Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

end table.
    “The bedroom,” said Rizzoli.
    “Go.”
    They started up the hallway, Rizzoli taking the lead, her head swiveling left and right as they passed a bathroom, a spare bedroom, both empty. The door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar; they could not see past it, into the dark bedroom beyond.
    Hands slick on his weapon, heart thudding, Moore edged toward the door. Gave it a nudge with his foot.
    The smell of blood, hot and foul, washed over him. He found the light switch and flicked it on. Even before the image hit his retinas, he knew what he would see. Yet he was not fully prepared for the horror.
    The woman’s abdomen had been flayed open. Loops of small bowel spilled out of the incision and hung like grotesque streamers over the side of the bed. Blood dribbled from the open neck wound and collected in a spreading pool on the floor.
    It took Moore an eternity to process what he was seeing. Only then, as he fully registered the details, did he understand their significance. The blood, still fresh, still dripping. The absence of arterial spray on the wall. The ever-widening pool of dark, almost black blood.
    At once he crossed to the body, his shoes tracking straight through the blood.
    “Hey!” yelled Rizzoli. “You’re contaminating the scene!”
    He pressed his fingers to the intact side of the victim’s neck.
    The corpse opened her eyes.
    Dear god. She’s still alive.
     

eight
    C atherine jerked rigid in bed, heart slamming in her chest, every nerve electric with fear. She stared at the darkness, struggling to quell her panic.
    Someone was pounding on the door of the call room. “Dr. Cordell?” Catherine recognized the voice of one of the E.R. nurses. “Dr. Cordell!”
    “Yes?” said Catherine.
    “We have a trauma case coming in! Massive blood loss, abdominal and neck wounds. I know Dr. Ames is covering for trauma tonight, but he’s delayed. Dr. Kimball could use your help!”
    “Tell him I’ll be there.” Catherine turned on the lamp and stared at the clock. It was 2:45 A.M. She’d slept only three hours. The green silk dress was still draped over the chair. It looked like something foreign, from another woman’s life, not her own.
    The scrub suit she’d worn to bed was damp with sweat, but she had no time to change. She gathered her tangled hair in a ponytail and went to the sink to splash cold water on her face. The woman staring back at her from the mirror was a shell-shocked stranger.
Focus. It’s time to let go of the fear. Time to go to work.
She slipped her bare feet into the running shoes she’d retrieved from her hospital locker and, with a deep breath, stepped out of the call room.
    “ETA two minutes!” called the E.R. clerk. “Ambulance says pressure’s down to seventy systolic!”
    “Dr. Cordell, they’re setting up in Trauma One.”
    “Who’ve we got on the team?”
    “Dr. Kimball and two interns. Thank god you’re already in-house. Dr. Ames’s car conked out and he can’t get in.…”
    Catherine pushed into Trauma One. In a glance she saw the team had prepared for the worst. Three poles were hung with Ringer’s lacate; IV tubes were coiled and ready for connection. A courier was standing by to run blood tubes to the lab. The two interns stood on either side of the table, clutching IV catheters, and Ken Kimball, the E.R. doc on duty, had already broken the tape sealing the laparotomy tray.
    Catherine pulled on a surgical cap, then thrust her arms into the sleeves of a sterile gown. A nurse tied the gown in back and held open the first glove. With every piece of the uniform came another layer of authority and she was feeling stronger, more in control. In this room, she was the savior, not the victim.
    “What’s the story on the patient?” she asked Kimball.
    “Assault. Trauma to the neck and abdomen.”
    “Gunshot?”
    “No. Stab wounds.”
    Catherine paused in the act of snapping on the second glove. A knot had suddenly formed in her stomach.
Neck and abdomen. Stab wounds.
    “Ambulance is pulling in!” a nurse yelled through the doorway.
    “Blood and guts time,” said Kimball, and he stepped out to meet the patient.
    Catherine, already in sterile garb, stayed right where she was. The room had suddenly gone silent. Neither the two interns flanking the table nor the scrub nurse, poised to hand Catherine surgical instruments, said a word. They were focused on what was happening beyond the door.
    They heard Kimball yell: “Go,