Rizzoli emerged from the interrogation room and came toward her, an apologetic look on her face. “I’m sorry we couldn’t let you listen in,” Rizzoli said. “You understand why, right?”
“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 inspire
d, 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.
She rose, turned off the lights, and went to bed.
TWENTY-ONE
A POT OF VEAL SAUCE had been simmering for nearly two hours on the stove, and the fragrance of plum tomatoes and garlic and fork-tender stew meat overwhelmed the blander aroma of the eighteen-pound turkey now sitting, browned and glistening, in its roasting pan on the countertop. Rizzoli sat at her mother’s kitchen table, beating eggs and melted butter into a warm bowl of potatoes that she had just boiled and mashed. In her own apartment, she seldom took the time to cook, and her meals were thrown together from whatever she managed to excavate from her cupboard or freezer. But here, in her mother’s kitchen, cooking was never a hurried affair. It was an act of reverence, in honor of the food itself, no matter how humble the ingredients. Each step, from chopping to stirring to basting, was part of a solemn ritual, up to the climactic parade of dishes being carried out to the table, there to be greeted with properly appreciative sighs. In Angela’s kitchen, there were no shortcuts.
And so Rizzoli took her time adding flour to the bowl of mashed potatoes and beaten eggs, mixing it with her hands. She found comfort in the rhythmic kneading of the warm dough, in the quiet acceptance that this process could not be rushed. She was not accepting of many things in her life. She expended too much energy trying to be faster, better, more efficient. It felt good, for once, to surrender to the unyielding demands of making gnocchi.
She sprinkled in more flour and kneaded the dough, focusing on its silky texture as it slid between her fingers. In the next room, where the men were gathered, the TV was tuned to ESPN with the volume at full blast. But in here, buffered by the closed kitchen door from the roar of stadium crowds and the chatter of the sportscaster, she worked in serenity, her hands working the now-elastic dough. The only break in her concentration came when one of Irene’s twin sons toddled through the swinging door into the kitchen, banged his head on the table, and started screaming.
Irene ran in and scooped him up. “Angela, are you sure I can’t help you two with the cooking???
? Irene asked, sounding a little desperate to escape the noisy living room.
Angela, who was deep-frying cannoli shells, said: “Don’t you even think about it! You just go take care of your boys.”
“Michael can keep an eye on them. He’s not doing anything else in there but watching TV.”
“No, you go sit down in the living room and take it easy. Janie and I have everything under control.”
“If you’re really sure . . .”
“I’m sure, I’m sure.”
Irene gave a sigh and walked out, the toddler squirming in her arms.
Rizzoli began to roll out the gnocchi dough. “You know, Mom, she really does want to help us out in here.”
Angela scooped crisp and golden cannoli shells from the oil and set them on paper towels to drain. “It’s better if she watches her kids. I’ve got a system going. She wouldn’t know what to do in this kitchen.”
“Yeah. Like I do?”
Angela turned and looked at her, her slotted spoon dripping oil. “Of course you know.”
“Only what you taught me.”
“And that’s not enough? I should’ve done a better job?”
“You know that’s not how I meant it.”
Angela watched with a critical eye as her daughter cut the dough into one-inch pieces. “You think Irene’s mother taught her how to make gnocchi like that?”
“I doubt it, Mom. Since she’s Irish.”
Angela snorted. “There’s another reason not to let her in the kitchen.”
“Hey, Ma!” said Frankie, banging through the door. “You got any more nibbles or anything?”
Rizzoli looked up to see her older brother swagger in. He looked every bit the Marine he was, his over-pumped shoulders as wide as the refrigerator he was now peering into. “You can’t have finished that whole tray already.”
“Naw, those little brats got their grubby hands all over the food. I ain’t eating it now.”
“There’s more cheese and salami on the bottom shelf,” said Angela. “And some nice roast peppers, in that bowl over on the counter. Make up a new tray, why don’t you?”