Maura Isles 05 - Vanish

by Tess Gerritsen

  Emerton stopped the recording. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s what we caught on tape. We shut down that call right there, as soon as we heard who the DJ was talking to. But that much of the conversation got on the air.”

  Stillman looked stunned. He stared at the now-silent audio equipment.

  “What the hell is she doing, Leroy?” asked Hayder. “Was that just a cry for attention? Is she trying to get public sympathy?”

  “I don’t know. It was weird.”

  “Why isn’t she talking to us? Why call a radio station? We’re the ones trying to call her, and she keeps hanging up on us!”

  “She has an accent.” Stillman looked at Hayder. “She’s definitely not American.”

  “And what was that thing she said? The die is cast. What’s that supposed to mean? The game’s in play?”

  “It’s a quote from Julius Caesar,” said Maura.

  They all looked at her. “What?”

  “It’s what Caesar said as he stood on the edge of the Rubicon. If he crossed the river, it meant he was declaring civil war on Rome. He knew, if he made that move, there’d be no turning back.”

  “What does Julius Caesar have to do with any of this?” said Hayder.

  “I’m just telling you where the phrase comes from. When Caesar ordered his troops to cross the river, he knew he’d passed the point of no return. It was a gamble, but he was a gambler, and he liked to play dice. When he made his choice, he said, ‘The die is cast.’ ” She paused. “And he marched into history.”

  “So that’s what it means to cross the Rubicon,” said Stillman.

  Maura nodded. “Our hostage taker has made a choice. She’s just told us there’s no turning back.”

  Emerton called out: “We’ve got the info on that cell phone. Stephanie Tam is one of the doctors at the medical center. Department of OB-Gyn. She’s not answering her beeper, and the last time anyone saw her, she was headed down to Diagnostic Imaging to see her patient. The hospital’s going through their personnel roster, trying to identify everyone on staff who’s still unaccounted for.”

  “It seems we now have the name of at least one of the hostages,” said Stillman.

  “What about that cell phone? We tried calling it, but she hangs up on us. Do we let it stay operative?”

  “If we cut off service, we could make her angry. For the moment, allow her to keep the link. We’ll just monitor her calls.” Stillman paused and took out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “At least she’s now communicating—just not with us.”

  It’s already stifling in here, thought Maura, looking at Stillman’s flushed face. And the day’s about to get much hotter. She felt herself swaying and realized she could not bear to stay in this trailer a moment longer. “I need to get some fresh air,” she said. “Can I leave?”

  Stillman gave her a distracted glance. “Yes. Yes, go ahead. Wait—do we have your contact information?”

  “Captain Hayder has my home and cell phone number. You can reach me twenty-four hours a day.”

  She stepped outside and paused, blinking in the midday sunshine. Taking in, through dazed eyes, the chaos on Albany Street. This was the same street she traveled to work every day, the same view she saw every morning as she approached the driveway of the medical examiner’s building. It had been transformed into a snarl of vehicles and a regiment of Special Operations Division cops in black uniforms. Everyone was waiting for the next move of the woman who had lit the fuse on this crisis. A woman whose identity was still a mystery to them all.

  She started toward her building, weaving past parked cruisers, and ducked beneath a strand of police tape. Only as she straightened again did she spot the familiar figure walking toward her. In the two years she’d known Gabriel Dean, she had never seen him agitated, had seldom seen him display any strong emotions. But the man she now saw was wearing an expression of unalloyed panic.

  “Have you heard any names yet?” he asked.

  She shook her head, bewildered. “Names?”

  “The hostages. Who’s in the building?”

  “I’ve only heard them mention one name so far. A doctor.”

  “Who?”

  She paused, startled by his sharp query. “A Dr. Tam. Her cell phone was used to call a radio station.”

  He turned and stared at the hospital. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t find Jane. She wasn’t evacuated with the other patients on her floor.”

  “When did she go into the hospital?”

  “This morning, after her water broke.” He looked at Maura. “Dr. Tam was the one who admitted her.”

