Med-Q teams rushed forward, pushing through the police tape like sprinters crossing the finish line. The breaking of that yellow tape touched off chaos. Suddenly reporters and cameras surged toward the building as well, as Boston PD struggled to hold them back. A helicopter hovered overhead, blades thumping.
Through the cacophony, Maura heard Korsak shout: “I’m a cop, goddammit! My friend’s in there! Let me through!” Korsak glanced her way and called out: “Doc, you gotta find out if she’s okay!”
Maura pushed ahead, to the police line. The cop gave her ID a harried glance, and shook his head.
“They need to take care of the living first, Dr. Isles.”
“I’m a physician. I can help.”
Her voice was almost drowned out by the chopper, which had just landed in the parking lot across the street. Distracted, the cop turned to yell at a reporter: “Hey, you! Get back now.”
Maura slipped past him and ran into the building, dreading what she would find inside. Just as she turned into the hallway leading to Diagnostic Imaging, a stretcher came barreling toward her, wheeled by two EMTs, and her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. She saw the pregnant belly, the dark hair, and thought: No. Oh god, no.
Jane Rizzoli was covered in blood.
At that instant, all of Maura’s medical training seemed to abandon her. Panic made her focus on the blood, and only the blood. So much of it. Then, as the stretcher rolled past her, she saw the chest rise and fall. Saw the hand moving.
“Jane?” called out Maura.
The EMTs were already hurrying the stretcher through the lobby. Maura had to run to catch up.
“Wait! What’s her condition?”
One of the men glanced back over his shoulder. “This one’s in labor. We’re moving her to Brigham.”
“But all the blood—”
“It’s not hers.”
“Then whose?”
“The gal back there.” He cocked a thumb down the hallway. “She’s not going anywhere.”
She stared after the stretcher as it rattled out the door. Then she turned and ran up the hallway, moving past EMTs and Boston PD officers, toward the heart of the crisis.
“Maura?” a voice called, oddly distant and muffled.
She spotted Gabriel struggling to sit up on a stretcher. An oxygen mask was strapped to his face, and an IV line tethered his arm to a bag of saline.
“Are you all right?”
Groaning, he lowered his head. “Just . . . dizzy.”
The EMT said: “It’s the aftereffects of the gas. I just gave him some IV Narcan. He needs to take it easy for a while. It’s like coming out of anesthesia.”
Gabriel lifted the mask. “Jane—”
“I just saw her,” said Maura. “She’s fine. They’re moving her to Brigham Hospital.”
“I can’t sit here any longer.”
“What happened in there? We heard gunshots.”
Gabriel shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
“Your mask,” said the EMT. “You need that oxygen right now.”
“They didn’t have to do it this way,” said Gabriel. “I could have talked them out of there. I could have convinced them to surrender.”
“Sir, you need to put your mask back on.”
“No,” snapped Gabriel. “I need to be with my wife. That’s what I need to do.”
“You’re not ready to go.”
“Gabriel, he’s right,” said Maura. “Look at you, you can barely sit up. Lie down for a while longer. I’ll drive you to Brigham Hospital myself, but not until you’ve had a chance to recover.”
“Just a little while,” said Gabriel, weakly settling back onto the stretcher. “I’ll be better in a while . . .”
“I’ll be right back.”
She spotted the doorway to Diagnostic Imaging. As she stepped through, the first thing her eyes fixed on was the blood. It was always the blood that demanded your attention, those shocking splashes of red that shout out: Something terrible, truly terrible, has happened here. Though half a dozen men were standing around the room, and debris from the ambulance crews still lay scattered across the floor, she remained fixated on the bright evidence of death that was spattered across the walls. Then her gaze swung to the woman’s body, slumped against the couch, black hair wicking blood onto the floor. Never before had she felt faint at the sight of gore, but she suddenly found herself swaying sideways, and had to catch herself on the door frame. It’s the remnants of whatever gas they used in this room, she thought. It has not yet been fully ventilated.
