The old man glared at her. “What the hell’re you looking at, lady?”

“Nothing,” said Jane.

“Then stop looking.”

“Okay.”

The black orderly standing behind the old man gave a chuckle. “Mr. Bodine talks like that to everyone, ma’am. Don’t let him bother you.”

Jane shrugged. “I get a lot more abuse at work.” Oh, and did I mention that bullets are involved? She stared straight ahead, watching the floor numbers change, carefully avoiding any eye contact with Mr. Bodine.

“Too many people in this world don’t keep to their own damn business,” the old man said. “Just a bunch of busybodies. Won’t stop staring.”

“Now Mr. Bodine,” the orderly said, “no one’s staring at you.”

“She was.”

No wonder they tied you up, you old coot, thought Jane.

The elevator opened on the ground floor, and the volunteer wheeled out Jane. As they rolled down the hall toward Diagnostic Imaging, she could feel the gazes of passersby. Able-bodied people walking on their own two feet, eyeing the big-bellied invalid with her little plastic hospital bracelet. She wondered: Is this what it’s like for everyone who’s confined to a wheelchair? Always the object of sympathetic glances?

Behind her, she heard a familiar cranky voice demand: “What the hell you looking at, mister?”

Oh please, she thought. Don’t let Mr. Bodine be headed to Diagnostic Imaging, too. But she could hear him grumbling behind her as they rolled down the hall and around the corner, into the reception area.

The volunteer parked Jane in the waiting room and left her there, sitting next to the old man. Don’t look at him, she thought. Don’t even glance in his direction.

“What, you too stuck up to talk to me?” he said.

Pretend he’s not there.

“Huh. So now you’re pretending I’m not even here.”

She looked up, relieved, as a door opened and a woman technician in a blue scrub suit came into the waiting room. “Jane Rizzoli?”

“That’s me.”

“Dr. Tam will be down here in a few minutes. I’ll bring you back to the room now.”

“What about me?” the old man whined.

“We’re not quite ready for you, Mr. Bodine,” the woman said, as she swiveled Jane’s wheelchair through the doorway. “You just be patient.”

“But I gotta piss, goddammit.”

“Yes, I know, I know.”

“You don’t know nothing.”

“Know enough not to waste my breath,” the woman muttered as she pushed Jane’s chair down the hallway.

“I’m gonna wet your carpet!” he yelled.

“One of your favorite patients?” Jane asked.

“Oh, yeah.” The technician sighed. “He’s everyone’s favorite.”

“You think he really has to pee?”

“All the time. Got a prostate as big as my fist, and won’t let the surgeons touch it.”

The woman wheeled Jane into a procedure room and locked the wheelchair in place. “Let me help you onto the table.”

“I can manage.”

“Honey, with a belly that big, you could use a hand up.” The woman grasped Jane’s arm and pulled her out of the chair. She stood by as Jane climbed the footstool and settled onto the table. “Now, you just relax here, okay?” she said, rehanging Jane’s IV bottle. “When Dr. Tam comes down, we’ll get started on your sonogram.” The woman walked out, leaving Jane alone in the room. There was nothing to look at but imaging equipment. No windows, no posters on the walls, no magazines. Not even a boring issue of Golf Digest.

Jane settled back on the table and stared at the bare ceiling. Placing her hands on her bulging abdomen, she waited for the familiar jab of a tiny foot or elbow, but she felt nothing. Come on, baby, she thought. Talk to me. Tell me you’re going to be okay.

Cold air wafted from the AC vent, and she shivered in the flimsy gown. She glanced at her watch and found herself gazing, instead, at the plastic band around her wrist. Patient’s name: Rizzoli, Jane. Well, this patient is not particularly patient, she thought. Let’s get on with it, people!

The skin on her abdomen suddenly prickled, and she felt her womb tighten. The muscles gently squeezed, held for a moment, then eased off. At last, a contraction.

She looked at the time. 11:50 A.M.

By noon, the temperature had soared into the nineties, baking sidewalks into griddles, and a sulfurous summer haze hung over the city. Outside the medical examiner’s building, no reporters still lingered in the parking lot; Maura was able to cross Albany Street unaccosted and walk into the medical center. She shared an elevator with half a dozen freshly minted interns, now on their first month’s rotation, and she remembered the lesson she’d learned in medical school: Don’t get sick in July. They’re all so young, she thought, looking at smooth faces, at hair not yet streaked with gray. She seemed to be noticing that more often these days, about cops, about doctors. How young they all looked. And what do these interns see when they look at me? she wondered. Just a woman pushing middle age, wearing no uniform, no name tag with MD on my lapel. Perhaps they assumed she was a patient’s relative, scarcely worth more than a glance. Once, she’d been like these interns, young and cocky in her white coat. Before she’d learned the lessons of defeat.

The elevator opened and she followed the interns into the medical unit. They breezed right past the nurses’ station, untouchable in their white coats. It was Maura, in her civilian clothes, whom the ward clerk immediately stopped with a frown, a brisk question: “Excuse me, are you looking for someone?”

“I’m here to visit a patient,” said Maura. “She was admitted last night, through the ER. I understand she was transferred out of ICU this morning.”

“The patient’s name?”

Maura hesitated. “I believe she’s still registered as Jane Doe. Dr. Cutler told me she’s in room four-thirty-one.”

The ward clerk’s gaze narrowed. “I’m sorry. We’ve had calls from reporters all day. We can’t answer any more questions about that patient.”

“I’m not a reporter. I’m Dr. Isles, from the medical examiner’s office. I told Dr. Cutler I’d be coming by to check on the patient.”

“May I see some identification?”

Maura dug into her purse and placed her ID on the countertop. This is what I get for showing up without my lab coat, she thought. She could see the interns cruising down the hall, unimpeded, like a flock of strutting white geese.

“You could call Dr. Cutler,” Maura suggested. “He knows who I am.”

“Well, I suppose it’s okay,” said the ward clerk, handing back the ID. “There’s been so much fuss over this patient, they had to send over a security guard.” As Maura headed up the hall, the clerk called out: “He’ll probably want to see your ID as well!”

Prepared to endure another round of questions, she kept her ID in hand as she walked to room 431, but she found no guard standing outside the closed door. Just as she was about to knock, she heard a thud inside the room, and the clang of falling metal.

At once, she pushed into the room and found a confusing tableau. A doctor stood at the bedside, reaching up toward the IV bottle. Opposite him, a security guard was leaning over the patient, trying to restrain her wrists. A bedside stand had just toppled, and the floor was slick with spilled water.

“Do you need help?” called Maura.

The doctor glanced over his shoulder at her, and she caught a glimpse of blue eyes, blond hair cut short as a brush. “No, we’re fine. We’ve got her,” he said.

“Let me tie that restraint,” she offered, and moved to the guard’s side of the bed. Just as she reached for the loose wrist strap, she saw the woman’s hand snap free. Heard the guard give a grunt of alarm.

The explosion made Maura flinch. Warmth splashed her face, and the guard suddenly staggered sideways, against her. She stumbled under his weight, landing on her back beneath him. Cold water soaked into her blouse from the wet floor, and from above seeped the liquid heat of blood. She tried to shove aside the body now weighing down on her, but he was heavy, so heavy he was crushing the breath from her lungs.