  Maura stared at him, suddenly remembering what she’d just heard in the command trailer. That Dr. Tam had been headed down to Diagnostic Imaging to see her patient.

  Jane. The doctor was going down to see Jane.

  “I think you’d better come with me,” said Maura.

  EIGHT

  I come to the hospital to have a baby. Instead I’m about to get my head blown off.

  Jane sat on the couch, wedged between Dr. Tam on her right and the black orderly on her left. She could feel him trembling beside her, his skin cold and clammy in the air-conditioned room. Dr. Tam sat perfectly still, her face a stone mask. On the other couch, the receptionist sat hugging herself, and beside her, the woman technician was quietly crying. No one dared say a word; the only sound came from the waiting-room television, which had been playing continuously. Jane looked around at the name tags on the uniforms. Mac. Domenica. Glenna. Dr. Tam. She glanced down at the patient wristband she was wearing. RIZZOLI, JANE. All of us are neatly labeled for the morgue. No ID problems here, folks. She thought of Bostonions opening their Tribune tomorrow morning and seeing these same names printed in stark black and white on the front page. VICTIMS KILLED IN HOSPITAL SIEGE. She thought of those readers skimming right past the name “Rizzoli, Jane,” and then turning their attention straight to the sports page.

  Is this how it ends? Something as stupid as being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Hey wait, she wanted to shout. I’m pregnant! In the movies, nobody shoots the pregnant hostage!

  But this wasn’t the movies, and she couldn’t predict what the crazy lady with the gun would do. That’s what Jane had dubbed her. The Crazy Lady. What else could you call a woman who stalks back and forth, waving a gun? Only occasionally did the woman stop to look at the TV, which was tuned to channel six. Live coverage of the medical center hostage situation. Look Ma, I’m on television, thought Jane. I’m one of the lucky hostages trapped in that building. It’s kind of like the reality show Survivor but with bullets.

  And real blood.

  She noticed that the Crazy Lady was wearing a patient wristband like Jane’s. Escapee from the psych unit? Just try to make her sit obediently in a wheelchair. The woman was barefoot, her shapely ass peeking out from the backless hospital gown. She had long legs, muscular thighs, and a luxuriant mane of jet black hair. Dress her up in a sexy leather outfit, and she’d look like Xena the Warrior Princess.

  “I gotta pee,” Mr. Bodine said.

  The Crazy Lady didn’t even glance at him.

  “Hey! Is anyone listening to me? I said I gotta pee!”

  Oh jeez, just do it, old man, thought Rizzoli. Pee in your wheelchair. Don’t tick off someone who’s holding a gun.

  On the TV, a blond reporter appeared. Zoe Fossey, reporting from Albany Street. “We have no word yet on how many hostages are trapped inside the hospital wing. Police have cordoned off the building. So far there is one known fatality, a security guard who was shot to death while trying to restrain the patient . . .”

  The Crazy Lady halted, her gaze riveted on the screen. One of her bare feet landed on the manila folder that was lying on the floor. Only then did Jane notice the name on that chart, written in black felt ink.

  Rizzoli, Jane.

  The news report ended, and Crazy Lady resumed her pacing, her bare feet slap
ping across the folder. It was Jane’s outpatient chart, which Dr. Tam had probably been carrying when she’d walked into Diagnostic Imaging. Now it was right at the Crazy Lady’s feet. All she had to do was bend down and flip open the cover and read the first page, where the patient information was listed. Name, birth date, marital status, Social Security number.

  And occupation. Detective, Homicide. Boston Police Department.

  This woman is now under siege by the Boston PD SWAT team, thought Jane. When she finds out that I’m a cop, too . . .

  She didn’t want to complete the thought; she knew where it would lead. She looked down once again at her arm, at the hospital ID band printed with the name: RIZZOLI, JANE. If she could just get this thing off, she could jam it between the cushions, and the Crazy Lady wouldn’t be able to match her to the chart. That was the thing to do, get rid of this dangerous ID band. Then she’d be just another pregnant lady in the hospital. Not a cop, not a threat.

