Vanish (26 page)

Yoshima said, “I can X-ray that arm right now. It will only take a few minutes.”

Maura sighed and stripped off her soiled gloves. “It’s almost certainly a waste of time, but we

might as well settle the question right now.”

In the anteroom, shielded behind lead, Maura and Gabriel watched through the window as

Yoshima positioned the arm on a film cassette and angled the collimator. Maura is right,

thought Gabriel, this is probably a waste of time, but he needed to locate the dividing line

between fear and paranoia, between truth and delusion. He saw Maura glance up at the clock

on the wall, and knew she was anxious to continue cutting. The most important part of the

autopsy—the head and neck dissection—had yet to be completed.

Yoshima retrieved the film cassette and disappeared into the processing room.

“Okay, he’s done. Let’s get back to work,” Maura said. She pulled on fresh gloves and moved

back to the table. Standing at the corpse’s head, hands tunneling through the tangle of black

hair, she palpated the cranium. Then, with one efficient slice, she cut through the scalp. He

could scarcely stand to watch the mutilation of this beautiful woman. A face was little more

than skin and muscle and cartilage, which easily yielded to the pathologist’s knife. Maura

grasped the severed edge of scalp and peeled it forward, the long hair draping like a black

curtain over the face.

Yoshima re-emerged from the processing room. “Dr. Isles?”

“X-ray’s ready?”

“Yes. And there’s something here.”

Maura glanced up. “What?”

“You can see it under the skin.” He mounted the X-ray on the light box. “This thing,” he said,

pointing.

Maura crossed to the X-ray and stared in silence at the thin white strip tracing through soft

tissue. Nothing natural could be that straight, that uniform.

“It’s man-made,” said Gabriel. “Do you think—”

“That’s not a microchip,” said Maura.

“There
is
something there.”

“It’s not metallic. It’s not dense enough.”

“What are we looking at?”

“Let’s find out.” Maura returned to the corpse and picked up her scalpel. Rotating the left arm,

she exposed the scar. The cut she made was startlingly swift and deep, a single stroke that

sliced through skin and subcutaneous fat, all the way down to muscle. This patient would never

complain about an ugly incision or a severed nerve; the indignities she suffered in this room, on

that table, meant nothing to senseless flesh.

Maura reached for a pair of forceps and plunged the tips into the wound. As she rooted around

in freshly incised tissue, Gabriel was repelled by the brutal exploration, but he could not turn

away. He heard her give a murmur of satisfaction, and suddenly her forceps re-emerged, the

tips clamped around what looked like a glistening matchstick.

“I know what this is,” she said, setting the object on a specimen tray. “This is Silastic tubing.

It’s simply migrated deeper than it should have after it was inserted. It’s been encapsulated by

scar tissue. That’s why I couldn’t feel it through the skin. We needed an X-ray to know it was

even there.”

“What’s this thing for?”

“Norplant. This tube contained a progestin that’s slowly released over time, preventing

ovulation.”

“A contraceptive.”

“Yes. You don’t see many of these implanted anymore. The product has been discontinued in

the US. Usually they’re implanted six at a time, in a fanlike pattern. Whoever removed the other

five missed this one.”

The intercom buzzed. “Dr. Isles?” It was Louise again. “You have a call.”

“Can you take a message?”

“I think you need to answer this one. It’s Joan Anstead, in the governor’s office.”

Maura’s head snapped up. She looked at Gabriel, and for the first time he saw unease flicker in

her eyes. She set down the scalpel, stripped off her gloves, and crossed to pick up the phone.

“This is Dr. Isles,” she said. Though Gabriel could not hear the other half of the conversation,

it was clear just by Maura’s body language that this was not a welcome phone call. “Yes, I’ve

already started it. This is in our jurisdiction. Why does the FBI think they can . . .” A long

pause. Maura turned to face the wall, and her spine was now rigid. “But I haven’t completed

the postmortem. I’m about to open the cranium. If you’ll just give me another half hour—”

Another pause. Then, coldly: “I understand. We’ll have the remains ready for transfer in an

hour.” She hung up. Took a deep breath, and turned to Yoshima. “Pack her up. They want

Joseph Roke’s body as well.”

