Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

go,
go
!”
    The door flew open, and the gurney wheeled in. Catherine caught a glimpse of blood-soaked sheets, of a woman’s matted brown hair and a face obscured by the tape holding an ET tube in place.
    With a
one-two-three
! they slid the patient onto the table.
    Kimball pulled off the sheet, baring the victim’s torso.
    In the chaos of that room, no one heard Catherine’s sharp intake of breath. No one noticed her take a stumbling step backward. She stared at the victim’s neck, where the pressure dressing was saturated a deep red. She looked at the abdomen, where another hastily applied dressing was already peeling free, spilling trickles of blood down the naked flank. Even as everyone else sprang into action, connecting IV’s and cardiac leads, squeezing air into the victim’s lungs, Catherine stood immobilized by horror.
    Kimball peeled off the abdominal dressing. Loops of small bowel spilled out and plopped onto the table.
    “Systolic’s barely palpable at sixty! She’s in sinus tach—”
    “I can’t get this IV in! Her vein’s collapsed!”
    “Go for a subclavian!”
    “Can you toss me another catheter?”
    “Shit, this whole field’s contaminated.…”
    “Dr. Cordell? Dr. Cordell?”
    Still in a daze, Catherine turned to the nurse who’d just spoken and saw the woman frowning at her over the surgical mask.
    “Do you want lap pads?”
    Catherine swallowed. Took a deep breath. “Yes. Lap pads. And suction …” She re-focused on the patient. A young woman. She had a disorienting flashback to another E.R., to the night in Savannah when she herself had been the woman lying on the table.
    I won’t let you die. I won’t let him claim you.
    She grabbed a handful of sponges and a hemostat from the instrument tray. She was fully focused now, the professional back in control. All the years of surgical training automatically kicked into gear. She turned her attention first to the neck wound and peeled off the pressure dressing. Dark blood dribbled out and splattered the floor.
    “The carotid!” said one of the interns.
    Catherine slapped a sponge against the wound and took a deep breath. “No. No, if it was the carotid she’d already be dead.” She looked at the scrub nurse. “Scalpel.”
    The instrument was slapped in her hand. She paused, steadying herself for the delicate task, and placed the tip of the scalpel on the neck. Maintaining pressure on the wound, Catherine swiftly slit through the skin and dissected upward toward the jaw, exposing the jugular vein. “He didn’t cut deep enough to reach the carotid,” she said. “But he did get the jugular. And this end’s retracted up into the soft tissue.” She tossed down the scalpel and grabbed the thumb forceps. “Intern? I need you to sponge.
Gently!
”
    “You going to re-anastomose?”
    “No, we’re just going to tie it off. She’ll develop collateral drainage. I need to expose enough vein to get suture around it. Vascular clamp.”
    Instantly the instrument was in her hand.
    Catherine positioned the clamp and snapped it over the exposed vessel. Then she released a sigh and glanced at Kimball. “This bleeder’s down. I’ll tie it off later.”
    She turned her attention to the abdomen. By now Kimball and the other intern had cleared the field using suction and lap pads, and the wound was fully exposed. Gently Catherine nudged aside loops of bowel and stared into the open incision. What she saw made her sick with rage.
    She met Kimball’s stunned gaze across the table.
    “Who would do this?” he said softly. “Who the hell are we dealing with?”
    “A monster,” she said.
     
    “The vic’s still in surgery. She’s still alive.” Rizzoli snapped her cell phone shut and looked at Moore and Dr. Zucker. “We now have a witness. Our unsub’s getting careless.”
    “Not careless,” said Moore. “Rushed. He didn’t have time to finish the job.” Moore stood by the bedroom door, studying the blood on the floor. It was still fresh, still glistening.
It’s had no time to dry. The Surgeon was just here.
    “The photo was e-mailed to Cordell at seven fifty-five P.M. ,” said Rizzoli. “The clock in the photo said two-twenty.” She pointed to the clock on the nightstand. “That’s set at the correct time. Which means he must have taken the photo
last
night. He kept that victim alive, in this house, for over twenty-four hours.”
    Prolonging the pleasure.
    “He’s getting cocky,” said Dr. Zucker, and there