“No, I don’t understand.” Maura dropped the phone
into
her purse and met Rizzoli’s gaze. “I gave him to you. I handed you the
answer.”
“And he confirmed it all. The Bhopal scenario. You were right
about the dead birds.”
“Yet you shut me out of the room. As if you didn’t trust
me.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what, the truth? That he used me?” Maura gave a
bitter
laugh and turned to leave. “That, I already knew.”
Maura drove to St. Francis Hospital through a gathering flurry of
snow, her hands calm and steady on the wheel. The Queen of the Dead, on her way
to
claim another subject. By the time she pulled into the parking garage, she was
ready
to play the part she’d always played so well, ready to don the only mask
she
allowed the public to see.
She stepped out of the Lexus, black coat sweeping behind her,
boots
clipping across the pavement as she walked through the parking garage, toward
the
elevator. Sodium lights cast the cars in an eerie glow, and she felt as if she
was
moving through an orange mist. That if she just rubbed her eyes, the mist would
clear.
She saw no one else in the garage, and heard only her own footsteps, echoing off
concrete.
In the hospital lobby, she walked past the Christmas tree,
sparkling
with multicolored lights, past the volunteers’ desk, where an elderly woman
sat with a red Santa’s elf cap jauntily perched on her gray hair. “Joy
to the World” was playing over the sound system.
Even in the ICU, the holiday spirit twinkled in ironic good cheer.
The nurses’ station was draped with fake pine garlands, and the ward clerk
had
tiny gold Christmas bulbs dangling from her ears.
“I’m Dr. Isles, from the Medical Examiner’s
office,”
she said. “Is Dr. Yuen here?”
“He just got called into emergency surgery. He asked Dr.
Sutcliffe
to come in and turn off the ventilator.”
“Has the chart been photocopied for me?”
“It’s all ready for you.” The ward clerk pointed to
a thick envelope on the counter, with “Save for Medical Examiner”
scrawled
across it.
“Thank you.”
Maura opened the envelope and took out the photocopied chart. She
read
through the sad accumulation of evidence that Sister Ursula was beyond saving:
two
separate EEGs had shown no brain activity, and a handwritten note by the
neurosurgeon
Dr. Yuen admitted defeat:
Patient remains unresponsive to deep pain, with no spontaneous
respirations.
Pupils remain mid-position and fixed. Repeat EEG shows no brain activity.
Cardiac
enzymes confirm myocardial infarction. Dr. Sutcliffe to inform family of status.
Assessment: Irreversible coma secondary to prolonged cerebral
anoxia
after recent cardiac arrest.
She turned, at last, to the pages of lab results. She saw neatly
printed
columns of cell counts and blood and urine chemistries. How ironic, she thought
as
she closed the chart, to die with most of your blood tests perfectly normal.
Maura crossed to Cubicle #10, where the patient was getting her
final
sponge bath. Standing at the foot of the bed, Maura watched the nurse peel back
the
sheets and remove Ursula’s gown, revealing not the body of an ascetic, but
of
a woman who had heartily indulged in meals, generous breasts spilling sideways,
pale
thighs heavy and dimpled. In life, she would have appeared formidable, her stout
figure made even more imposing by her voluminous nun’s robes. Now, stripped
of those robes, she was like any other patient. Death does not discriminate;
whether
saints or sinners, in the end, all are equal.
The nurse wrung out the washcloth and wiped down the torso,
leaving
the skin slick and shiny. Then she began to sponge the legs, bending the knees
to
clean beneath the calves. Old scars pocked the shins, the ugly aftermath of
infected
insect bites. Souvenirs of a life lived abroad. Finished with her task, the
nurse
picked up the washbasin and walked out of the cubicle, leaving Maura alone with
the
patient.
What was it you knew, Ursula? What could you have told us?
“Dr. Isles?”
She turned to see Dr. Sutcliffe standing behind her. His gaze was
far
more wary than the first time they’d met. No longer the friendly hippie
doctor
with the ponytail.
“I didn’t know you’d be coming in,” he said.
“Dr. Yuen called me. Our office will assume custody of the
body.”
“Why? The cause of death is pretty obvious. You only have to
look
at her cardiogram.”
