The Empty Chair (20 page)

Rhyme had been reading Garrett's books and found an underlined passage about insects' using smells to communicate warnings. He'd decided that since the ammonia wasn't found in commercial explosives, like the kind used at the quarry, Garrett had possibly rigged some ammonia on a fishing-line tripwire. This was so that when the pursuers spilled it the boy could smell that they were close and could escape.

After they found the trap it'd been Sachs' idea to fill one of Ned's water bottles with ammonia, quietly surround the mill and pour the chemical on the ground outside the mill – to flush the boy.

And flush him it had.

But he still wasn't listening to her instructions. Garrett looked around and then studied her face, as if trying to decide if she really would shoot him.

He scratched at a rash on his face and wiped sweat, then adjusted his grip on the knife, looking right and left, eyes filling with despair and panic.

Afraid to startle him into running – or attacking her – Sachs tried to sound like a mother coercing her child to sleep. "Garrett, do what I'm asking. Everything'll be fine. Just do what I'm asking. Please."

• • •

"You got a shot? Take it," Mason Germain was whispering.

A hundred yards away from where that bitchy redhead from New York was confronting the killer, Mason and Nathan Groomer were on the crest of a bald hill.

Mason was standing. Nathan was prone on the hot ground. He'd sandbagged the Ruger on a low rise of helpful rocks and was concentrating on controlling his breathing, the way hunters of elks and geese and human beings are supposed to do before they shoot.

"Go on," Mason urged. "There's no wind. You got a clear view. Take the shot!"

"Mason, the boy's not
doing
anything."

They saw Lucy Kerr and Jesse Corn walk into the clearing, joining the redhead, their guns also pointed at the boy. Nathan continued, "Everybody's got him covered and it's only a knife he's got. A little pissant knife. It looks like he's going to give up."

"He's
not
going to give up," spat out Mason Germain, who shifted his slight weight from one foot to the other in impatience. "I told you – he's faking. He's gonna kill one of 'em as soon as their guard's down. It don't mean anything to you that Ed Schaeffer's dead?" Steve Farr had called with this sad news a half-hour ago.

"Come on, Mason. I'm as tore up about that as anybody. That doesn't have a thing to do with the rules of engagement. Besides, look, will you? Lucy and Jesse're six feet away from him."

"You worried about hitting
them!
Fuck, you could hit a dime at this range, Nathan. Nobody shoots better'n you. Take it. Take your shot."

"I –"

Mason was watching the curious little play going on in the clearing. The redhead lowered her gun and took a step forward. Garrett was still holding the knife. Head swiveling back and forth.

The woman took another step toward him.

Oh, that's
helpful
, bitch.

"She in your line of fire?"

"No. But, I mean," Nathan said, "we're not even supposed to
be
here."

"That's not the issue," Mason muttered. "We
are
here. I authorized backup to protect the search party and I'm ordering you to take a shot. Your safety off?"

"Yeah, it's off."

"Then shoot."

Peering through the 'scope.

Mason watched the gun barrel of the Ruger freeze, as Nathan grew into his weapon. Mason had seen this before – when he hunted with friends who were far better sportsmen than he was. It was an eerie thing that he didn't quite understand. Your weapon becomes part of you just before the gun fires, almost by itself.

Mason waited for the booming report of the long gun.

Not a breath of wind. A clean target. A clear backdrop.

Shoot, shoot, shoot!
was Mason's silent message.

But instead of the crack of a rifle shot he heard a sigh. Nathan lowered his head. "I can't."

"Gimme the fucking gun."

"No, Mason. Come on."

But the expression in the senior deputy's eyes silenced the marksman and he handed over the rifle and rolled aside.

"How many in the clip?" Mason snapped.

"I –"

"How many rounds in the clip?" Mason said as he dropped to his belly and took up a position identical to his colleague's a moment before.

"Five. But nothing personal, Mason, you ain't the best rifle shot in the world and there're three innocents in the field of target and if you . . ." But his voice faded. There was only one place for this sentence to go and Nathan didn't want to accompany it there.

True, Mason knew, he wasn't the best shot in the world. But he'd killed a hundred deer. And he'd fired high scores on the state police range in Raleigh. Besides, good shot or bad, Mason knew that the Insect Boy had to die and had to die now.