She heard the whish of plastic, and through a fog of lightheadedness, she saw a white sheet being laid out on the floor. Saw Agent Barsanti and Captain Hayder standing by as two men wearing latex gloves rolled the bloodied corpse of Joseph Roke onto the plastic.
“What are you doing?” she said.
No one acknowledged her presence.
“Why are you moving the bodies?”
The two men who were now squatting over the corpse paused, and glanced up in Barsanti’s direction.
“They’re being flown to Washington,” said Barsanti.
“You don’t move a thing until someone from our office examines the scene.” She looked at the two men, poised to zip up the body bag. “Who are you? You don’t work for us.”
“They’re FBI,” said Barsanti.
Her head was now perfectly clear, all dizziness swept away by anger. “Why are you taking them?”
“Our pathologists will do the autopsy.”
“I haven’t released these bodies.”
“It’s only a matter of paperwork, Dr. Isles.”
“Which I’m not about to sign.”
The others in the room were all watching them now. Most of the men standing around were, like Hayder, Boston PD officers.
“Dr. Isles,” said Barsanti, sighing, “why fight this turf battle?”
She looked at Hayder. “This death occurred in our jurisdiction. You know we have custody of these remains.”
“You sound as if you don’t trust the FBI,” said Barsanti.
It’s you I don’t trust.
She stepped toward him. “I never did hear a good explanation for why you’re here, Agent Barsanti. What’s your involvement in this?”
“These two people are suspects in a New Haven shooting. I believe you already know that. They crossed state lines.”
“It doesn’t explain why you want the bodies.”
“You’ll get the final autopsy reports.”
“What are you afraid I’ll find?”
“You know, Dr. Isles, you’re starting to sound as paranoid as these two people.” He turned to the two men standing over Roke’s corpse. “Let’s pack them up.”
“You’re not going to touch them,” Maura said. She pulled out her cell phone and called Abe Bristol. “We have a death scene here, Abe.”
“Yeah, I’ve been watching TV. How many?”
“Two. Both of the hostage takers were killed in the takedown. The FBI’s about to fly the bodies to Washington.”
“Wait a minute. First the feds shoot them, and now they want to do the autopsy? What the hell?”
“I thought you’d say that. Thanks for backing me up.” She disconnected and looked at Barsanti. “The medical examiner’s office refuses to release these two bodies. Please leave the room. After CSU finishes up here, our staff will move the remains to the morgue.”
Barsanti seemed about to argue, but she merely gave him a cold stare that told him this was not a battle she would cede.
“Captain Hayder,” she said. “Do I need to call the governor’s office on this?”
Hayder sighed. “No, it’s your jurisdiction.” He looked at Barsanti. “It looks like the medical examiner is assuming control.”
Without another word, Barsanti and his men walked out of the room.
She followed them and stood watching as they retreated down the hallway. This death scene, she thought, will be dealt with like any
other. Not by the FBI, but by Boston PD’s homicide unit. She was about to make her next call, this one to Detective Moore, when she suddenly noticed the empty stretcher in the hallway. The EMT was just packing up his kit.
“Where is Agent Dean?” Maura asked. “The man who was lying there?”
“Refused to stay. Got up and walked out.”
“You couldn’t stop him from leaving?”
“Ma’am, nothing could stop that guy. He said he had to be with his wife.”
“How’s he getting there?”
“Some bald guy’s giving him a ride. A cop, I think.”
Vince Korsak, she thought.
“They’re headed over to Brigham now.”
Jane could not remember how she’d arrived at this place with its bright lights and shiny surfaces and masked faces. She recalled only a fragment of a memory here and there. Men’s shouts, the squeaking of gurney wheels. The flash of blue cruiser lights. And then a white ceiling scrolling above her as she was moved down a corridor into this room. Again and again she had asked about Gabriel, but no one could tell her where he was.
