Vanish (9 page)

been talking to her. We think she’s the real deal . . .”

“What the hell is this?” said Stillman. “It’s got to be a hoax. We have those phone lines

isolated.”

“Just listen,” said Hayder.

“. . . so hello, miss?” said the DJ. “Talk to us. Tell us your name.”

A woman’s throaty voice answered: “My name is not important.”

“Okay. Well, why the heck are you doing this?”

“The die is cast. This is all I wish to say.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Tell them. Say it. The die is cast.”

“Okay, okay. Whatever it means, the whole city of Boston’s just heard it. Folks, if you’re

listening, the die is cast. This is Rob Roy at KBUR, and we’re on the phone with the lady

who’s causing all that ruckus over at the—”

“You tell the police to stay away,” the woman said. “I have six people here in this room. I have

enough bullets for everyone.”

“Whoa, ma’am! You want to calm down there. There’s no reason to hurt anybody.”

Stillman’s face had flushed an angry red. He turned to Hayder. “How did this happen? I

thought we isolated those phone lines.”

“We did. She used a cell phone to call out.”

“Whose cell phone?”

“The number’s listed to a Stephanie Tam.”

“Do we know who that is?”

“. . . oops! Folks, I’m in trouble,” said Rob Roy. “My producer just told me that I have been

ordered by Boston’s finest to cease and desist talking to this caller. The police are going to shut

us down, friends, and I’m going to have to cut this conversation short. Are you still there,

ma’am? Hello?” A pause. “It looks like we lost our caller. Well, I hope she calms down. Lady,

if you’re still listening to me, please don’t hurt anyone. We can get you help, okay? And to all

my listeners out there, you heard it on KBUR. ‘The die is cast . . .’ ”

Emerton stopped the recording. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s what we caught on tape. We shut

down that call right there, as soon as we heard who the DJ was talking to. But that much of the

conversation got on the air.”

Stillman looked stunned. He stared at the now-silent audio equipment.

“What the hell is she doing, Leroy?” asked Hayder. “Was that just a cry for attention? Is she

trying to get public sympathy?”

“I don’t know. It was weird.”

“Why isn’t she talking to
us
? Why call a radio station? We’re the ones trying to call her, and

she keeps hanging up on us!”

“She has an accent.” Stillman looked at Hayder. “She’s definitely not American.”

“And what was that thing she said?
The die is cast.
What’s that supposed to mean? The game’s

in play?”

“It’s a quote from Julius Caesar,” said Maura.

They all looked at her. “What?”

“It’s what Caesar said as he stood on the edge of the Rubicon. If he crossed the river, it meant

he was declaring civil war on Rome. He knew, if he made that move, there’d be no turning

back.”

“What does Julius Caesar have to do with any of this?” said Hayder.

“I’m just telling you where the phrase comes from. When Caesar ordered his troops to cross

the river, he knew he’d passed the point of no return. It was a gamble, but he was a gambler,

and he liked to play dice. When he made his choice, he said, ‘The die is cast.’ ” She paused.

“And he marched into history.”

“So that’s what it means to cross the Rubicon,” said Stillman.

Maura nodded. “Our hostage taker has made a choice. She’s just told us there’s no turning

back.”

Emerton called out: “We’ve got the info on that cell phone. Stephanie Tam is one of the doctors

at the medical center. Department of OB-Gyn. She’s not answering her beeper, and the last

time anyone saw her, she was headed down to Diagnostic Imaging to see her patient. The

hospital’s going through their personnel roster, trying to identify everyone on staff who’s still

unaccounted for.”

“It seems we now have the name of at least one of the hostages,” said Stillman.

“What about that cell phone? We tried calling it, but she hangs up on us. Do we let it stay

operative?”

“If we cut off service, we could make her angry. For the moment, allow her to keep the link.

We’ll just monitor her calls.” Stillman paused and took out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat

from his forehead. “At least she’s now communicating—just not with us.”

