The Sinner (22 page)

He looked at Ursula. “If you’re wondering what went
wrong
here, I can tell you the answer. We didn’t move fast enough. We stood
around
watching her panic, and we should have sedated her. If we had just calmed her
down
sooner . . .”

“Are you saying she coded from panic?”

“That’s how it started. First a spike in blood pressure
and
pulse. Then her pressure dropped just like that, and the arrhythmias started. It
took us twenty minutes to get her rhythm back.”

“What does her EKG show?”

“An acute myocardial infarction. She’s now deeply
comatose.
No pupillary reactions. No response to deep pain. She’s almost certainly
suffered
irreversible brain damage.”

“It’s a little early to say that, isn’t it?”

“I’m a realist. Dr. Yuen’s hoping to pull her
through,
but then, he’s a surgeon. He wants his rosy statistics. As long as his
patient
survives the operation, he can chalk it up as one of his successes. Even if she
ends
up as a vegetable.”

She moved to the bedside and frowned at the patient. “Why is
she
so edematous?”

“We poured fluids into her during the code, to try and bring
up
her pressure. That’s why her face looks swollen.”

Maura looked down at the arms and saw raised and reddish wheals.
“This
looks like some fading urticaria here. Which drugs did she get?”

“The usual cocktail we give during codes. Antiarrhythmics.
Dopamine.”

“I think you need to order a drug and toxicology
screen.”

“Excuse me?”

“This was an unexplained cardiac arrest. And this urticaria
looks
like a drug reaction.”

“We don’t usually order tox screens just because a
patient
codes.”

“In this case, you should order one.”

“Why? Do you think we made a mistake? Gave her something we
shouldn’t
have?” He sounded defensive now, his fatigue turning to anger.

“She’s a witness to a crime,” Maura pointed out.
“The
only witness.”

“We just spent the last hour trying to save her life. And now
you’re implying you don’t trust us.”

“Look, I’m only trying to be thorough.”

“Okay.” He snapped the chart shut. “I’ll see
the
tox screen gets done, just for you,” he said, and walked out.

She remained in the cubicle, gazing down at Ursula, who lay bathed
in the soft, sepulchral glow of the bedside lamp. Maura saw none of the usual
litter
that followed CPR. The used syringes and drug vials and sterile wrappings that
always
resulted from resuscitation efforts had been swept away. The patient’s
chest
rose and fell only because of the air forced into her lungs with each whoosh of
the
ventilator bellows.

Maura took out a penlight and shone it into Ursula’s eyes.

Neither pupil responded to the light.

Straightening, she suddenly sensed someone watching her. She
turned
and was startled to see Father Brophy standing in the doorway.

“The nurses called me,” he said. “They thought it
might
be time.”

He had dark circles under his eyes, and beard stubble darkened his
jaw. As usual, he wore his clerical garb, but at that early hour, his shirt was
wrinkled.
She imagined him, newly roused from sleep, rolling out of his bed and stumbling
into
his clothes. Reaching automatically for that shirt as he left the warmth of his
bedroom.

“Would you like me to leave?” he asked. “I can come
back later.”

“No, please come in, Father. I was just going to review the
record.”

He nodded and stepped into the cubicle. The space suddenly felt
too
small, too intimate.

She reached for the chart, which Sutcliffe had left behind. As she
settled onto a stool near the bed, she was suddenly aware, once again, of her
own
scent, and she wondered if Brophy could smell it too. The scent of Victor. Of
sex.
As Brophy began to murmur a prayer, she forced herself to focus on the
nurses’
notes.

00:15: Vitals: BP up to 130/90, Pulse 80. Eyes open. Making
purposeful
movements. Squeezes right hand on command. Drs. Yuen and Sutcliffe called about
change
in mental status.

00:43: BP up to 180/100, Pulse 120. Dr. Sutcliffe here. Patient
agitated and trying to pull out ET tube.