Or they were afraid to tell her.
“Mom, you’re doing just fine,” the doctor said.
Jane blinked at the pair of blue eyes smiling down at her over a surgical mask. Everything is not fine, she thought. My husband should be here. I need him.
And stop calling me Mom.
“When you feel the next contraction,” the doctor said, “I want you to push, okay? And keep pushing.”
“Someone has to call,” said Jane. “I need to know about Gabriel.”
“We have to get your baby born first.”
“No, you need to do what I want, first! You need to—you need to—” She sucked in a breath as a fresh contraction came on. As her pain built to a peak, so did her rage. Why weren’t these people listening to her?
“Push, Mom! You’re almost there!”
“God—damn it—”
“Come on. Push.”
She gave a gasp as pain brutally clamped its jaws. But it was fury that made her bear down, that kept her pushing with such fierce determination that her vision began to darken. She did not hear the door whoosh open, nor did she see the man dressed in blue scrubs slip into the room. With a cry, she collapsed back against the table and lay gulping in deep breaths. Only then did she see him looking down at her, his head silhouetted against the bright lights.
“Gabriel,” she whispered.
He took her hand and stroked back her hair. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
“I don’t remember. I don’t remember what happened—”
“It’s not important now.”
“Yes, it is. I need to know.”
Another contraction began to build. She took a breath and gripped his hand. Clung on to it like a woman dangling over an abyss.
“Push,” the doctor said.
She curled forward, grunting, every muscle straining as sweat slid into her eyes.
“That’s it,” the doctor said. “Almost there . . .”
Come on, baby. Stop being so goddamn stubborn. Help your mama out!
She was on the edge of a scream now, her throat about to burst. Then, suddenly, she felt blood rush out between her legs. Heard angry cries, like the howling of a cat.
“We’ve got her!” the doctor said.
Her?
Gabriel was laughing, his voice hoarse with tears. He pressed his lips to Jane’s hair. “A girl. We’ve got a little girl.”
“She’s a feisty one,” the doctor said. “Look at this.”
Jane turned her head to see tiny fists waving, a face pink with anger. And dark hair—lots of dark hair, plastered in wet curls to the scalp. She watched, awestruck, as the nurse dried off the infant and wrapped it in a blanket.
“Would you like to hold her, Mom?”
Jane could not say a word; her throat had closed down. She could only stare in wonder as the bundle was placed in her arms. She looked down at a face that was swollen from crying. The baby squirmed, as though impatient to be free of its blanket. Of its mother’s arms.
Are you really mine? She had imagined this would be a moment of instant familiarity, when she would stare into her newborn’s eyes and recognize the soul there. But there was no sense of familiarity here, only clumsiness, as she tried to soothe the struggling bundle. All she saw, looking at her daughter, was an angry creature with puffy eyes and clenched fists. A creature who suddenly gave a scream of protest.
“You have a beautiful baby,” the nurse said. “She looks just like you.”
TWENTY-TWO
Jane awakened to sunlight streaming through her hospital window. She looked at Gabriel, who slept on the cot next to her bed. In his hair she saw flecks of gray that she’d never noticed before. He wore the same wrinkled shirt from last night, the sleeve flecked with bloodstains.
Whose blood?
As though he’d sensed her watching him, he opened his eyes and squinted at her against the sunlight.
“Good morning, Daddy,” she said.
He gave her a weary smile. “I think Mommy needs to go back to sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“This may be our last chance to sleep in for a while. Once the baby’s home we’re not going to be getting much rest.”
“I need to know, Gabriel. You haven’t told me what happened.”
His smile faded. He sat up and rubbed his face, suddenly looking older, and infinitely tired. “They’re dead.”
“Both of them?”
“They were shot to death during the takedown. That’s what Captain Hayder told me.”
“When did you talk to him?”
“He came by last night. You were already asleep, and I didn’t want to wake you.”
