Body Double: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

Bonnie’s eyes were open wide, rolled back in terror, as though she could see Death himself, hovering right above, waiting to welcome her.
    “I can’t stop it!” said Frost as blood continued to dribble past his fingers.
    Rizzoli grabbed a slipcover from the couch armrest and wadded it up in her fist. She leaned forward to press the makeshift dressing to Bonnie’s neck. Frost withdrew his hand, releasing a pulse of blood just before Rizzoli clamped down on the wound. The bunched fabric was immediately saturated.
    “Her hand’s bleeding, too!” said Frost.
    Glancing down, Rizzoli saw a steady dribble of red coursing from Bonnie’s slashed palm.
We can’t stop it all . . .
    “Ambulance?” she asked.
    “On its way.”
    Bonnie’s hand shot up and grabbed at Rizzoli’s arm.
    “Lie still! Don’t move!”
    Bonnie jerked, both hands in the air now, like a panicked animal clawing at her attacker.
    “Hold her down, Frost!”
    “Jesus, she’s strong.”
    “Bonnie, stop it! We’re trying to help you!”
    Another thrash, and Rizzoli lost her grip. Warmth sprayed across her face, and she tasted blood. Gagged on its coppery heat. Bonnie twisted onto her side, legs jerking like pistons.
    “She’s seizing!” said Frost.
    Rizzoli forced Bonnie’s cheek against the carpet and clamped the dressing back on the wound. Blood was everywhere now, sprayed across Frost’s shirt, soaking into Rizzoli’s jacket as she fought to maintain pressure on the slippery skin. So much blood. Jesus, how much could a person lose?
    Footsteps thudded into the house. It was the surveillance team, who’d been parked up the street. Rizzoli did not even look up as the two men barreled into the room. Frost yelled at them to hold down Bonnie. But there was little need now; the seizures had faded to agonal shudders.
    “She’s not breathing,” said Rizzoli.
    “Roll her on her back! Come on, come on.”
    Frost put his mouth against Bonnie’s and blew. Came up, his lips rimmed in blood.
    “No pulse!”
    One of the cops planted his hands on the chest and began compressions. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, palms buried in Bonnie’s Hollywood cleavage. With each thrust, only a trickle leaked from the wound. There was so little blood left in her veins to circulate, to nourish vital organs. They were pumping a dry well.
    The ambulance team arrived with their tubes and monitors and bottles of IV fluid. Rizzoli moved back to give them room, and suddenly felt so dizzy she had to sit down. She sank into an armchair and lowered her head. Realized she was sitting on white fabric, probably smearing it with blood from her clothes. When she raised her head again, she saw that Bonnie had been intubated. Her blouse was torn open and her brassiere cut away. EKG wires crisscrossed her chest. Only a week ago, Rizzoli had thought of that woman as a Barbie doll, dumb and plastic in her tight pink blouse and spike-heeled sandals. Plastic was exactly what she looked like now, her flesh waxy, her eyes without a glimmer of a soul. Rizzoli spotted one of Bonnie’s sandals, lying a few feet away, and wondered if she had tried to flee in those impossible shoes. Imagined her frantic clack-clacking down the hall as she trailed sprays of red, as she struggled in those spike heels. Even after the EMTs had wheeled Bonnie away, Rizzoli was still staring at that useless sandal.
    “She’s not going to make it,” said Frost.
    “I know.” Rizzoli looked at him. “You’ve got blood on your mouth.”
    “You should look at yourself in the mirror. I’d say we’ve both been fully exposed.”
    She thought of blood and all the terrible things it might carry. HIV. Hepatitis. “She seemed pretty healthy,” was all she could say.
    “Still,” said Frost. “You being pregnant and all.”
    So what the hell was she doing here, steeped in a dead woman’s blood? I should be at home in front of the TV, she thought, with my swollen feet propped up. This is not the life for a mother. It’s not a life for anyone.
    She tried to launch herself out of the chair. Frost held out his hand to her, and for the first time, she took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. Sometimes, she thought, you’ve got to accept a helping hand. Sometimes you’ve got to admit you can’t do it all by yourself. Her blouse was stiff, her hands caked brown. Crime scene personnel would be arriving soon, and then the press. Always the goddamn press.
    It was time to clean up and get to