“It’s just protocol. We routinely take custody whenever
there’s
a criminal assault involved.”
“Well, I think it’s a waste of taxpayer money, in this
case.”
She ignored his comment and looked at Ursula. “I take it
you’ve
spoken to the family about withdrawing life support?”
“The nephew agreed to it. We’re just waiting for the
priest
to get here. The sisters at the convent asked that Father Brophy be
present.”
She watched Ursula’s chest rise and fall with the cycling of
the
ventilator. The heart continued to beat, the organs to function. Draw a tube of
blood
from Ursula’s vein, send it down to the laboratory, and none of their
tests,
none of their sophisticated machines, would reveal that this woman’s soul
had
already fled her body.
She said, “I’d appreciate it if you could forward the
final
death summaries to my office.”
“Dr. Yuen will be dictating it. I’ll let him know.”
“And any last lab reports that come in as well.”
“They should all be in the chart by now.”
“There was no tox screen report. The test was done,
wasn’t
it?”
“It should have been. I’ll check with the lab and call
you
with the results.”
“The lab needs to send the report directly to me. If it
wasn’t
done, we’ll do it at the morgue.”
“You do tox screens on everyone?” He shook his head.
“Sounds
like another waste of taxpayer money.”
“We only do them when indicated. I’m thinking about the
urticaria
I saw, the night she coded. I’ll ask Dr. Bristol to draw the tox screen
when
he does the autopsy.”
“I assumed you’d be doing it.”
“No. I’m going to hand this case over to one of my
colleagues.
If you have any questions after the holidays, you should speak to Dr. Abe
Bristol.”
She was relieved when he didn’t ask her why she was not doing
the autopsy. And what would she have said?
My ex-husband is now a suspect in
this
death. I cannot let there be even a whisper of a question that I’ve been
less
than thorough. Less than complete.
“The priest is here,” said Sutcliffe. “I guess
it’s
time.”
She turned and felt her cheeks flush when she saw Father Brophy
standing
in the doorway. Their eyes locked in instant familiarity, the gaze of two people
who, at that somber moment, have suddenly recognized the sparks between them.
She
dropped her gaze as he stepped into the cubicle. She and Sutcliffe withdrew to
allow
the priest to administer last rites.
Through the cubicle window, she watched as Father Brophy stood
over
Ursula’s bed, his lips moving in prayer, absolving the nun of her sins. And
what of my sins, Father? she wondered, as she gazed at his striking profile.
Would
you be shocked to learn what I am thinking and feeling about you? Would you
absolve
me, and forgive me for my weaknesses?
He anointed Ursula’s forehead, traced the sign of the cross
with
his hand. Then he looked up.
It was time to let Ursula die.
Father Brophy emerged, to stand beside Maura outside the window.
Sutcliffe
and a nurse now entered.
What happened next was disturbingly matter-of-fact. The flip of a
few
switches, and that was all. The ventilator went silent, the bellows wheezing to
a
stop. The nurse turned her gaze to the heart monitor as the blips began to slow.
Maura felt Father Brophy move close beside her, as though to
reassure
her that he was there, should she need comfort. It was not comfort he inspired,
but
confusion. Attraction. She kept her gaze focused on the drama playing out beyond
the window, thinking: Always the wrong men. Why am I drawn to the men I cannot,
or
should not, have?
On the monitor, the first stumbled heartbeat appeared, then
another.
Starved of oxygen, the heart struggled on, even as its cells were dying. A
stuttering
of beats now, deteriorating to the last twitches of ventricular fibrillation.
Maura
had to suppress the instinct to respond, ingrained by so many years of medical
training.
This arrhythmia would not be treated; this heart would not be rescued.
The line, at last, went flat.
Maura lingered by the cubicle, watching the aftermath of
Ursula’s
passing. They wasted no time on mourning or reflection. Dr. Sutcliffe pressed a
stethoscope
to Ursula’s chest, shook his head, and walked out of the cubicle. The nurse
turned off the monitor and disconnected the cardiac leads and IVs, in
preparation
for the transfer. Already, the morgue retrieval team was on its way.
Maura’s task here was done.
She left Father Brophy standing by the cubicle, and returned to
the
nursing station.
