Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

eyes were open and aware. She surrendered her own blanket to him, draping yet another layer of wool over his body. She knew that she should check the condition of his leg, but the room was still too dark, and she didn’t want to light the kerosene lamp yet, not while everyone else was still asleep. Already the window had brightened. In another hour or so, it would be dawn, and she could examine his limb. But she already knew what she would find. The fever meant his leg was almost certainly infected, and bacteria had invaded his bloodstream. She also knew that the amoxicillin was not a powerful enough antibiotic to save him.
    They had only twenty tablets left, anyway.
    She glanced at Doug, tempted to wake him so that he could share this burden, but Doug was still deeply asleep. So she alone sat beside Arlo, holding his hand, stroking his arm through the blankets.Though his forehead was hot, his hand was alarmingly chilled, more like dead flesh than living.
    And I know what dead flesh feels like
.
    Since her days as a medical student, it was the autopsy room, and not the patient’s bedside, where she’d felt most comfortable. The dead don’t expect you to make small talk or listen to their endless complaints or watch while they writhe in pain. The dead are beyond pain, and they don’t expect you to perform miracles you are incapable of. They wait patiently and uncomplainingly as long as it takes for you to finish your job.
    Looking down at Arlo’s racked face, she thought: It’s not the dead who make me uneasy, but the living.
    Yet she remained at his side, holding his hand as dawn broke, as his chills gradually ebbed. He was breathing more easily now, and beads of sweat glistened on his face.
    “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked softly, watching her with eyes that were feverishly bright.
    “Why do you ask?”
    “Your job. If anyone ever saw a ghost, it would be you.”
    She shook her head. “I’ve never seen one.”
    “So you don’t believe.”
    “No.”
    He stared beyond her, focused on something that she could not see. “But they’re here, in this room. Watching us.”
    She touched his forehead. His skin was already cooler to the touch, his fever fading. Yet he was clearly delirious, his eyes tracking the room as though following the progress of phantoms gliding past.
    It was light enough now for her to look at his leg.
    He did not protest as she lifted the blanket. He was nude from the waist down, his penis shriveled and almost lost in the nest of brown pubic hair. In the night he had wet himself, and the towels they had placed under him were soaked. She peeled off layers ofgauze from his wound, and the gasp was out of her throat before she could suppress it. She’d last examined the wound only six hours ago, by the light of the kerosene lamp. Now, in the unforgiving glare of brightening daylight, she could see the blackened edges of skin, the bloated tissues. And she caught the foul whiff of decaying meat.
    “Tell me the truth,” said Arlo. “I want to know. Am I going to die?”
    She struggled for reassuring words, for an answer she did not truly believe. Before she could say a word, a hand suddenly settled on her shoulder and she turned in surprise.
    “Of course you’re not going to die,” said Doug, standing right behind her. “Because I’m not going to let you, Arlo. No matter how much damn trouble you give me.”
    Arlo managed a weak smile. “You’ve always been full of shit, man,” he whispered and closed his eyes.
    Doug knelt down and stared at the leg. He didn’t have to say it; Maura could read in his face the same thing she was now thinking.
His leg is rotting before our eyes
.
    “Let’s go in the other room,” Doug said.
    They stepped into the kitchen, out of earshot of the others. Dawn had given way to a blindingly bright morning, and the glare through the window washed out Doug’s face, made every gray hair stand out in his stubbly beard.
    “I gave him amoxicillin this morning,” she said. “For all the good it’ll do.”
    “What he needs is surgery.”
    “I agree. You want to be the one to cut off his leg?”
    “Jesus.” He began to pace the kitchen in agitation. “Ligating an artery is one thing. But to do an amputation …”
    “Even if we
could
do the amputation, it wouldn’t be enough. He’s already septic. He needs massive doses of IV antibiotics.”
    Doug turned to the window and squinted at the brilliant reflection of sunlight on ice-encrusted