00:50: Systolic BP down to 110. Flushed and very agitated. Dr.
Yuen
here.

00:55: Systolic 85, Pulse 180. IV rate to wide open . . .

As the blood pressure plummeted, the notes grew terser, the
handwriting
more hurried, until it deteriorated to a barely legible scrawl. She could
picture
the events as they unfolded in this cubicle. The scramble to find IV bags and
syringes.
The nurse, scurrying back and forth to the medication room for drugs. Sterile
wrappings
torn open, vials emptied, correct dosages frantically calculated. All this while
the patient thrashes, her blood pressure crashing.

01:00: Code Blue called.

Different handwriting, now. Another nurse, stepping in to record
events.
The new entries were neat and methodical, the work of a nurse whose duty during
the
code was only to observe and document.

Ventricular fibrillation. DC cardioversion at 300 joules. IV
Lidocaine
drip increased to four mg/min.

Cardioversion repeated, 400 joules. Still in V. Fib.

Pupils dilated, but still reactive to light. . . .

Not giving up yet, thought Maura. Not while the pupils react. Not
while
there’s still a chance.

She remembered the first Code Blue that she had directed as an
intern,
and how reluctant she had been to concede defeat, even when it was clear that
the
patient could not be saved. But the man’s family had stood waiting right
outside
the room—his wife and two teenage sons—and it was the boys’ faces
that Maura kept thinking of as she’d slapped on the defibrillator paddles,
again
and again. Both boys were tall enough to be men, with enormous feet and spotty
faces,
but they were crying children’s tears, and she had continued resuscitation
efforts
long beyond the stage of futility, thinking: give him one more shock. Just one
more.

She realized that Father Brophy had fallen silent. Looking up, she
found him watching her, his gaze so focused that she felt personally invaded.

And, at the same time, strangely aroused.

She closed the chart, a crisply businesslike gesture to disguise
her
confusion. She had just come from Victor’s bed, yet here she was, drawn to
this
man, of all people. She knew that cats in heat could attract males with their
scent.
Was that the signal she gave off, the scent of a receptive female? A woman who
has
gone so long without sex that she cannot get enough of it?

She rose and reached for her coat.

He stepped toward her to help her put it on. Stood close behind
her,
holding it open as she slid her arms into the sleeves. She felt his hand brush
against
her hair. It was an accidental touch, nothing more, but it set off an alarming
shiver.
She stepped away, quickly buttoning up.

“Before you leave,” he said, “I want to show you
something.
Will you come with me?”

“Where?”

“Down to the fourth floor.”

Puzzled, she followed him to the elevator. They stepped in and,
once
again, they were sharing an enclosed space that seemed far too close. She stood
with
both hands thrust in her coat pockets and stoically watched the floor numbers
change,
wondering: Is it a sin to find a priest attractive?

If not sin, then certainly folly.

The elevator door at last opened, and she followed him down the
hallway,
through a set of double doors, into the coronary care unit. Like the Surgical
ICU,
this unit had its lights dimmed for the night, and he led her through the gloom
toward
the EKG monitor station.

The heavyset nurse sitting in front of the monitors glanced up
from
the multiple cardiac tracings and her teeth shone in a smiling arc.

“Father Brophy. Making night rounds?”

He touched the nurse’s shoulder, an easy, familiar gesture
that
spoke of a comfortable friendship. Maura was reminded of the first time she had
glimpsed
Brophy, crossing the snowy courtyard below Camille’s bedroom. How he had
laid
a comforting hand on the shoulder of the elderly nun who had greeted him. This
was
a man who was not afraid to offer the warmth of his touch.

“Evening, Kathleen,” he said, and the soft lilt of
Boston
Irish suddenly slipped into his voice. “Have you had a quiet night,
then?”

“So far, knock on wood. Did the nurses call you in to see
someone?”

“Not for one of your patients. We were upstairs, in SICU. I
wanted
to bring Dr. Isles down here for a visit.”