It’s already stifling in here, thought Maura, looking at Stillman’s flushed face. And the day’s

about to get much hotter. She felt herself swaying and realized she could not bear to stay in this

trailer a moment longer. “I need to get some fresh air,” she said. “Can I leave?”

Stillman gave her a distracted glance. “Yes. Yes, go ahead. Wait—do we have your contact

information?”

“Captain Hayder has my home and cell phone number. You can reach me twenty-four hours a

day.”

She stepped outside and paused, blinking in the midday sunshine. Taking in, through dazed

eyes, the chaos on Albany Street. This was the same street she traveled to work every day, the

same view she saw every morning as she approached the driveway of the medical examiner’s

building. It had been transformed into a snarl of vehicles and a regiment of Special Operations

Division cops in black uniforms. Everyone was waiting for the next move of the woman who

had lit the fuse on this crisis. A woman whose identity was still a mystery to them all.

She started toward her building, weaving past parked cruisers, and ducked beneath a strand of

police tape. Only as she straightened again did she spot the familiar figure walking toward her.

In the two years she’d known Gabriel Dean, she had never seen him agitated, had seldom seen

him display any strong emotions. But the man she now saw was wearing an expression of

unalloyed panic.

“Have you heard any names yet?” he asked.

She shook her head, bewildered. “Names?”

“The hostages. Who’s in the building?”

“I’ve only heard them mention one name so far. A doctor.”

“Who?”

She paused, startled by his sharp query. “A Dr. Tam. Her cell phone was used to call a radio

station.”

He turned and stared at the hospital. “Oh, Jesus.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I can’t find Jane. She wasn’t evacuated with the other patients on her floor.”

“When did she go into the hospital?”

“This morning, after her water broke.” He looked at Maura. “Dr. Tam was the one who

admitted her.”

Maura stared at him, suddenly remembering what she’d just heard in the command trailer. That

Dr. Tam had been headed down to Diagnostic Imaging to see her patient.

Jane. The doctor was going down to see Jane.

“I think you’d better come with me,” said Maura.

I come to the hospital to have a baby. Instead I’m about to get my head blown off.

Jane sat on the couch, wedged between Dr. Tam on her right and the black orderly on her left.

She could feel him trembling beside her, his skin cold and clammy in the air-conditioned room.

Dr. Tam sat perfectly still, her face a stone mask. On the other couch, the receptionist sat

hugging herself, and beside her, the woman technician was quietly crying. No one dared say a

word; the only sound came from the waiting-room television, which had been playing

continuously. Jane looked around at the name tags on the uniforms. Mac. Domenica. Glenna.

Dr. Tam. She glanced down at the patient wristband she was wearing. RIZZOLI, JANE. All of

us are neatly labeled for the morgue. No ID problems here, folks. She thought of Bostonions

opening their
Tribune
tomorrow morning and seeing these same names printed in stark black

and white on the front page. VICTIMS KILLED IN HOSPITAL SIEGE. She thought of those

readers skimming right past the name “Rizzoli, Jane,” and then turning their attention straight to

the sports page.

Is this how it ends? Something as stupid as being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Hey

wait, she wanted to shout. I’m pregnant! In the movies, nobody shoots the pregnant hostage!

But this wasn’t the movies, and she couldn’t predict what the crazy lady with the gun would

do. That’s what Jane had dubbed her. The Crazy Lady. What else could you call a woman who

stalks back and forth, waving a gun? Only occasionally did the woman stop to look at the TV,

which was tuned to channel six. Live coverage of the medical center hostage situation. Look

Ma, I’m on television, thought Jane. I’m one of the lucky hostages trapped in that building. It’s

kind of like the reality show
Survivor
but with bullets.

And real blood.

She noticed that the Crazy Lady was wearing a patient wristband like Jane’s. Escapee from the

psych unit? Just try to make
her
sit obediently in a wheelchair. The woman was barefoot, her

shapely ass peeking out from the backless hospital gown. She had long legs, muscular thighs,

and a luxuriant mane of jet black hair. Dress her up in a sexy leather outfit, and she’d look like

Xena the Warrior Princess.

