Tess Gerritsen - Vanish

“I’m just telling you where the phrase comes from. When Caesar ordered his troops to cross the river, he knew he’d passed the point of no return. It was a gamble, but he was a gambler, and he liked to play dice. When he made his choice, he said, ‘The die is cast.’ ” She paused. “And he marched into history.”

“So that’s what it means to cross the Rubicon,” said Stillman.

Maura nodded. “Our hostage taker has made a choice. She’s just told us there’s no turning back.”

Emerton called out: “We’ve got the info on that cell phone. Stephanie Tam is one of the doctors at the medical center. Department of OB-Gyn. She’s not answering her beeper, and the last time anyone saw her, she was headed down to Diagnostic Imaging to see her patient. The hospital’s going through their personnel roster, trying to identify everyone on staff who’s still unaccounted for.”

“It seems we now have the name of at least one of the hostages,” said Stillman.

“What about that cell phone? We tried calling it, but she hangs up on us. Do we let it stay operative?”

“If we cut off service, we could make her angry. For the moment, allow her to keep the link. We’ll just monitor her calls.” Stillman paused and took out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “At least she’s now communicating-just not with us.”

It’s already stifling in here, thought Maura, looking at Stillman’s flushed face. And the day’s about to get much hotter. She felt herself swaying and realized she could not bear to stay in this trailer a moment longer. “I need to get some fresh air,” she said. “Can I leave?”

Stillman gave her a distracted glance. “Yes. Yes, go ahead. Wait-do we have your contact information?”

“Captain Hayder has my home and cell phone number. You can reach me twenty-four hours a day.”

She stepped outside and paused, blinking in the midday sunshine. Taking in, through dazed eyes, the chaos on Albany Street. This was the same street she traveled to work every day, the same view she saw every morning as she approached the driveway of the medical examiner’s building. It had been transformed into a snarl of vehicles and a regiment of Special Operations Division cops in black uniforms. Everyone was waiting for the next move of the woman who had lit the fuse on this crisis. A woman whose identity was still a mystery to them all.

She started toward her building, weaving past parked cruisers, and ducked beneath a strand of police tape. Only as she straightened again did she spot the familiar figure walking toward her. In the two years she’d known Gabriel Dean, she had never seen him agitated, had seldom seen him display any strong emotions. But the man she now saw was wearing an expression of unalloyed panic.

“Have you heard any names yet?” he asked.

She shook her head, bewildered. “Names?”

“The hostages. Who’s in the building?”

“I’ve only heard them mention one name so far. A doctor.”

“Who?”

She paused, startled by his sharp query. “A Dr. Tam. Her cell phone was used to call a radio station.”

He turned and stared at the hospital. “Oh, Jesus.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I can’t find Jane. She wasn’t evacuated with the other patients on her floor.”

“When did she go into the hospital?”

“This morning, after her water broke.” He looked at Maura. “Dr. Tam was the one who admitted her.”

Maura stared at him, suddenly remembering what she’d just heard in the command trailer. That Dr. Tam had been headed down to Diagnostic Imaging to see her patient.

Jane. The doctor was going down to see Jane.

“I think you’d better come with me,” said Maura.

I come to the hospital to have a baby. Instead I’m about to get my head blown off.

Jane sat on the couch, wedged between Dr. Tam on her right and the black orderly on her left. She could feel him trembling beside her, his skin cold and clammy in the air-conditioned room. Dr. Tam sat perfectly still, her face a stone mask. On the other couch, the receptionist sat hugging herself, and beside her, the woman technician was quietly crying. No one dared say a word; the only sound came from the waiting-room television, which had been playing continuously. Jane looked around at the name tags on the uniforms. Mac. Domenica. Glenna. Dr. Tam. She glanced down at the patient wristband she was wearing. RIZZOLI, JANE. All of us are neatly labeled for the morgue. No ID problems here, folks. She thought of Bostonions opening their Tribune tomorrow morning and seeing these same names printed in stark black and white on the front page. VICTIMS KILLED IN HOSPITAL SIEGE. She thought of those readers skimming right past the name “Rizzoli, Jane,” and then turning their attention straight to the sports page.

Is this how it ends? Something as stupid as being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Hey wait, she wanted to shout. I’m pregnant! In the movies, nobody shoots the pregnant hostage!

But this wasn’t the movies, and she couldn’t predict what the crazy lady with the gun would do. That’s what Jane had dubbed her. The Crazy Lady. What else could you call a woman who stalks back and forth, waving a gun? Only occasionally did the woman stop to look at the TV, which was tuned to channel six. Live coverage of the medical center hostage situation. Look Ma, I’m on television, thought Jane. I’m one of the lucky hostages trapped in that building. It’s kind of like the reality show Survivor but with bullets.

And real blood.

She noticed that the Crazy Lady was wearing a patient wristband like Jane’s. Escapee from the psych unit? Just try to make her sit obediently in a wheelchair. The woman was barefoot, her shapely ass peeking out from the backless hospital gown. She had long legs, muscular thighs, and a luxuriant mane of jet black hair. Dress her up in a sexy leather outfit, and she’d look like Xena the Warrior Princess.

“I gotta pee,” Mr. Bodine said.

The Crazy Lady didn’t even glance at him.

“Hey! Is anyone listening to me? I said I gotta pee !”

Oh jeez, just do it, old man, thought Rizzoli. Pee in your wheelchair. Don’t tick off someone who’s holding a gun.

On the TV, a blond reporter appeared. Zoe Fossey, reporting from Albany Street. “We have no word yet on how many hostages are trapped inside the hospital wing. Police have cordoned off the building. So far there is one known fatality, a security guard who was shot to death while trying to restrain the patient…”

The Crazy Lady halted, her gaze riveted on the screen. One of her bare feet landed on the manila folder that was lying on the floor. Only then did Jane notice the name on that chart, written in black felt ink.

Rizzoli, Jane.

The news report ended, and Crazy Lady resumed her pacing, her bare feet slapping across the folder. It was Jane’s outpatient chart, which Dr. Tam had probably been carrying when she’d walked into Diagnostic Imaging. Now it was right at the Crazy Lady’s feet. All she had to do was bend down and flip open the cover and read the first page, where the patient information was listed. Name, birth date, marital status, Social Security number.

And occupation. Detective, Homicide. Boston Police Department.

This woman is now under siege by the Boston PD SWAT team, thought Jane. When she finds out that I’m a cop, too…

She didn’t want to complete the thought; she knew where it would lead. She looked down once again at her arm, at the hospital ID band printed with the name: RIZZOLI, JANE. If she could just get this thing off, she could jam it between the cushions, and the Crazy Lady wouldn’t be able to match her to the chart. That was the thing to do, get rid of this dangerous ID band. Then she’d be just another pregnant lady in the hospital. Not a cop, not a threat.