Tess Gerritsen - Vanish

She looked at the time. 11:50 A.M.

By noon, the temperature had soared into the nineties, baking sidewalks into griddles, and a sulfurous summer haze hung over the city. Outside the medical examiner’s building, no reporters still lingered in the parking lot; Maura was able to cross Albany Street unaccosted and walk into the medical center. She shared an elevator with half a dozen freshly minted interns, now on their first month’s rotation, and she remembered the lesson she’d learned in medical school: Don’t get sick in July. They’re all so young, she thought, looking at smooth faces, at hair not yet streaked with gray. She seemed to be noticing that more often these days, about cops, about doctors. How young they all looked. And what do these interns see when they look at me? she wondered. Just a woman pushing middle age, wearing no uniform, no name tag with MD on my lapel. Perhaps they assumed she was a patient’s relative, scarcely worth more than a glance. Once, she’d been like these interns, young and cocky in her white coat. Before she’d learned the lessons of defeat.

The elevator opened and she followed the interns into the medical unit. They breezed right past the nurses’ station, untouchable in their white coats. It was Maura, in her civilian clothes, whom the ward clerk immediately stopped with a frown, a brisk question: “Excuse me, are you looking for someone?”

“I’m here to visit a patient,” said Maura. “She was admitted last night, through the ER. I understand she was transferred out of ICU this morning.”

“The patient’s name?”

Maura hesitated. “I believe she’s still registered as Jane Doe. Dr. Cutler told me she’s in room four-thirty-one.”

The ward clerk’s gaze narrowed. “I’m sorry. We’ve had calls from reporters all day. We can’t answer any more questions about that patient.”

“I’m not a reporter. I’m Dr. Isles, from the medical examiner’s office. I told Dr. Cutler I’d be coming by to check on the patient.”

“May I see some identification?”

Maura dug into her purse and placed her ID on the countertop. This is what I get for showing up without my lab coat, she thought. She could see the interns cruising down the hall, unimpeded, like a flock of strutting white geese.

“You could call Dr. Cutler,” Maura suggested. “He knows who I am.”

“Well, I suppose it’s okay,” said the ward clerk, handing back the ID. “There’s been so much fuss over this patient, they had to send over a security guard.” As Maura headed up the hall, the clerk called out: “He’ll probably want to see your ID as well!”

Prepared to endure another round of questions, she kept her ID in hand as she walked to room 431, but she found no guard standing outside the closed door. Just as she was about to knock, she heard a thud inside the room, and the clang of falling metal.

At once, she pushed into the room and found a confusing tableau. A doctor stood at the bedside, reaching up toward the IV bottle. Opposite him, a security guard was leaning over the patient, trying to restrain her wrists. A bedside stand had just toppled, and the floor was slick with spilled water.

“Do you need help?” called Maura.

The doctor glanced over his shoulder at her, and she caught a glimpse of blue eyes, blond hair cut short as a brush. “No, we’re fine. We’ve got her,” he said.

“Let me tie that restraint,” she offered, and moved to the guard’s side of the bed. Just as she reached for the loose wrist strap, she saw the woman’s hand snap free. Heard the guard give a grunt of alarm.

The explosion made Maura flinch. Warmth splashed her face, and the guard suddenly staggered sideways, against her. She stumbled under his weight, landing on her back beneath him. Cold water soaked into her blouse from the wet floor, and from above seeped the liquid heat of blood. She tried to shove aside the body now weighing down on her, but he was heavy, so heavy he was crushing the breath from her lungs.

His body began to shake, seized by agonal twitches. Fresh heat splashed her face, her mouth, and she gagged at the taste. I’m drowning in it. With a cry, she pushed against him, and the body, slippery with blood, slid off her.

She scrambled to her feet, and focused on the woman, who was now free of all her restraints. Only then did she see what the woman was gripping in both hands.

A gun. She has the guard’s gun.

The doctor had vanished. Maura was alone with Jane Doe, and as they stared at each other, every detail of the woman’s face stood out with terrible clarity. The tangled black hair, the wild-eyed gaze. The inexorable tightening of the tendons in her arm as she slowly squeezed the grip.

Dear god, she’s going to pull the trigger.

“Please,” whispered Maura. “I only want to help you.”

The sound of running footsteps made the woman’s attention jerk sideways. The door flew open and a nurse stared, openmouthed, at the carnage in the room.

Suddenly Jane Doe sprang out of the bed. It happened so fast that Maura had no time to react. She snapped rigid as the woman grabbed her arm, as the gun barrel bit into her neck. Heart slamming against her ribs, Maura let herself be shoved to the door, cold steel pressed against her flesh. The nurse backed away, too terrified to say a word. Maura was forced out of the room, into the hallway. Where was security? Was anyone calling for help? They kept moving, toward the nurses’ station, the woman’s sweating body pressed close, her panicked breaths roaring in Maura’s ear.

“Watch out! Get out of the way, she’s got a gun!” Maura heard, and she glimpsed the group of interns she’d seen only moments earlier. Not so cocky now in their white coats, they were backing off, wide-eyed. So many witnesses; so many useless people.

Someone help me, goddammit!

Jane Doe and her hostage now moved into full view of the nurses’ station, and the stunned women behind the counter watched their progress, silent as a group of wax figurines. The phone rang, unanswered.

The elevator was straight ahead.

The woman punched the down button. The door slid open, and the woman gave Maura a shove into the elevator, stepped in behind her, and pressed ONE.

Four floors. Will I still be alive when that door opens again?

The woman backed away to the opposite wall. Maura stared back, unflinching. Force her to see who I am. Make her look me in the eye when she pulls the trigger. The elevator was chilly, and Jane Doe was naked under the flimsy hospital gown, but sweat glistened on her face, and her hands trembled around the grip.

“Why are you doing this?” Maura asked. “I never hurt you! Last night, I tried to help you. I’m the one who saved you.”

The woman said nothing. Uttered not a word, not a sound. All Maura heard was her breaths, harsh and rapid with fear.

The elevator bell rang, and the woman’s gaze shot to the door. Frantically Maura tried to remember the layout of the hospital lobby. She recalled an information kiosk near the front door, staffed by a silver-haired volunteer. A gift shop. A bank of telephones.

The door opened. The woman grabbed Maura’s arm and shoved her out of the elevator first. Once again, the gun was at Maura’s jugular. Her throat was dry as ash as she emerged into the lobby. She glanced left, then right, but saw no people, no witnesses. Then she spotted the lone security guard, cowering behind the information kiosk. One look at his white hair, and Maura’s heart sank. This was no rescuer; he was just a scared old guy in a uniform. A guy who was just as likely to shoot the hostage.

Outside, a siren howled, like an approaching banshee.