  She slipped a finger under the wristband and tugged, but it didn’t give way. She pulled harder, but could not break it. What the hell was it made of, anyway? Titanium? But of course it had to be sturdy. You didn’t want confused old guys like Mr. Bodine yanking off their IDs and wandering the halls, anonymous. She strained harder against the plastic, her teeth gritting together, the muscles quietly straining. I’ll have to chew it off, she thought. When the Crazy Lady isn’t looking, I could—

  She froze. Realized the woman was standing right in front of her, a bare foot planted once again on Jane’s medical chart. Slowly Jane’s gaze lifted to the woman’s face. Up till then she had avoided looking directly at her captor, afraid to draw any attention to herself. Now, to her horror, she saw that the woman was focused on her—only on her—and she felt like the herd’s lone gazelle singled out for slaughter. The woman even looked like a feline, long-limbed and graceful, her black hair glossy as a panther’s. Her blue eyes were as intense as searchlights, and Jane was now caught in the beam.

  “This is what they do,” the woman said, eyeing Jane’s wristband. “They put labels on you. Like in concentration camp.” She showed her own wristband, printed with DOE, JANE. There was an original name for you, thought Jane, and she almost wanted to laugh. I’m being held hostage by Jane Doe. It’s down to Jane vs. Jane. The real one versus the fake one. Didn’t the hospital know who this woman was when they admitted her? Judging by the few words she’d spoken, it was clear she was not American. Eastern European. Russian, maybe.

  The woman ripped off her own wristband and tossed it aside. Then she grabbed Jane’s wrist and gave her ID band a sharp yank as well. It snapped apart.

  “There. No more labels,” the woman said. She glanced at Jane’s wristband. “Rizzoli. This is Italian.”

  “Yes.” Jane kept her gaze on the woman’s face, afraid to even glance downward, to draw her attention to the manila folder lying beneath her bare foot. The woman took her steady eye contact as a sign of connection between them. Up till now, Crazy Lady had scarcely said a word to any of them. Now she was talking. This is good, thought Jane. An attempt at conversation. Try to connect with her, establish a relationship. Be her friend. She wouldn’t kill a friend, would she?

  The woman was looking at Jane’s pregnant belly.

  “I’m having my first baby,” said Jane.

  The woman looked up at the clock on the wall. She was waiting for something. Counting the minutes as they ticked by.

  Jane decided to dip her toe further into conversational waters. “What—what is your name?” she ventured.

  “Why?”

  “I just wanted to know.” So I can stop calling you the Crazy Lady.

  “It makes no difference. I am dead already.” The woman looked at her. “So are you.”

  Jane stared into those burning eyes, and for one frightening moment she thought: What if it’s true? What if we are already dead, and this is just a version of hell?

  “Please,” the receptionist murmured. “Please let us go. You don’t need us. Just let us open the door and walk out.”

  The woman began to pace again, her bare feet intermittently treading across the fallen chart. “You think they will let you live? After you have been with me? Everyone who is with me dies.”

  “What’s she talking about?” Dr. Tam whispered.

  She’s paranoid, thought Jane. Having delusions of persecution.

  The woman suddenly came to a stop and stared down at the manila folder near her feet.

  Don’t open it. Please don’t open it.

  The woman picked it up, eyeing the name on the cover.

  Distract her, now!

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I really—I really need to use the bathroom. Being pregnant and all.” She pointed to the waiting room toilet. “Please, can I go?”

  The woman dropped the chart down on the coffee table where it landed just out of Jane’s reach. “You do not lock the door.”

  “No. I promise.”

  “Go.”

  Dr. Tam touched Jane’s hand. “Do you need help? Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No. I’m okay,” said Jane and she rose on unsteady legs. Wanted desperately to sweep up the medical chart as she moved past the coffee table, but the Crazy Lady was watching her the whole time. She walked to the restroom, turned on the light, and closed the door. Felt sudden relief to be alone, and not staring at a gun.

  I could lock the door anyway. I could just stay in here and wait it out until it’s over.

  But she thought of Dr. Tam and the orderly and Glenna and Domenica clinging to one another on the couch. If I piss off Crazy Lady, they’ll be the ones to suffer. I’d be a coward, hiding behind a locked door.

