Vanish (18 page)

What happens after that is anyone’s guess.”

This man could save Jane’s life, she thought. If he walked in there, Jane might be one of the

two hostages who walks out.
I would do it. But I can’t ask this man to risk his life, even for

Jane.

“It’s not every day a man gets the chance to play hero,” he said. “It
is
an opportunity of sorts.

A lot of journalists would jump at it.”

She laughed. “Very tempting. Book deal, TV movie of the week. Risk your life for a little fame

and fortune?”

“Hey, I’ve got a rusty old Toyota parked out there right now, and a mortgage with twenty-nine

years left to go, so fame and fortune doesn’t sound too bad.”

“If you live long enough to enjoy it.”

“That’s why I’m talking to you. You were with the shooter. You know what kind of people

we’re dealing with. Are they rational? Are they going to keep their side of the bargain? Will

they let me walk out of there after the interview’s over?”

“I can’t predict that.”

“That’s not a very helpful answer.”

“I refuse to be responsible for what happens to you. I can’t predict what they’ll do. I don’t even

know what they want.”

He sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

“Now I have a question for you. I assume you know the answer.”

“Your question is?”

“Of all the journalists they could have asked for, why did they choose you?”

“I have no idea.”

“You must have had some contact with them before.”

It was his hesitation that caught her attention. She leaned toward him. “You’ve heard from

them.”

“You have to understand, reporters hear from a lot of crazy people. Every week, I get at least a

few bizarre letters or phone calls about secret government conspiracies. If it’s not the evil oil

companies, then it’s black helicopters or UN plots. Most of the time I just ignore them. That’s

why I didn’t really think much of it. It was just another screwy phone call.”

“When?”

“A few days ago. One of my colleagues just reminded me of it, because he was the one who

answered the phone. Frankly, when the call came in, I was too busy to pay much attention. It

was late, and I was about to hit a deadline, and the last thing I wanted to do was talk to some

nutty guy.”

“The call was from a man?”

“Yeah. It came into the
Tribune
newsroom. The man asked if I’d looked at the package he sent

me. I didn’t know what he was talking about. He said he’d mailed me something a few weeks

before, which I never got. So he told me a woman would drop off another package at the front

desk that night. That as soon as it arrived, I should go down to the lobby immediately and pick

it up, because it was extremely sensitive.”

“Did you ever get that second package?”

“No. The guard at the front desk said no woman ever showed up that night. I went home and

forgot all about it. Until now.” He paused. “I’m wondering if that was Joe who called me.”

“Why choose you?”

“I have no idea.”

“These people seem to know you.”

“Maybe they’ve read my column. Maybe they’re fans.” At Maura’s silence, he gave a selfdeprecating laugh. “Fat chance, huh?”

“Have you ever appeared on television?” she asked, thinking: He has the face, the dark good

looks for it.

“Never.”

“And you’re only published in the
Boston Tribune
?”

“
Only?
Nice put-down, Dr. Isles.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I’ve been a reporter since I was twenty-two. Started off freelancing for the
Boston Phoenix

and
Boston Magazine.
It was fun for a while, but freelancing is no way to pay the bills, so I

was happy to land a spot at the
Tribune.
Started off on the city beat, spent a few years in DC as

their Washington correspondent. Then came back to Boston when they offered me a weekly

column. So yeah, I’ve been at this reporting gig for a while. I’m not making a fortune, but

obviously I’ve got some fans. Since Joseph Roke seems to know who I am.” He paused. “At

least I
hope
he’s a fan. And not some pissed-off reader.”

“Even if he is a fan, this is a dangerous situation you’re walking into.”

“I know.”

“You understand the setup?”

“A cameraman and me. It’ll be a live feed to some local TV station. I assume the hostage takers

have some way of monitoring that we’re actually on the air. I also assume they won’t object to

the standard five-second delay, just in case . . .” He stopped.

In case something goes terribly wrong.