“At two
A
.
M
.?” Kathleen
laughed
and looked at Maura. “He’ll run you ragged. This man doesn’t
rest.”

“Rest?” said Brophy. “What’s that?”

“It’s that thing we lesser mortals do.”

Brophy looked at the monitor. “And how is our Mr. DeMarco
doing?”

“Oh, your special patient. He’s being transferred to an
unmonitored
bed tomorrow. So I’d say he’s doing great.”

Brophy pointed to bed number six’s EKG line, blipping
serenely
across the screen. “There,” he said, touching Maura’s arm, and
his
breath whispered against her hair. “That’s what I wanted to show
you.”

“Why?” asked Maura.

“Mr. DeMarco is the man we saved, on the sidewalk.” He
looked
at her. “The man you predicted wouldn’t live. That’s our miracle.
Yours and mine.”

“Not necessarily a miracle. I’ve been known to be
wrong.”

“You’re not in the least bit surprised that this man is
going
to walk out of the hospital?”

She looked at him in the quiet intimacy of darkness.
“There’s
not a lot that surprises me anymore, I’m sorry to say.” She
didn’t
mean to sound cynical, but that’s how it came out, and she wondered if he
was
disappointed in her. It seemed important to him, for some reason, that she
express
some sense of wonderment, and all she had given him was the verbal equivalent of
a shrug.

In the elevator down to the lobby, she said, “I’d like
to
believe in miracles, Father. I really would. But I’m afraid you can’t
change
the opinion of an old skeptic.”

He responded with a smile. “You were given a brilliant mind,
and
of course you were meant to use it. To ask your own questions and find your own
answers.”

“I’m sure you ask the same questions I do.”

“Every day.”

“Yet you accept the concept of the divine. Isn’t your
faith
ever shaken?”

A pause. “Not my faith, no. That, I can count on.”

She heard a faint note of uncertainty in his voice and she looked
at
him. “Then what do you question?”

He met her gaze, a look that seemed to peer straight into her
mind,
to read the very thoughts she did not want him to see. “My strength,”
he
said quietly. “Sometimes I question my own strength.”

Outside, standing alone in the hospital parking lot, she took in
punishing
breaths of cold air. The sky was clear, the stars a hard glitter. She climbed
into
her car and sat for a moment as the engine warmed, trying to understand what had
just happened between her and Father Brophy. Nothing at all, really, but she was
feeling as guilty as though something
had
happened. Both guilty and
exhilarated.

She drove home on streets polished with an icy sheen, thinking
about
Father Brophy and Victor. She had been tired when she’d left the house; now
she was alert and edgy, nerves humming, feeling more alive than she’d felt
in
months.

She pulled into the garage, and was already tugging off her coat
as
she walked into her house. Already unbuttoning her blouse as she moved toward
the
bedroom. Victor slept soundly, unaware that she was standing right beside him,
shedding
her clothes. In the last few days, he’d been spending more time in her
house
than in his hotel room, and now he seemed to belong in her bed. In her life.
Shivering,
she slid under sheets that were deliciously warm, and the coolness of her skin
against
his made him stir.

A few strokes, a few kisses, and he was fully awake, fully
aroused.

She welcomed him into her, urging him on, and though she lay
beneath
him, it was not in submission. She took her own pleasure, just as he took his,
claiming
her due with a soft cry of victory. But as she closed her eyes and felt him
climax
inside her, it was not just Victor’s face that came to mind, but also
Father
Brophy’s. A shifting image that would not hold steady, but flickered back
and
forth, until she did not know whose face it was.

Both. And neither.

S
EVENTEEN

I
N WINTER
, it’s the clear days that are the
coldest.
Maura awakened to sunshine glaring on white snow, and although she was glad to
see
blue sky for a change, the wind was brutal, and the rhododendron outside her
house
huddled like an old man, its leaves drooped and folded against the cold.

