“She would have called me.”
“You tried calling her?”
“Repeatedly. No answer. I haven’t been able to reach her all weekend. Not since I spoke to you.”
And I brushed off his concerns, she thought, feeling a twinge of guilt.
“I’ll make some coffee,” she said. “I think we’re going to need it.”
They sat in the living room, Jane and Gabriel on the sofa, Brophy in the armchair. The warmth of the apartment had not brought any color to Brophy’s cheeks; he was still sallow, and both his hands were curled into fists on his knees.
“So your last conversation with Maura wasn’t exactly a happy one,” said Jane.
“No. I … I had to cut it off abruptly,” Brophy admitted.
“Why?”
His face snapped even tighter. “We need to talk about Maura, not me.”
“We are talking about her. I’m trying to understand her state of mind. Do you think she felt snubbed when you cut the call short?”
He looked down. “Probably.”
“Did you call her back?” asked Gabriel, using his just-the-facts voice.
“Not that night. It was late. I didn’t try calling her until Saturday.”
“And she didn’t answer.”
“No.”
“Maybe she’s just annoyed with you,” said Jane. “You know, it’s been tough on her this past year. Having to hide what’s going on between you.”
“Jane,” cut in Gabriel. “This isn’t helping.”
Brophy gave a sigh. “But I deserve it,” he said softly.
Yes you do. You broke your vows, and now you’re breaking her heart.
“Do you think Maura’s state of mind could explain this?” Gabriel asked, again in his matter-of-fact law enforcement voice. Of the three of them, he was the only one who seemed to be approaching this logically. She had seen him react to other tense situations in just this way, had watched her husband grow calmer and more focused as everything and everyone around him melted down. Hand him a crisis, and Gabriel Dean could instantly transform from an exhausted father into the Bureau man she sometimes forgot he was. He was watching Brophy with eyes that gave away nothing, but noticed everything.
“Was she upset enough to do something rash?” Gabriel asked. “Hurt herself? Maybe worse?”
Brophy shook his head. “Not Maura.”
“People do surprising things under stress.”
“She wouldn’t! Come on, Gabriel, you know her. You both do.” Brophy looked at Jane, then back at Gabriel. “Do you really think she’s that immature? That she’d drop out of sight just to punish me?”
“She’s done the unexpected before,” said Jane. “She fell in love with you.”
He flushed, color at last suffusing his cheeks. “But she wouldn’t do something irresponsible. Disappear like this.”
“Disappear? Or just stay away from you?”
“She had a reservation on that flight. She asked me to pick her up at the airport. When Maura says she’ll do something, she does it. And if she can’t follow through, she’ll call. No matter how upset she might be with me, she wouldn’t stoop to something like this. You know that about her, Jane. We both do.”
“But if she were distraught enough?” said Gabriel. “People do drastic things.”
Jane frowned at him. “You’re talking what? Suicide?”
Gabriel kept his gaze on Brophy. “Exactly what’s happened between you two recently?”
Brophy’s head drooped. “I think we’ve both come to realize that … something has to change.”
“Did you tell her you were going to end it?”
“No.” Brophy looked up. “She knows I love her.”
But that’s not enough, thought Jane. Not enough to build a life.
“She wouldn’t hurt herself.” Brophy straightened in the chair, his face hardening in a look of certainty. “She wouldn’t play games. Something is wrong, and I can’t believe you’re not taking this seriously.”
“We are,” said Gabriel calmly. “That’s why we’re asking these questions, Daniel. Because these are the same questions the police will ask in Wyoming. About her state of mind. About whether she might have chosen to disappear. I just want to be sure you know the answers.”
“Which hotel was she staying at?” asked Jane.
“It’s in Teton Village. The Mountain Lodge. I’ve already called them, and they said she checked out Saturday morning. A day early.”
“Do they know where she went?”
“No.”
“Could she have flown home earlier? Maybe she’s already back in Boston.”
“I called her home phone. I even drove by her house. She’s not there.”