He too breathed steadily, curled his finger around the ribbed trigger. And found that Nathan had been lying; he'd never unsafetied the rifle. Mason now angrily pushed the button and started controlling his breathing once more.

In, out.

He rested the crosshairs on the boy's face.

The redhead moved closer to Garrett and for a moment her shoulder was in the line of fire.

Jesus my Lord, you
are
making it difficult, lady. She swayed back out of view. Then her neck appeared in the center of the 'scope. She swayed to the left but remained close to the center of the crosshairs.

Breathe, breathe.

Mason, ignoring the fact that his hands were shaking far more than they ought to, concentrated on the blotchy face of his target.

Lowered the crosshairs to Garrett's chest.

The redhead cop swayed once more into the line of fire. Then she eased out again.

He knew he should squeeze the trigger gently. But, as so often in his life, anger took over and made the decision for him. He pulled the sliver of metal with a jerk.

16

Behind Garrett a plug of dirt shot into the air and he slapped his hand to his ear, where he, like Sachs, had felt the zip of a bullet streak past.

An instant later the booming sound of the gun filled the clearing.

Sachs spun around. From the delay between the sound of the bullet itself and the muzzle report she knew the shot hadn't come from Lucy or Jesse but from a hundred yards or so behind them. The deputies too were looking back, guns raised, trying to spot the shooter.

Crouching, Sachs glanced at Garrett's face and she saw his eyes – the terror and confusion in them. For a moment, only an instant, he wasn't a killer who'd crushed a boy's skull or a rapist who'd bloodied Mary Beth McConnell and invaded her body. He was a scared little boy, whimpering, "No, no!"

"Who is it?" Lucy Kerr called. "Culbeau?" They took cover in some bushes.

"Get down, Amelia," Jesse called. "We don't know who they're shooting at. Might be a friend of Garrett's, aiming for us."

But Sachs didn't think so. The bullet was meant for Garrett. She scanned the hilltops nearby, looking for signs of the sniper.

Another shot snapped past. This one was a wider miss.

"Holy Mary," Jesse Corn said, swallowing the apparently unaccustomed blasphemy. "Look, up there – it's
Mason!
And Nathan Groomer. On that rise."

"It's
Germain?
" Lucy asked bitterly, squinting. She furiously pressed the transmit button on her Handi-talkie and shouted, "Mason, what the hell're you doing? Are you there? Are you receiving? . . . Central. Come in, Central. Goddamn, I can't get reception."

Sachs pulled out her cell phone and called Rhyme. He answered a moment later. She heard his voice, hollow, through the speakerphone. "Sachs, have you –?"

"We've got him, Rhyme. But that deputy, Mason Germain, he's on a hill nearby, firing at the boy. We can't get him on the radio."

"No, no, no, Sachs! He
can't
kill him. I checked the degradation of the blood on the tissue – Mary Beth was alive as of last night! If Garrett dies we'll never find her."

She shouted this to Lucy but the deputy still couldn't raise Mason on the radio.

Another shot. A rock shattered, spraying them with dust.

"Stop it!" Garrett sobbed. "No, no . . . I'm scared. Make him stop!"

Sachs said to Rhyme, "Ask Bell if Mason's got a cell phone and have him call, tell him to stop the shooting."

"Okay, Sachs . . ."

Rhyme hung up.

If Garrett dies we'll never find her . . .

Amelia Sachs made a fast decision and tossed her gun on the ground behind her then stepped forward, facing Garrett, a foot from him, directly in between Mason's gun and the boy. Thinking:
In the time it took to do this Mason might've pulled the trigger, and the bullet, preceding the sound wave of the gunshot, might be headed directly toward my back.

She stopped breathing. Imagining she could feel the slug streaking at her.

A moment passed. There was no shot.

"Garrett, you've got to put the knife down."

"You tried to kill me! You tricked me!"

She wondered if he'd stab her – in anger or panic. "No. We didn't have anything to do with it. Look, I'm in front of you. I'm protecting you. He won't shoot again."

Garrett studied her face carefully with his twitchy eyes.

She wondered if Mason was waiting for her to move aside just enough so that he could sight on Garrett. He was obviously a bad shot and she imagined a bullet shattering her spine.