She sipped coffee as she drove to work, blinking against the
sunlight,
longing to turn around and go home. To climb back into bed with Victor, and
spend
the whole day with him there, warming each other beneath the comforter. Last
night,
they had sung Christmas carols—he in his rich baritone, she trying to
harmonize
in her badly off-key alto. They’d sounded awful together, and had ended up
laughing
more than singing.

And here she was singing again this morning, her voice as off-key
as
ever, as she drove past streetlights hung with wreaths, past department store
windows
where holiday dresses glittered on mannequins. Suddenly, the reminders of
Christmas
seemed to be everywhere. The wreaths and garlands had been hanging for weeks, of
course, but she hadn’t really taken notice of them. When had the city ever
looked
so festive? When had the sun ever glittered so brightly on snow?

God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.

She walked into the Medical Examiner’s building on Albany
Street,
where
PEACE ON EARTH
was displayed in huge foil letters in the
hallway.

Louise looked up at her and smiled. “You’re looking
happy
today.”

“I’m just so glad to see sunshine again.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts. I hear we’re getting more snow
tomorrow night.”

“Snow on Chirstmas Eve is fine with me.” She scooped up
some
chocolate kisses from the candy bowl on Louise’s desk. “How’s the
schedule look today?”

“Nothing came in last night. I guess no one wants to die just
before Christmas. Dr. Bristol has to be in court at ten, and he may go straight
home
after that, if you can cover his calls.”

“If it stays quiet, I think I’ll leave early
myself.”

Louise’s eyebrow lifted in surprise. “For something fun,
I hope.”

“You bet,” Maura said with a laugh. “I’m going
shopping.”

She walked into her office, where even the tall stack of lab
reports
and dictations waiting to be reviewed could not dampen her mood. Sitting at her
desk,
she happily snacked on chocolate as she worked through the lunch hour and into
the
afternoon, hoping to slip out by three and head straight to Saks Fifth Avenue.

She did not count on a visit from Gabriel Dean. When he walked
into
her office at two thirty that afternoon, she had no inkling of how completely
his
visit would change her day. As always, she found him difficult to read, and once
again, she was struck by the improbability of any affair between the
temperamental
Rizzoli and this coolly enigmatic man.

“I’m heading back to Washington this afternoon,” he
said, setting down his briefcase. “I wanted your opinion on something
before
I left.”

“Of course.”

“First, may I view Jane Doe’s remains?”

“It’s all in my autopsy report.”

“Nevertheless, I think I should see her myself.”

Maura rose from her chair. “I have to warn you,” she
said,
“this will be a difficult viewing.”

Refrigeration can only slow, not halt, the process of
decomposition.
As Maura unzipped the white body pouch, she had to steel herself against the
odors.
She had already warned Dean about the corpse’s appearance, and he did not
flinch
when the plastic parted, revealing raw tissue where the face should have been.

“It was completely stripped off,” said Maura. “The
skin
sliced along the hairline, at the crown, and then peeled downward. Freed with
another
incision below the chin. Like ripping off a mask.”

“And he took the skin with him?”

“It’s not the only thing he took.” Maura unzipped
the
rest of the pouch, releasing a stench so powerful that she wished she had put on
a mask and shield. But Dean had requested only a superficial viewing, not a full
examination, and they had donned only gloves.

“The hands,” he said.

“They were both removed, as were parts of the feet. At first,
we thought we were dealing with a collector. Body parts as trophies. The other
possibility
was that he was trying to obscure her identity. No fingerprints, no face. That
would
have been a practical reason for removal.”

“Except for the feet.”

“And that’s what didn’t make sense. That’s
when
I realized there might be another reason for the amputations. It wasn’t to
hide
her identity, but her diagnosis of leprosy.”

“And these lesions all over her skin? That’s from the
Hansen’s
disease as well?”