“There’s one more thing I forgot to mention,” she
said
to the ward clerk.
“Yes?”
“For our records, we’ll need contact information for the
next of kin. The only number I saw in the chart was the convent’s. I
understand
she has a nephew. Do you have his phone number?”
“Dr. Isles?”
She turned and saw Father Brophy standing behind her, buttoning up
his coat. He gave an apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to listen in, but I can
help
you with that. We keep all the family contact information for the sisters in our
parish office. I’ll look up the number for you, and call you about it
later.”
“I’d appreciate that. Thank you.” She picked up the
photocopied chart and turned to leave.
“Oh, and Dr. Isles?”
She glanced back. “Yes?”
“I know this may not be the most appropriate moment to say
it,
but I wanted to, anyway.” He smiled. “Have a merry Christmas.”
“And a merry Christmas to you too, Father.”
“You’ll come by for a visit someday? Just to say
hello?”
“I’ll certainly try,” she replied. Knowing, even as
she said it, that it was a courteous lie. That to walk away from this man and
never
look back was the most sensible move she could make.
And that’s what she did.
Stepping out of the hospital, the blast of cold air shocked her.
She
hugged the chart close to her and headed into the wind’s icy teeth. On this
holy night, she walked alone, her only companion the bundle of papers she now
carried.
Crossing through the garage, she saw no one else, and heard only her own
footsteps,
echoing off concrete.
She quickened her pace. Paused twice to glance back and confirm
she
was not being followed. By the time she reached her car, she was breathing hard.
I’ve seen too much death, she thought. Now I feel it everywhere.
She climbed into her car and locked the doors.
Merry Christmas, Dr. Isles. You reap what you sow, and tonight,
you’ve
reaped loneliness.
Pulling out of the hospital parking lot, she had to squint against
a pair of headlights shining in her rearview mirror. Another car was leaving
right
behind hers. Father Brophy? she wondered. And where would he go on this
Christmas
Eve, home to his parish residence? Or would he linger in his church tonight, to
minister
to all the lonely members of his flock who might wander in?
Her cell phone rang.
She dug it out of her purse and flipped it open. “Dr.
Isles.”
“Hey, Maura,” said her colleague, Abe Bristol.
“What’s
with the surprise I hear you’re sending me from St. Francis Hospital?”
“I can’t do the autopsy on this one, Abe.”
“So you hand it over to me on Christmas Eve? Nice.”
“I’m sorry about this. You know I don’t usually
pass
the buck.”
“This is the nun I’ve been hearing about?”
“Yes. There’s no urgency. The postmortem can wait till
after
the holiday. She’s been hospitalized since the assault, and they
discontinued
life support just a little while ago. There’s been extensive
neurosurgery.”
“So the intracranial exam won’t be very helpful.”
“No, there’ll be post-op changes.”
“Cause of death?”
“She coded early yesterday morning, from a myocardial
infarction.
Since I’m familiar with the case, I’ve already taken care of the
preliminaries
for you. I’ve got a copy of the chart, and I’ll bring it in day after
tomorrow.”
“May I ask why you’re not handling this one?”
“I don’t think my name should be on the report.”
“Why not?”
She was silent.
“Maura, why are you taking yourself off this case?”
“Personal reasons.”
“Did you know this patient?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“I know one of the suspects,” she said. “I was
married
to him.”
She hung up, tossed the cell phone on the seat, and turned her
attention
to getting home. To retreating to safety.
Snowflakes were falling, as fat as cotton balls, by the time she
turned
into her own street. It was a magical sight, that thick curtain of snow, the
silvery
drifts blanketing front lawns. The stillness of a sacred night.
She lit a fire in her hearth and cooked a simple meal of tomato
soup
and melted cheese on toast. Poured a glass of zinfandel and brought it all into
the
living room, where the Christmas tree lights twinkled. But she could not finish
even
that small supper. She pushed aside the tray, and sipped the last of her wine as
she gazed at the fireplace. She fought the urge to pick up the phone and try to
reach
Victor. Had he caught that plane to San Francisco? She didn’t even know
where
he was tonight, or what she would say to him. We’ve betrayed each other,
she
thought; no love can survive that.
