Stepping into room 336, she’d been startled to find the bed surrounded by tearful family members who’d gathered to say good-bye. Maura had an audience. This was not the calm communion with the deceased that she had expected. She was painfully aware of all the eyes watching her as she apologized for the intrusion, as she moved to the bedside. The patient lay on her back, her face at peace. Maura took out her stethoscope, slipped the diaphragm under the hospital gown, and laid it against the frail chest. As she’d bent over the body, she felt the family pressing in around her, felt the pressure of their smothering attention. She did not listen as long as she should have. The nurses had already determined the woman was dead; calling in the doctor to make a pronouncement was merely protocol. A note in a chart, an MD’s signature, was all they really needed before a transfer to the morgue. Bent over the chest, listening to silence, Maura could not wait to escape the room. She’d straightened, her face appropriately sympathetic, and had focused her attention on the man she assumed to be the patient’s husband. She’d been about to murmur: I’m sorry but she’s passed away.
The whisper of a breath had stopped her.
Startled, she’d looked down, to see the patient’s chest move. Had watched the woman take another breath, and then fall still. It was an agonal breathing pattern—not a miracle, just the brain’s last electrical impulses, the final twitching of the diaphragm. Every family member in the room gave a gasp.
“Oh my god,” the husband said. “She’s not gone yet.”
“It … will be very soon,” was all Maura managed to say. She had walked out of the room, shaken by how close she’d come to making a mistake. Never again had she been so cavalier about a pronouncement of death.
She looked at the journalist. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she said. “Even something as basic as declaring death isn’t as easy as you’d think.”
“So you’re defending the fire crew? And the state police?”
“I’m saying that mistakes happen. That’s all.” And God knows, I’ve made a few of my own. “I can see how it might happen. The woman was found in cold water. She had barbiturates in her bloodstream. These factors could give the appearance of death. Under the circumstances, a mistake isn’t so far-fetched. The personnel involved were simply trying to do their jobs, and I hope you’ll be fair to them when you write your story.” She stood up, a signal that the interview was over.
“I always try to be fair,” he said.
“Not every journalist can make that claim.”
He, too, rose to his feet and stood gazing at her across the desk. “Let me know if I’ve failed. After you read my column.”
She escorted him to the door. Watched as he walked past Louise’s desk and out of the office.
Louise looked up from her keyboard. “How did it go?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have talked to him.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” said Louise, her eyes back on the computer screen. “When his column comes out in the Tribune on Friday.”
FIVE
Jane could not tell if the news was good or bad.
Dr. Stephanie Tam bent forward, listening through the Doppler stethoscope, and her sleek black hair fell over her face so that Jane could not read her expression. Lying flat on her back, Jane watched as the Doppler head slid across her bulging belly. Dr. Tam had elegant hands, a surgeon’s hands, and she guided the instrument with the same delicacy one might use to pluck a harp. Suddenly that hand paused, and Tam dipped her head lower, in concentration. Jane glanced at her husband, Gabriel, who was sitting right beside her, and she read the same anxiety in his eyes.
Is our baby all right?
At last Dr. Tam straightened and looked at Jane with a calm smile. “Take a listen,” she said, and turned up the volume on the Doppler.
A rhythmic whoosh pulsed from the speaker, steady and vigorous.
“Those are strong fetal heart tones,” said Tam.
“Then my baby’s okay?”
“Baby’s doing fine so far.”
“So far? What does that mean?”
“Well, it can’t stay in there much longer.” Tam bundled up the stethoscope and slipped it into its carrying case. “Once you’ve ruptured your amniotic sac, labor usually starts on its own.”
“But nothing’s happening. I’m not feeling any contractions.”
“Exactly. Your baby’s refusing to cooperate. You’ve got a very stubborn kid in there, Jane.”
Gabriel sighed. “Just like mom here. Wrestling down perps to the very last minute. Can you please tell my wife she’s now officially on maternity leave?”
“You’re definitely off the job now,” said Tam. “I’m going to get you down to Ultrasound, so we can take a peek in there. Then I think it’s time to induce labor.”
“It won’t start on its own?” said Jane.
“Your water’s broken. You’ve got an open channel for infection. It’s been two hours, and still no contractions. Time to hurry junior along.” Tam moved briskly toward the door. “They’re going to get an IV in you. I’ll check with Diagnostic Imaging, see if we can slip you in for a scan right now. Then we need to get that baby out of there, so you can finally be a mommy.”
“This is all happening so fast.”
Tam laughed. “You’ve had nine months to think about it. It shouldn’t be a complete surprise,” she said, and walked out of the room.
Jane stared up at the ceiling. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”
Gabriel squeezed her hand. “I’ve been ready for this a long time. It seems like forever.” He lifted her hospital gown and pressed his ear to her naked belly. “Hello in there, kid!” he called out. “Daddy’s getting impatient, so stop fooling around.”
“Ouch. You did a bad job shaving this morning.”
“I’ll do it again, just for you.” He straightened and his gaze met hers. “I mean it, Jane,” he said. “I’ve wanted this for a long time. My own little family.”
“But what if it’s not everything you expected?”
“What do you think I expect?”
“You know. The perfect kid, the perfect wife.”
“Now, why would I want the perfect wife when I can have you?” he said and dodged away, laughing as she took a swing at him.
But I did manage to land the perfect husband, she thought, looking into his smiling eyes. I still don’t know how I got so lucky. I don’t know how a girl who grew up with the nickname Frog Face married a man who could turn every woman’s head just by walking into the room.
He leaned toward her and said, softly: “You still don’t believe me, do you? I can say it a thousand times, and you’ll never believe me. You’re exactly what I want, Jane. You and the baby.” He gave her a kiss on the nose. “Now. What am I supposed to bring back for you, Mom?”
“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 immediately 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.
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 10-Book Bundle Page 128