Ah, Rhyme
, she thought,
you're here for your operation to try to be more like me; maybe today I'll become more like you . . .

Jesse Corn was sprinting through the brush up the hill, waving his arms and calling, "Mason, stop shooting! Stop shooting!"

Garrett continued to examine Sachs closely. Then he tossed the knife aside and started compulsively clicking his fingernails over and over.

As Lucy ran forward and cuffed Garrett, Sachs turned to the hill where Mason had been shooting from. She saw him stand, speaking on his phone. He glanced directly at her, it seemed, then shoved the phone into his pocket and started down the hill.

• • •

"What the hell were you thinking of?" Sachs raged at Mason. She walked straight up to him. They stood only a foot apart and she was an inch taller than he was.

"Saving your ass, lady," Mason replied harshly. "Didn't you happen to notice he had a weapon?"

"Mason" – Jesse Corn tried to diffuse the situation – "she was trying to calm things down is all. She got him to give up."

But Amelia Sachs didn't need any big brothers. She said, "I've been doing takedowns for years. He wasn't going to move on me. The only threat was from
you.
You could've hit one of
us
."

"Oh, bullshit." Mason leaned close to her and she could smell the musky aftershave he seemed to have poured on.

She eased away from the cloud of scent and said, "And if you'd killed Garrett, Mary Beth probably would've starved or suffocated to death."

"She's dead," Mason snapped. "That girl is lying in a grave somewhere and we'll never find her body."

"Lincoln got a report on her blood," Sachs responded. "She was alive as of last night."

This gave him a moment's pause. He muttered, "Last night ain't now."

"Come on, Mason," Jesse said. "It worked out okay."

But he wasn't calming. He lifted his arms and slapped his thighs. He looked into Sachs's eyes, said, "I don't know what the fuck we need you down here for anyway."

"Mason," Lucy Kerr cut in, "it's over with. We wouldn't've found Lydia, it hadn't been for Mr. Rhyme and Amelia here. We have them to thank. Let it go."

"
She's
the one not letting it go."

"When somebody puts me in the line of fire there better be a pretty good reason," Sachs said evenly. "And it's no reason at all that you're gunning for that boy because
you
haven't been able to make a case against him."

"You got no business talking about how I do my job. I –"

"Okay, we got to wrap this up here," Lucy said, "and get back to the office. We're still working on the assumption that Mary Beth
isn't
dead and we've got to find her."

"Hey," Jesse Corn called. "There's the chopper."

A helicopter from the medical center landed in a clearing near the mill and the medics brought Lydia out on a stretcher; she was suffering from minor heatstroke and had a badly sprained ankle. The woman had been hysterical at first – Garrett had come at her with a knife and even though it turned out he had used it just to cut a piece of duct tape to gag her she was still very shaken. She managed to calm down enough to tell them that Mary Beth wasn't anywhere near the mill. Garrett had her hidden near the ocean somewhere, on the Outer Banks. She didn't know where exactly. Lucy and Mason had tried to get Garrett to say but he'd remained mute and sat, hands cuffed behind him, staring morosely at the ground.

Lucy said to Mason, "You, Nathan and Jesse walk Garrett over to Easedale Road. I'll have Jim send a car there. The Possum Creek turnoff. Amelia wants to search the mill. I'll help her. Send another car over to Easedale in a half hour or so for us."

Sachs was happy to hold Mason's eyes for as long as he wanted to have a pissing contest. But he turned his attention to Garrett, looking the scared boy up and down like a guard studying a death-row prisoner. Mason nodded to Nathan. "Lessgo. Those cuffs on tight, Jesse?"

"They're tight, sure," Jesse said.

Sachs was glad Jesse would be with them to keep Mason on his good behavior. She'd heard stories about "escaping" prisoners being beaten by their transporting officers. Occasionally they ended up dead.

Mason gripped Garrett roughly by the arm and pulled him to his feet. The boy cast a hopeless look at Sachs. Then Mason led him down the path.

Sachs said to Jesse Corn, "Keep an eye on Mason. You may need all of Garrett's cooperation to find Mary Beth. And if he's too scared or mad you won't get anything out of him."