“This skin eruption is called erythema nodosum leprosum.
It’s
a reaction to medical treatment. She’s obviously been receiving antibiotics
for the Hansen’s disease. That’s why we didn’t see any active
bacteria
on skin biopsy.”

“So it’s not the disease itself that’s causing
these
lesions?”

“No. It’s a side effect of recent antibiotic therapy.
Based
on her X rays, she’d had Hansen’s for some time, probably years,
before
she started receiving therapy.” She looked up at Dean. “Have you seen
enough?”

He nodded. “Now I want to show you something.”

Back upstairs in her office, he opened his briefcase and took out
a
file. “Yesterday, after our meeting, I called Interpol and requested
information
on the Bara massacre. That’s what the Special Crimes Division of
India’s
Central Bureau of Investigation faxed back to me. They also e-mailed some
digital
images that I want you to look at.”

She opened the folder and saw the top sheet. “It’s a
police
file.”

“From the Indian state of Andhra Pradesh, where the village
of
Bara was located.”

“What’s the status of their investigation?”

“It remains ongoing. The case is a year old, and they
haven’t
made much progress. I doubt this one is ever going to be solved. I’m not
even
sure it’s high on their priority list.”

“Nearly a hundred people were slaughtered, Agent Dean.”

“Yes, but you have to take this event in context.”

“An earthquake is an event. A hurricane is an event. An
entire
village of people being massacred isn’t an event. It’s a crime against
humanity.”

“Look at what else is happening in South Asia. In Kashmir,
mass
slaughters by both Hindus and Muslims. In India, the murders of Tamils and
Sikhs.
Then there are all the caste killings. Bombings by Maoist-Leninist
guerillas—”

“Mother Mary Clement believes it was a religious massacre. An
attack against Christians.”

“Such attacks do occur there. But the clinic where Sister
Ursula
worked was funded by a secular charity. The other two nurses—the ones who
died
in the massacre—weren’t affiliated with any church. That’s why
the
police in Andhra Pradesh are doubtful this was a religious attack. A political
attack,
perhaps. Or a hate crime, because the victims were lepers. This was a village of
the despised.” He pointed to the file she was holding. “There are
autopsy
reports I wanted you to see, as well as crime scene photos.”

She turned the page and stared at a photograph. Stunned by the
image,
she could not speak. She could not turn her eyes from the horror.

It was a vision of Armageddon.

Piled atop mounds of smoking wood and ash were seared corpses. The
fire’s heat had contracted flexor muscles, and the bodies were frozen in
pugilistic
attitudes. Mingled among the human remains were dead goats, their fur singed
black.

“They killed everything,” said Dean. “People.
Animals.
Even the chickens were slaughtered and burned.”

She forced herself to turn to the next photo.

She saw other corpses, more thoroughly consumed by the flames,
reduced
to piles of charred bones.

“The attack happened sometime during the night,” said
Dean.
“It wasn’t until the next morning that the bodies were discovered. Day
shift workers at a nearby factory noticed heavy smoke rising from the valley
below.
When they arrived to investigate, that’s what they found. Ninety-seven
people
dead, many of them women and children, as well as two nurses from the
clinic—both
of them Americans.”

“The same clinic where Ursula worked.”

Dean nodded. “Now here’s the really interesting
detail,”
he said.

She looked up, her attention suddenly sharpened by the change in
his
voice. “Yes?”

“That factory, near the village.”

“What about it?”

“It was owned by Octagon Chemicals.”

She stared at him. “Octagon? That’s the company Howard
Redfield
worked for?”

He nodded. “The one under SEC investigation. There are so
many
lines connecting these three victims, it’s starting to look like a giant
spiderweb.
We know Howard Redfield was a VP of foreign operations for Octagon, which owned
the
factory near Bara village. We know Sister Ursula worked in Bara village. We know
that Jane Doe suffered from Hansen’s disease, so she may have lived in Bara
village as well.”

“It all goes back to that village,” she said.