“I gotta pee,” Mr. Bodine said.

The Crazy Lady didn’t even glance at him.

“Hey! Is anyone listening to me? I said I gotta
pee
!”

Oh jeez, just do it, old man, thought Rizzoli. Pee in your wheelchair. Don’t tick off someone

who’s holding a gun.

On the TV, a blond reporter appeared. Zoe Fossey, reporting from Albany Street. “We have no

word yet on how many hostages are trapped inside the hospital wing. Police have cordoned off

the building. So far there is one known fatality, a security guard who was shot to death while

trying to restrain the patient . . .”

The Crazy Lady halted, her gaze riveted on the screen. One of her bare feet landed on the

manila folder that was lying on the floor. Only then did Jane notice the name on that chart,

written in black felt ink.

Rizzoli, Jane.

The news report ended, and Crazy Lady resumed her pacing, her bare feet slapping across the

folder. It was Jane’s outpatient chart, which Dr. Tam had probably been carrying when she’d

walked into Diagnostic Imaging. Now it was right at the Crazy Lady’s feet. All she had to do

was bend down and flip open the cover and read the first page, where the patient information

was listed. Name, birth date, marital status, Social Security number.

And occupation.
Detective, Homicide. Boston Police Department.

This woman is now under siege by the Boston PD SWAT team, thought Jane. When she finds

out that I’m a cop, too . . .

She didn’t want to complete the thought; she knew where it would lead. She looked down once

again at her arm, at the hospital ID band printed with the name: RIZZOLI, JANE. If she could

just get this thing off, she could jam it between the cushions, and the Crazy Lady wouldn’t be

able to match her to the chart. That was the thing to do, get rid of this dangerous ID band. Then

she’d be just another pregnant lady in the hospital. Not a cop, not a threat.

She slipped a finger under the wristband and tugged, but it didn’t give way. She pulled harder,

but could not break it. What the hell was it made of, anyway? Titanium? But of course it had to

be sturdy. You didn’t want confused old guys like Mr. Bodine yanking off their IDs and

wandering the halls, anonymous. She strained harder against the plastic, her teeth gritting

together, the muscles quietly straining. I’ll have to chew it off, she thought. When the Crazy

Lady isn’t looking, I could—

She froze. Realized the woman was standing right in front of her, a bare foot planted once

again on Jane’s medical chart. Slowly Jane’s gaze lifted to the woman’s face. Up till then she

had avoided looking directly at her captor, afraid to draw any attention to herself. Now, to her

horror, she saw that the woman was focused on her—only on her—and she felt like the herd’s

lone gazelle singled out for slaughter. The woman even
looked
like a feline, long-limbed and

graceful, her black hair glossy as a panther’s. Her blue eyes were as intense as searchlights,

and Jane was now caught in the beam.

“This is what they do,” the woman said, eyeing Jane’s wristband. “They put labels on you.

Like in concentration camp.” She showed her own wristband, printed with DOE, JANE. There

was an original name for you, thought Jane, and she almost wanted to laugh. I’m being held

hostage by Jane Doe. It’s down to Jane vs. Jane. The real one versus the fake one. Didn’t the

hospital know who this woman was when they admitted her? Judging by the few words she’d

spoken, it was clear she was not American. Eastern European. Russian, maybe.

The woman ripped off her own wristband and tossed it aside. Then she grabbed Jane’s wrist

and gave her ID band a sharp yank as well. It snapped apart.

“There. No more labels,” the woman said. She glanced at Jane’s wristband. “Rizzoli. This is

Italian.”

“Yes.” Jane kept her gaze on the woman’s face, afraid to even glance downward, to draw her

attention to the manila folder lying beneath her bare foot. The woman took her steady eye

contact as a sign of connection between them. Up till now, Crazy Lady had scarcely said a

word to any of them. Now she was talking. This is good, thought Jane. An attempt at

conversation. Try to connect with her, establish a relationship. Be her friend. She wouldn’t kill

a friend, would she?

The woman was looking at Jane’s pregnant belly.