Lukas took a deep breath. “What would you do, Dr. Isles? In my place?”

“I’m not a journalist.”

“So you’d refuse.”

“A normal person doesn’t willingly walk into a hostage situation.”

“Meaning, journalists aren’t normal people?”

“Just think hard about it.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. That four hostages could walk out of there alive if I do this.

For once, something
I
do will be worth writing about.”

“And you’re willing to risk your life?”

“I’m willing to take the chance,” he said. Then added with quiet honesty: “But I’m scared as

hell of it, too.” His frankness was disarming; few men were brave enough to admit they were

afraid. “Captain Hayder wants my answer by nine P.M.”

“What are you going to do?”

“The cameraman’s already agreed to go in. That makes me feel like a coward if I don’t do it.

Especially if four hostages could be saved. I keep thinking of all those reporters in Baghdad

right now, and what they face every day. This should be a cakewalk in comparison. I go in, talk

to the wackos, let them tell me their story, and then I walk out. Maybe that’s all they want—a

chance to vent, to have people listen to them. I could end the whole crisis by doing this.”

“You want to be a savior.”

“No! No, I’m just . . .” He laughed. “Trying to justify taking this crazy chance.”

“You called it that. I didn’t.”

“The truth is, I’m no hero. I never saw the point of risking my life if I didn’t have to. But I’m

as baffled about this as you are. I want to know why they chose me.” He glanced at his watch.

“It’s almost nine. I guess I’d better call Barsanti.” Rising to his feet, he turned toward the door.

Suddenly paused and glanced back.

Maura’s phone was ringing.

She picked it up to hear Abe Bristol say: “Are you watching TV?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Turn it on, channel six. It’s not good.”

As Lukas watched, she crossed to the TV, her heart suddenly pounding.
What has happened?

What’s gone wrong?
She clicked on the remote, and the face of Zoe Fossey at once filled the

screen.

“. . . official spokesman has refused comment, but we have confirmed that one of the hostages

is a Boston police officer. Detective Jane Rizzoli made national headlines just last month,

during the investigation of a kidnapped housewife in Natick. We have no word yet as to the

condition of any of the hostages, or how Detective Rizzoli happened to be among them . . .”

“My god,” murmured Lukas, standing right beside her. She had not been aware that he had

moved so close to her. “There’s a
cop
trapped in there?”

Maura looked at him. “She could very well be a dead cop.”

That’s it. I’m going to die.

Jane sat frozen on the couch, waiting for the gun’s blast as Joe turned from the TV to stare at

her. But it was the woman who advanced on Jane, her steps slow and excruciatingly deliberate.

Olena
was the name Joe had called his partner. At least now I know the names of my

murderers, thought Jane. She felt the orderly lean away from her, as though to avoid getting

splattered with her blood. Jane’s gaze remained fixed on Olena’s face; she dared not look at the

gun. She did not want to see that barrel rising toward her head, did not want to watch the hand

tighten around the grip. Better that I can’t see the bullet coming, she thought. Better that I look

this woman in the eye, that I force her to see the human being she’s about to blow away. She

could read no emotions there; they were a doll’s eyes. Blue glass. Olena was now dressed in

clothes that she had scrounged from a locker room: scrub pants and a doctor’s lab coat. A killer

disguised in healer’s garb.

“This is true?” Olena asked softly.

Jane felt her womb tighten, and she bit her lip at the mounting pain of the new contraction. My

poor baby, she thought. You will never take your first breath. She felt Dr. Tam reach out and

grasp her hand, offering silent comfort.

“The TV, it tells the truth? You are police?”

Jane swallowed. “Yes,” she whispered.

“They said you’re a detective,” Joe cut in. “Are you?”

Gripped by the contraction, Jane rocked forward, her vision darkening. “Yes,” she groaned.

“Yes, goddamm it! I’m with—with the homicide unit . . .”