“To that massacre.”

Her gaze dropped to the photographs. “What are you hoping
I’ll
find in these autopsy reports?”

“Tell me if there’s something the Indian pathologists
missed.
Something that might shed light on that attack.”

She looked at the burned corpses and shook her head.
“It’s
going to be difficult. Incineration destroys too much. Whenever fire’s
involved,
the cause of death may be impossible to determine, unless there’s other
evidence.
Bullets, for instance, or fractures.”

“A number of the skulls were crushed, according to those
postmortem
reports. They concluded the victims were most likely bludgeoned while asleep.
The
bodies were then dragged from the huts to form several different piles, for
incineration.”

She turned to another photo. Another view of hell. “All these
victims,” she murmured. “And no one was able to escape?”

“It must have happened very quickly. Many of the victims were
probably crippled by disease and unable to run. It was, after all, a sanctuary
for
the sick. The village was cut off from society, isolated in a valley at the dead
end of a road. A large group of attackers could swoop in and easily slaughter a
hundred
people. And no one would hear the screams.”

Maura turned to the last photograph in the folder. It showed a
small
whitewashed building with a tin roof, the walls scorched by fire. Lying just
outside
the doorway was another jumble of corpses, limbs intertwined, features burned
beyond
recognition.

“That clinic was the only building still standing, because it
was built of cinder blocks,” said Dean. “The remains of the two
American
nurses were found in that pile there. A forensic anthropologist had to identify
them.
He said the burning was so complete, he believed the attackers must have used an
accelerant. Would you agree with that, Dr. Isles?”

Maura didn’t answer. She was no longer focused on the bodies.
She stared, instead, at something she found far more disturbing. Something that
made
her forget, for a few seconds, to breathe.

Over the clinic doorway hung a sign with a distinctive insignia: a
dove in flight, its wings spread in loving protection over a blue globe. An
insignia
she recognized at once.

It was a One Earth clinic.

“Dr. Isles?” said Dean.

She looked up, startled. Realized that he was still waiting for
her
response. “Bodies . . . aren’t all that easy to incinerate,” she
said.
“There’s too high a water content.”

“These bodies were charred down to bone.”

“Yes. That’s true. So an accelerant—you’re
right,
an accelerant was probably used.”

“Gasoline?”

“Gasoline would work. And it’s the most readily
available.”
Her gaze dropped back to the photos of the scorched clinic. “Also, you can
clearly
see the remains of a pyre, which later collapsed. These charred branches . .
.”

“Does that make a difference? Using a pyre?” he asked.

She cleared her throat. “Raising the bodies off the ground
allows
melting fat to drip into the flames. It . . . keeps the fire hot.” Abruptly
she swept up the photos and slid them back into the folder. Sat with her hands
clasped
atop the manila file, its surface smooth beneath her skin, its contents gnawing
a
hole in her heart. “If you don’t mind, Agent Dean, I’d like some
time
to review these autopsy reports. I’ll get back to you. May I keep the
entire
file?”

“Of course.” Dean rose from his chair. “You can
reach
me in Washington.”

She was still staring down at the folder, and did not see him head
for the door. Nor did she realize that he had turned back, and was looking at
her.

“Dr. Isles?”

She glanced up. “Yes?”

“I have another concern. Not about the case, but something
personal.
I’m not sure you’re the one I should ask about this.”

“What is it, Agent Dean?”

“Do you talk much with Jane?”

“Naturally. In the course of this investigation—”

“Not about work. About what’s been troubling her.”

She hesitated. I could tell him, she thought. Someone should tell
him.

“She’s always been strung pretty tightly,” he said.
“But there’s something else going on. I can see she’s under a lot
of pressure.”

“The abbey attack has been a difficult case for her.”

“It’s not the investigation. There’s something else
bothering her. Something she won’t talk about.”

“I’m not the one you should be asking. You need to speak
to Jane.”