“What’s going on?” Yoshima asked.

“They’re being shipped to the FBI lab. They want everything—all organs and tissue

specimens. Agent Barsanti will be assuming custody.”

“This has never happened before,” said Yoshima.

She yanked off her mask and reached back to untie the gown. Whipping it off, she tossed it in

the soiled linens bin. “The order comes straight from the governor’s office.”

TWENTY-THREE

Jane jerked awake, every muscle snapping taut. She saw darkness, heard the muted growl of a

car passing on the street below, and the even rhythm of Gabriel’s breathing as he slept soundly

beside her. I am home, she thought. I’m lying in my own bed, in my own apartment, and we’re

all safe. All three of us. She took a deep breath and waited for her heart to stop pounding. The

sweat-soaked nightgown slowly chilled against her skin. Eventually these nightmares will go

away, she thought. These are just the fading echoes of screams.

She turned toward her husband, seeking the warmth of his body, the familiar comfort of his

scent. But just as her arm was about to drape around his waist, she heard the baby crying in the

other room. Oh please, not yet, she thought. It’s only been three hours since I fed you. Give me

another twenty minutes. Another ten minutes. Let me stay in my own bed just a little while

longer. Let me shake off these bad dreams.

But the crying continued, louder now, more insistent with every fresh wail.

Jane rose and shuffled from the darkness of her bedroom, shutting the door behind her so that

Gabriel would not be disturbed. She flipped on the nursery light and looked down at her redfaced and screaming daughter. Only three days old, and already you’ve worn me out, she

thought. Lifting the baby from the crib, she felt that greedy little mouth rooting for her breast.

As Jane settled into the rocking chair, pink gums clamped down like a vise on her nipple. But

the offered breast was only temporary satisfaction; soon the baby was fussing again, and no

matter how closely Jane cuddled her, rocked her, her daughter would not stop squirming. What

am I doing wrong, she wondered, staring down at her frustrated infant. Why am I so clumsy at

this? Seldom had Jane felt so inadequate, yet this three-day-old baby had reduced her to such

helplessness that, at four in the morning, she felt the sudden, desperate urge to call her mother

and plead for some maternal wisdom. The sort of wisdom that was supposed to be instinctual,

but had somehow skipped Jane by. Stop crying, baby, please stop crying, she thought. I’m so

tired. All I want to do is go back to bed, but you won’t let me. And I don’t know how to make

you go to sleep.

She rose from the chair and paced the room, rocking the baby as she walked. What did she

want? Why was she still crying? She walked her into the kitchen and stood jiggling the baby as

she stared, dazed by exhaustion, at the cluttered countertop. She thought of her life before

motherhood, before Gabriel, when she would come home from work and pop open a bottle of

beer and put her feet up on the couch. She loved her daughter, and she loved her husband, but

she was so very tired, and she did not know when she’d be able to crawl back into bed. The

night stretched ahead of her, an ordeal without end.

I can’t keep this up. I need help.

She opened the kitchen cabinet and gazed at the cans of infant formula, free samples from the

hospital. The baby screamed louder. She didn’t know what else to do. Demoralized, she

reached for a can. She poured formula into a feeding bottle and set it in a pot of hot tap water,

where it sat warming, a monument to her defeat. A symbol of her utter failure as a mother.

The instant she offered the bottle, pink lips clamped down on the rubber nipple and the baby

began to suck with noisy gusto. No more wailing or squirming, just happy-baby noises.

Wow. Magic from a can.

Exhausted, Jane sank into a chair. I surrender, she thought, as the bottle rapidly emptied. The

can wins. Her gaze drifted down to the
Name Your Baby
book lying on the kitchen table. It

was still open to the L’s, where she’d last left off skimming the names for girls. Their daughter

had come home from the hospital still nameless, and Jane now felt a sense of desperation as

she reached for the book.