Olena glanced down at the hospital ID bracelet that she’d earlier torn from Jane’s wrist. It was

still on the floor near the couch. She picked it up and handed it to Joe.

“Rizzoli, Jane,” he read.

The worst of the contraction was over now. She released a sharp breath and sank back against

the couch, her hospital gown drenched in sweat. Too exhausted to fight back, even to save her

own life. How could she fight back?
I cannot even get up off this soft couch without a helping

hand.
Defeated, she watched as Joe picked up her medical chart and flipped open the manila

cover.

“Rizzoli, Jane,” he read aloud. “Married, address on Claremont Street. Occupation: Detective,

Homicide Unit. Boston PD.” He looked at her with dark eyes so penetrating that she wanted to

shrink from them. Unlike Olena, this man was utterly calm and in control. That’s what scared

Jane most—that he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. “A homicide detective. And

you just
happen
to be here?”

“Must be my lucky day,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Answer me. How did you just happen to be here?”

Jane’s chin snapped up. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m having a baby.”

Dr. Tam said, “I’m her obstetrician. I admitted her this morning.”

“The timing, that’s what I don’t like,” said Joe. “This is all wrong.”

Jane flinched as Joe grabbed her hospital gown and yanked it up. For a moment he stared

down at Jane’s swollen abdomen, her heavy breasts, now bared for everyone in the room to

see. Without a word, he let the gown fall back over Jane’s torso.

“Are you satisfied, asshole?” Jane blurted, cheeks burning from the humiliation. “What did you

expect, a fat suit?” The instant the words were out of her mouth, she knew it was a stupid thing

to say. First rule of hostage survival:
Never piss off the guy holding the gun.
But by wrenching

aside her gown, he had assaulted her, exposed her, and she was now trembling with rage.

“You think I
want
to be trapped in here with you two whack jobs?”

She felt Dr. Tam’s hand tighten around her wrist in a silent plea to shut up. Jane shook off the

hand and kept her fury focused on their captors.

“Yes, I’m a cop. And guess what? You two are royally screwed. You kill me, and you know

what happens, don’t you? You know what my buddies do to cop killers?”

Joe and Olena looked at each other. Were they making a decision? Coming to an agreement

about whether she lived or died?

“A mistake,” said Joe. “That’s all you are, Detective. You’re in the wrong fucking place at the

wrong fucking time.”

You said it, asshole.

She was startled when Joe suddenly laughed. He paced to the other end of the room, shaking

his head. When he turned back to face her, she saw that his weapon was now pointed at the

floor. Not at her.

“So are you a good cop?” he asked.

“What?”

“On TV, they said you worked a case with a missing housewife.”

“A pregnant woman. She was kidnapped.”

“How did it end?”

“She’s alive. The perp’s dead.”

“So you’re good.”

“I did my job.”

Another look passed between Olena and Joe.

He came toward Jane, until he was standing right in front of her. “What if I was to tell you

about a crime? What if I told you that justice wasn’t served? That it can never be served?”

“Why can’t it be?”

He reached for a chair, pulled it in front of her, and sat down. Their gazes were now level.

Dark eyes met hers with unwavering focus. “Because it was committed by our own

government.”

Oops. Cuckoo alert.

“Do you have proof?” Jane asked, managing to keep her voice neutral.

“We have a witness,” he said, and pointed to Olena. “She saw it happen.”

“Witness reports aren’t necessarily sufficient.”
Especially when the witness is crazy.

“Are you aware of all the criminal acts our government is guilty of? The crimes they commit

every day? The assassinations, kidnappings? Poisoning their own citizens, in the name of

profits? It’s big business that runs this country, and we’re all expendable. Take soft drinks, for

example.”

“Excuse me?”

“Diet soft drinks. The US government bought ’em by the container load for its troops in the

Gulf. I was there, and I saw cans and cans, sitting in the heat. What do you think happens to

the chemicals in diet drinks when they’re exposed to heat? They turn toxic. They turn to