieving the dead.

  “Come on, you need to move away.” The cop grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. She was shaking so violently she could barely stand, so he slung his arm around her waist and guided her toward the exit. “All of you!” he yelled at the bystanders. “Get out of the building now.”

  Maura glanced back. Jane Doe was nowhere to be seen.

  “Can you walk?” the cop asked.

  Unable to say a word, she merely nodded.

  “Then go! We need everyone to evacuate. You don’t want to be in here.”

  Not when it’s about to get bloody.

  She took a few steps forward. Glanced back one last time, and saw that the cop was already moving down the hallway. A sign pointed to the wing where Jane Doe was about to make her last stand.

  Diagnostic Imaging.