Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

moving.
    “Jane?” called out Maura.
    The EMTs were already hurrying the stretcher through the lobby. Maura had to run to catch up.
    “Wait! What’s her condition?”
    One of the men glanced back over his shoulder. “This one’s in labor. We’re moving her to Brigham.”
    “But all the blood—”
    “It’s not hers.”
    “Then whose?”
    “The gal back there.” He cocked a thumb down the hallway. “
She’s
not going anywhere.”
    She stared after the stretcher as it rattled out the door. Then she turned and ran up the hallway, moving past EMTs and Boston PD officers, toward the heart of the crisis.
    “Maura?” a voice called, oddly distant and muffled.
    She spotted Gabriel struggling to sit up on a stretcher. An oxygen mask was strapped to his face, and an IV line tethered his arm to a bag of saline.
    “Are you all right?”
    Groaning, he lowered his head. “Just . . . dizzy.”
    The EMT said: “It’s the aftereffects of the gas. I just gave him some IV Narcan. He needs to take it easy for a while. It’s like coming out of anesthesia.”
    Gabriel lifted the mask. “Jane—”
    “I just saw her,” said Maura. “She’s fine. They’re moving her to Brigham Hospital.”
    “I can’t sit here any longer.”
    “What happened in there? We heard gunshots.”
    Gabriel shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
    “Your mask,” said the EMT. “You need that oxygen right now.”
    “They didn’t have to do it this way,” said Gabriel. “I could have talked them out of there. I could have convinced them to surrender.”
    “Sir, you need to put your mask back on.”
    “No,” snapped Gabriel. “I need to be with my wife. That’s what I need to do.”
    “You’re not ready to go.”
    “Gabriel, he’s right,” said Maura. “Look at you, you can barely sit up. Lie down for a while longer. I’ll drive you to Brigham Hospital myself, but not until you’ve had a chance to recover.”
    “Just a little while,” said Gabriel, weakly settling back onto the stretcher. “I’ll be better in a while . . .”
    “I’ll be right back.”
    She spotted the doorway to Diagnostic Imaging. As she stepped through, the first thing her eyes fixed on was the blood. It was always the blood that demanded your attention, those shocking splashes of red that shout out: Something terrible, truly terrible, has happened here. Though half a dozen men were standing around the room, and debris from the ambulance crews still lay scattered across the floor, she remained fixated on the bright evidence of death that was spattered across the walls. Then her gaze swung to the woman’s body, slumped against the couch, black hair wicking blood onto the floor. Never before had she felt faint at the sight of gore, but she suddenly found herself swaying sideways, and had to catch herself on the door frame. It’s the remnants of whatever gas they used in this room, she thought. It has not yet been fully ventilated.
    She heard the whish of plastic, and through a fog of lightheadedness, she saw a white sheet being laid out on the floor. Saw Agent Barsanti and Captain Hayder standing by as two men wearing latex gloves rolled the bloodied corpse of Joseph Roke onto the plastic.
    “What are you doing?” she said.
    No one acknowledged her presence.
    “Why are you moving the bodies?”
    The two men who were now squatting over the corpse paused, and glanced up in Barsanti’s direction.
    “They’re being flown to Washington,” said Barsanti.
    “You don’t move a thing until someone from our office examines the scene.” She looked at the two men, poised to zip up the body bag. “Who are you? You don’t work for us.”
    “They’re FBI,” said Barsanti.
    Her head was now perfectly clear, all dizziness swept away by anger. “Why are you taking them?”
    “Our pathologists will do the autopsy.”
    “I haven’t released these bodies.”
    “It’s only a matter of paperwork, Dr. Isles.”
    “Which I’m not about to sign.”
    The others in the room were all watching them now. Most of the men standing around were, like Hayder, Boston PD officers.
    “Dr. Isles,” said Barsanti, sighing, “why fight this turf battle?”
    She looked at Hayder. “This death occurred in our jurisdiction. You know we have custody of these remains.”
    “You sound as if you don’t trust the FBI,” said Barsanti.
    It’s you I don’t trust.
    She stepped toward him. “I never did hear a good explanation for why you’re here, Agent