She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. “I’m trying to remember. God, why can’t I remember anything?”
“I can’t either, Jane. They used fentanyl gas on us. That’s what Maura was told.”
She looked at him. “So you didn’t see it happen? You don’t know if Hayder told you the truth?”
“I know that Joe and Olena are dead. The ME’s office has custody of their bodies.”
Jane fell silent for a moment, trying to recall her last moments in that room. She remembered Gabriel and Joe, facing each other, talking. Joe wanted to tell us something, she thought. And he never got the chance to finish . . .
“Did it have to end that way?” she asked. “Did they both have to be killed?”
He rose to his feet and crossed to the window. Looking out, he said: “It was the one sure way to finish it.”
“We were all unconscious. Killing them wasn’t necessary.”
“Clearly the takedown team thought it was.”
She stared at her husband’s back. “All those crazy things that Joe said. None of it was true, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“A microchip in Olena’s arm? The FBI chasing them? Those are classic paranoid delusions.”
He didn’t answer.
“Okay,” she said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
He turned to look at her. “Why was John Barsanti here? I never got a good answer to that question.”
“Did you check with the Bureau?”
“All I could get out of the deputy director’s office is that Barsanti is on special assignment with the Justice Department. No one would tell me anything else. And last night, when I spoke to David Silver at Senator Conway’s house, he wasn’t aware of any FBI involvement.”
“Well, Joe certainly didn’t trust the FBI.”
“And now Joe’s dead.”
She stared at him. “You’re starting to scare me. You’re making me wonder . . .”
A sudden knock on the door made her jump. Heart pounding, she turned to see Angela Rizzoli poke her head into the room.
“Janie, you’re up? Can we come in and visit?”
“Oh.” Jane gave a startled laugh. “Hi, Mom.”
“She’s beautiful, just beautiful! We saw her through the window.” Angela bustled into the room, carrying her old Revere Ware stockpot, and in wafted what Jane would always consider the world’s best perfume: the aroma of her mother’s kitchen. Trailing behind his wife, Frank Rizzoli came in holding a bouquet so huge that he looked like an explorer peering through dense jungle.
“So how’s my girl?” said Frank.
“I’m feeling great, Dad.”
“The kid’s bawling up a storm in the nursery. Got a set of lungs on her.”
“Mikey’s coming by to see you after work,” said Angela. “Look, I brought lamb spaghetti. You don’t have to tell me what hospital food’s like. What’d they bring you for breakfast, anyway?” She went to the tray and lifted the cover. “My god, look at these eggs, Frank! Like rubber! Do they try to make the food this bad?”
“Nothing wrong with a baby girl, no sir,” Frank said. “Daughters are great, hey Gabe? You gotta watch ’em, though. When she turns sixteen, you be sure to keep those boys away.”
“Sixteen?” Jane snorted. “Dad, by then the horse has left the barn.”
“What’re you saying? Don’t tell me that when you were sixteen—”
“—so what’re you going to call her, hon? I can’t believe you haven’t chosen a name yet.”
“We’re still thinking about it.”
“What’s to think about? Name her after your grandma Regina.”
“She’s got another grandma, you know,” said Frank.
“Who’d call a girl Ignatia?”
“It was good enough for my mom.”
Jane looked across the room at Gabriel, and saw that his gaze had strayed back to the window. He’s still thinking about Joseph Roke. Still wondering about his death.
There was a knock on the door, and yet another familiar head popped into the room. “Hey, Rizzoli!” said Vince Korsak. “You skinny again?” He stepped in, clutching the ribbons of three Mylar balloons bobbing overhead. “How’re you doing, Mrs. Rizzoli, Mr. Rizzoli? Congrats on being new grandparents!”
“Detective Korsak,” said Angela. “Are you hungry? I brought Jane’s favorite spaghetti. And we have paper plates here.”
“Well, I’m sort of on a diet, ma’am.”
“It’s lamb spaghetti.”