“Do you know anything else about her travel arrangements?” Gabriel asked.
“I have her flight numbers. I know she rented a car in Jackson. She was planning to drive around the area after the conference was over.”
“Which rental agency?”
“Hertz.”
“Do you know if she’s spoken to anyone besides you? Her colleagues at the ME’s office, maybe? Her secretary?”
“I called Louise on Saturday, and she hadn’t heard anything, either. I didn’t follow up on it because I assumed …” He looked at Jane. “I thought you would check on her.”
There was no note of accusation in his voice, but there might as well have been. Jane felt a guilty flush in her cheeks. He had called her, and she’d dropped the ball because her mind had been on other things. Bodies in freezers. Uncooperative toddlers. She had not really believed that anything was wrong, had thought it was merely a lovers’ spat followed by silent treatment. This sort of thing happened all the time, didn’t it? Plus, there was the fact that Maura had checked out of her hotel a day early. That didn’t sound like an abduction, but a deliberate change in plans. None of it absolved Jane of the fact that she’d done nothing beyond placing that call to Maura’s cell phone. Now almost two days had passed, the golden forty-eight, that window of opportunity when you’re most likely to find a missing person and identify a perp.
Gabriel stood. “I think it’s time to make some calls,” he said, and went into the kitchen. She and Brophy sat silent, listening to him speak in the other room. Using his FBI voice, as Jane liked to call it, the quiet and authoritative tone he adopted for official business. Hearing it now, she found it hard to believe that that voice belonged to the same man who’d been so easily defeated by a stubborn toddler. I should be the one making the calls, she thought. I’m the cop who failed to follow up. But she knew that just hearing those letters FBI would make whoever was on the other end of the line snap to attention. When your husband’s a fibbie, you might as well take advantage of it.
“… female, age forty-two, I think. Black hair. Five foot six, around a hundred twenty pounds …”
“Why would she check out of the hotel a day early?” Brophy said softly. He was sitting rigid in the armchair, staring straight ahead. “That’s what I haven’t figured out yet, why she did that. Where was she going, another town, another hotel? Why suddenly change her plans?”
Maybe she met someone. A man. Jane didn’t want to say it, but that was the first thought that occurred to her, the first thought that would occur to any cop. A lonely woman on a business trip. A woman whose lover has just disappointed her. Along comes an attractive stranger who suggests a little drive out of town. Ditch the old plans and have a little adventure.
Maybe she had an adventure with the wrong man.
Gabriel came back into the living room, carrying the portable phone. “He’ll call us right back.”
“Who?” asked Brophy.
“The detective in Jackson. He said they’ve had no traffic fatalities over the weekend, and he’s not aware of any hospitalized patients who remain unidentified.”
“What about …” Brophy paused.
“Or bodies, either.”
Brophy swallowed and slumped back into the chair. “So we know t
hat much, at least. She’s not lying in some hospital.”
Or the morgue. It was an image Jane tried to block out, but there it was: Maura stretched out on the table like so many other corpses that Jane had stared down at. Anyone who’d ever stood in an autopsy room and watched a postmortem had surely imagined the nightmarish scene of someone they knew or loved lying on the table. No doubt it was the same image that was now tormenting Daniel Brophy.
Jane brewed another pot of coffee. Out in Wyoming, it would be eleven PM. The phone remained ominously silent as they watched the clock.
“You never know, she may surprise us.” Jane laughed, jittery from too much caffeine and sugar. “She may turn up at work tomorrow, right on time. Tell us that she lost her cell phone or something.” It was a lame explanation, and neither man bothered to respond.
The ringing phone made them all snap straight. Gabriel picked up the receiver. He did not say much; nor did his face reveal what information he was hearing. But when he hung up and looked at Jane, she knew the news was not good.
“She never returned the rental car.”
“They checked with Hertz?”
Gabriel nodded. “She picked it up Tuesday at the airport, and was supposed to return it this morning.”
“So the car’s missing as well.”
“That’s right.”
Jane did not look at Brophy; she didn’t want to see his face.