Who are you, baby? Tell me your name.

But her daughter wasn’t giving away any secrets; she was too busy sucking down formula.

Laura? Laurel? Laurelia?
Too soft, too sweet. This kid was none of those. She was going to

be a hell-raiser.

The bottle was already half empty.

Piglet. Now there was an appropriate name.

Jane flipped to the M’s. Through bleary eyes she surveyed the list, considering each

possibility, then glancing down at her ferocious infant.

Mercy? Meryl? Mignon?
None of the above. She turned the page, her eyes so tired now that

she could barely focus. Why is this so hard? The girl needs a name, so just choose one! Her

gaze slid down the page and stopped.

Mila.

She went stock-still, staring at the name. A chill snaked up her spine. She realized that she had

said the name aloud.

Mila.

The room suddenly went cold, as though a ghost had just slipped through the doorway and

was now hovering right behind her. She could not help a glance over her shoulder. Shivering,

she rose and carried her now-sleeping daughter back to the crib. But that icy sense of dread

would not leave her, and she lingered in her daughter’s room, hugging herself as she rocked in

the chair, trying to understand why she was shaking. Why seeing the name
Mila
had so

disturbed her. As her baby slept, as the minutes ticked toward dawn, she rocked and rocked.

“Jane?”

Startled, she looked up to see Gabriel standing in the doorway. “Why don’t you come to bed?”

he asked.

“I can’t sleep.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I think you’re just tired.” He came into the room and pressed a kiss to her head. “You need to

go back to bed.”

“God, I’m so bad at this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“No one told me how hard it would be, this mommy thing. I can’t even breast-feed her. Every

dumb cat knows how to feed her kittens, but I’m hopeless. She just fusses and fusses.”

“She seems to be sleeping fine now.”

“That’s because I gave her formula. From a
bottle.
” She gave a snort. “I couldn’t fight it

anymore. She was hungry and screaming, and there’s that can sitting right there. Hell, who

needs a mommy when you’ve got Similac?”

“Oh, Jane. Is that what you’re upset about?”

“It’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“But you’ve got that tone of voice.
This is too stupid to be believed.
”

“I think you’re exhausted, that’s all. How many times have you been up?”

“Twice. No, three times. Jesus, I can’t even remember.”

“You should have given me a kick. I didn’t know you were up.”

“It’s not just the baby. It’s also . . .” Jane paused. Said, quietly: “It’s the dreams.”

He pulled a chair close to hers and sat down. “What dreams are you talking about?”

“The same one over and over. About that night, in the hospital. In my dream, I know

something terrible has happened, but I can’t move, I can’t talk. I can feel blood on my face, I

can taste it. And I’m so scared that . . .” She took a deep breath. “I’m scared to death that it’s

your blood.”

“It’s only been three days, Jane. You’re still processing what happened.”

“I just want it to go away.”

“You need time to get past the nightmares.” He added, quietly: “We both do.”

She looked up at his tired eyes, his unshaven face. “You’re having them, too?”

He nodded. “Aftershocks.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“It would be surprising if we weren’t having nightmares.”

“What are yours about?”

“You. The baby . . .” He stopped, and his gaze slid away. “It’s not something I really want to

talk about.”

They were silent for a moment, neither one looking at the other. A few feet away, their

daughter slept soundly in her crib, the only one in the family untroubled by nightmares. This is

what love does to you, Jane thought. It makes you afraid, not brave. It gives the world

carnivorous teeth that are poised at any moment to rip away chunks of your life.

Gabriel reached out and took both her hands in his. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said softly.

“Let’s go back to bed.”

They turned off the light in the nursery and slipped into the shadows of their own bedroom.

Under cool sheets he held her. Darkness lightened to gray outside their window, and the

sounds of dawn drifted in. To a city girl, the roar of a garbage truck, the thump of car radios,