  She used the toilet and washed her hands. Scooped water into her mouth, because she did not know when she’d next get a chance to drink. Wiping her wet chin, she scanned the small restroom, searching for something she could use as a weapon, but all she saw were paper towels and a soap dispenser and a stainless steel trash can.

  The door suddenly swung open. She turned to see her captor staring at her. She doesn’t trust me. Of course she doesn’t trust me.

  “I’m finished,” said Jane. “I’m coming out now.” She left the restroom and crossed back to the couch. Saw that the medical chart was still lying on the coffee table.

  “Now we sit and wait,” the woman said, and she settled into a chair, the gun on her lap.

  “What are we waiting for?” Jane asked.

  The woman stared at her. Said, calmly: “The end.”

  A shudder went through Jane. At the same time, she felt something else: a tightening in her abdomen, like a hand slowly squeezing into a fist. She held her breath as the contraction turned painful, as sweat beaded on her forehead. Five seconds. Ten. Slowly it eased off, and she leaned back against the couch, breathing deeply.

  Dr. Tam frowned at her. “What’s wrong?”

  Jane swallowed. “I think I’m in labor.”

  “We’ve got a cop in there?” said Captain Hayder.

  “You can’t let this leak out,” said Gabriel. “I don’t want anyone to know what her job is. If the hostage taker finds out she’s holding a cop . . .” Gabriel took a deep breath, and said quietly: “It can’t get out to the media. That’s all.”

  Leroy Stillman nodded. “We won’t let it. After what happened to that security guard . . .” He stopped. “We need to keep this under wraps.”

  Hayder said, “Having a cop in there could work to our advantage.”

  “Excuse me?” said Maura, startled that Hayder would make such a statement in Gabriel’s presence.

  “Detective Rizzoli’s got a good head on her shoulders. And she can handle a weapon. She could make a difference in how this goes down.”

  “She’s also nine months pregnant and due to deliver any minute. What, exactly, do you expect her to do?”

  “I’m just saying she’s got a cop’s instincts. That’s good.”

  “Right now,” said Gabriel, “the only ins
tinct I want my wife to follow is the one for self-preservation. I want her alive and safe. So don’t count on her to be heroic. Just get her the hell out of there.”

  Stillman said, “We won’t do anything to endanger your wife, Agent Dean. I promise you that.”

  “Who is this hostage taker?”

  “We’re still trying to ID her.”

  “What does she want?”

  Hayder cut in: “Maybe Agent Dean and Dr. Isles should step out of the trailer and let us get back to work.”

  “No, it’s okay,” said Stillman. “He needs to know. Of course he needs to know.” He looked at Gabriel. “We’re going slow on this, giving her a chance to calm down and start talking. As long as no one’s getting hurt, we have time.”

  Gabriel nodded. “That’s the way it should be handled. No bullets, no assault. Just keep them all alive.”

  Emerton called out: “Captain, we’ve got the list. Names of personnel and patients still unaccounted for.”

  Stillman snatched up the page as it came off the printer and scanned down the names.

  “Is she on it?” Gabriel asked.

  After a pause, Stillman nodded. “I’m afraid she is.” He handed the list to Hayder. “Six names. That’s what the hostage taker said on the radio. That she’s holding six people.” He neglected to add what else the woman had said. And I have enough bullets for them all.

  “Who’s seen that list?” said Gabriel.

  “Hospital administrator,” said Hayder. “Plus whoever helped him compile it.”

  “Before it goes any further, take my wife off it.”

  “These are just names. No one knows—”

  “Any reporter could find out in ten seconds that Jane’s a cop.”

  Maura said, “He’s right. All the crime beat reporters in Boston know her name.”

  “Scratch her name off the list, Mark,” said Stillman. “Before anyone else sees it.”

  “What about our entry team? If they go in, they’ll need to know who’s inside. How many people they’re rescuing.”

  “If you do your jobs right,” said Gabriel, “there’ll be no need for any entry team. Just talk that woman out of there.”