“I guess that settles it,” said Gabriel. “There’s only one thing we can do.”
Jane nodded. “I’ll call my mom in the morning. I’m sure she’ll be happy to watch Regina. We can drop her off on the way to the airport.”
“You’re flying to Jackson?” asked Brophy.
“If we can find two seats on a flight tomorrow,” said Jane.
“Make it three,” Brophy said. “I’m coming, too.”
Maura awakened to the sound of Arlo’s chattering teeth. Opening her eyes, she saw it was still dark, but sensed that dawn was near, that the blackness of night was just starting to lift to gray. In the glow from the hearth, she could count the sleeping bodies: Grace curled up on the sofa; Doug and Elaine sleeping close together, almost touching. Always almost touching. She could guess who had migrated toward whom in the night. It was so obvious, now that she was aware of it: the way Elaine looked at Doug, the way she so frequently touched him, her eager acquiescence to everything he suggested. Arlo lay alone beside the hearth, the blanket molding his body like a shroud. His teeth clattered together as a fresh chill gripped his body.
She rose, her back stiff from the floor, and placed more wood in the fireplace. Crouching close, she warmed herself as the fire crackled to life, bright and fierce. Turning, she looked at Arlo, whose face was now illuminated by the flames.
His hair was greasy and stiff with sweat. His skin had taken on the yellowish cast of a corpse. If not for his chattering teeth, she might have thought him already dead.
“Arlo,” she said softly.
Slowly, his eyelids lifted. His gaze seemed to come from some deep and shadowy pit, as though he had fallen far beyond all reach of help. “So … cold,” he whispered.
“I’ve built up the fire again. It’ll be warmer in here soon.” She touched his forehead, and the heat of his skin was so startling that she felt as if her hand were seared. At once she went to the coffee table, where they had lined up all the medicines, and struggled to read the labels in the dark. She found the bottles of amoxicillin and Tylenol, and shook out capsules into her hand. “Here. Take these.”
“What is it?” Arlo grunted as she lifted his head to help him swallow the pills.
“You have a fever. That’s why you’re shivering. These should make you feel better.”
He swallowed the pills and slumped back, seized by another chill so violent that she thought he might be convulsing. But his 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 of gauze 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 kit
chen 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 snow. “I’ve got a full eight, maybe nine hours of daylight. If I leave right now, I might make it down the mountain by dark.”
“You’re going to ski out?”
“Unless you have a better idea.”
She thought of Arlo, sweating and shaking in the other room as his leg bloated and his wound slowly putrefied. She thought of bacteria swarming through his blood, invading every organ. And she thought of a corpse she’d once dissected, of a woman who had died of septic shock, and remembered the patchy hemorrhages in the skin, the heart, the lungs. Shock caused multiple system failure, shutting down heart, kidneys, and brain. Already Arlo was showing signs of delirium. He was seeing people who did not exist, ghosts hovering around him. But at least he was still producing urine; as long as his kidneys did not fail, he had a chance of survival.
“I’ll pack you some food,” she said. “And you’ll need a sleeping bag, in case you don’t make it out by dark.”
“I’ll go as far as I can tonight,” said Doug. He glanced toward the front room, where Arlo lay dying. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave him in your hands.”
Grace did not want her father to go. She clung to his jacket as he stood outside on the porch, pleading with him not to leave them, whining that he was her father, and how could he leave her behind, just as her mother had? What kind of father would do that?
“Arlo’s really sick, honey,” said Doug, peeling her hands away from his sleeve. “If I don’t get help, he could die.”
“If you leave, I’m the one who could die!” she said.
“You’re not alone. Elaine and Maura will take care of you.”
“Why do you have to go? Why can’t she go?” Grace pointed at Maura, a gesture so aggressive it felt like an accusation.
“Stop it, Grace. Stop it.” He grabbed his daughter’s shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “I’m the strongest. I’ll have the best chance of making it. And Arlo is my friend.”
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 10-Book Bundle Page 226