The Empty Chair (28 page)

"But – "

"She's mine."

"Okay," O'Sarian agreed.

They dipped their heads as they went past a filthy window in the back of the lockup and paused at the metal door. Culbeau noticed that it was open a half-inch. "See, it's unlocked," he whispered. Feeling he'd scored some kind of point against O'Sarian. Then wondering why he felt he needed to. "Now, I'll nod. Then we go in fast, spray 'em both – and be generous with that shit." He handed O'Sarian a thick bag. "Then throw that over his head."

O'Sarian gripped the canister firmly, nodded at the second bag, which had appeared in Culbeau's hand. "So we're taking the girl too."

Culbeau sighed, said an exasperated, "Yeah, Sean. We are."

"Oh. Okay. Just wondered."

"When they're down just drag 'em out fast. Don't stop for nothing."

"Okay . . . Oh, I was meaning to say. I got my Colt."

"What?"

"I got my .38. I brought it." He nodded toward his pocket.

Culbeau paused for a moment. Then he said, "Good." He closed his big hand around the door handle.

22

Would this be his last view? he wondered. From his hospital bed Lincoln Rhyme could see a park on the grounds of the University Medical Center in Avery. Lush trees, a sidewalk meandering through a rich, green lawn, a stone fountain that a nurse had told him was a replica of some famous well on the UNC campus at Chapel Hill.

From the bedroom in his townhouse on Central Park West in Manhattan, Rhyme could see sky and some of the buildings along Fifth Avenue. But the windows there were high off the floor and he couldn't see Central Park itself unless his bed was shoved right against the pane, which let him look down onto the grass and trees.

Here, perhaps because the facility had been built with SCI and neuro patients in mind, the windows were lower; even the views here were accessible, he thought wryly to himself.

Then wondered again whether or not the operation would have any success. Whether he'd even survive it.

Lincoln Rhyme knew that it was the inability to do the simple things that was the most frustrating.

Traveling from New York to North Carolina, for instance, had been such a project, so long anticipated, so carefully planned, that the difficulty of the journey had not troubled Rhyme at all. But the overwhelming burden of his injury was the heaviest when it came to the small tasks that a healthy person does without thinking. Scratching an itch on your temple, brushing your teeth, wiping your lips, opening a soda, sitting up in a chair to look out the window and watch sparrows bathe in the dirt of a garden . . .

He wondered again how foolish he was being.

He'd had the best neurologists in the country and was a scientist himself. He'd read, and understood, the literature about the near impossibility of neuro improvement in a patient with a C4 spinal cord injury. Yet he was determined to go ahead with Cheryl Weaver's operation – despite the chance that this bucolic setting outside his window in a strange hospital in a strange town might be the very last image of nature he ever saw in this life.

Of course there are risks.

So why was he doing it?

Oh, there was a very good reason.

Yet it was a reason that the cold criminalist in him had trouble accepting and one that he'd never dare utter out loud. Because it had nothing to do with being able to prowl over a crime scene searching for evidence. Nothing to do with brushing his teeth or sitting up in bed. No, no, it was exclusively because of Amelia Sachs.

Finally he'd admitted the truth: that he'd grown terrified of losing her. He'd brooded that sooner or later she'd meet another Nick – the handsome undercover agent who'd been her lover a few years ago. This was inevitable, he figured, as long as he remained as immobile as he was. She wanted children. She wanted a normal life. And so Rhyme was willing to risk death, to risk making his condition worse, in the hope that he could improve.

He knew of course that the operation wouldn't allow him to stroll down Fifth Avenue with Sachs on his arm. He was simply hoping for a minuscule improvement – to move slightly closer to a normal life. Slightly closer to her. But summoning up his astonishing imagination, Rhyme could picture himself closing his hand on hers, squeezing it and feeling the faint pressure of her skin.

A small thing to everyone else in the world, but to Rhyme, a miracle.

Thom walked into the room. After a pause he said, "An observation."

"I don't want one. Where's Amelia?"

"I'm going to tell you anyway. You haven't had a drink in five days."

"I know. It pisses me off."

"You're getting in shape for the operation."

"Doctor's orders," Rhyme said testily.

"When have
those
ever meant anything to you?"

A shrug. "They're going to be pumping me full of who knows what kind of crap. I didn't think it would be
smart
to add to the cocktail in my bloodstream."

"It wouldn't've been. You're right. But you paid attention to your doctor. I'm proud of you."

"Oh, pride – now there's a
helpful
emotion."

But Thom was a waterfall to Rhyme's rain. He continued, "But I want to say something."

"You're going to anyway whether I want you to or not."

"I've read a lot about this, Lincoln. The procedure."

"Oh, have you? On
your
time, I hope."

"I just want to say that if it doesn't work this time, we'll come back. Next year. Two years. Five years. It'll work then."

The sentiment within Lincoln Rhyme was as dead as his spinal cord but he managed: "Thank you, Thom. Now, where the hell is that doctor? I've been hard at work catching psychotic kidnappers for these people. I think they'd be treating me a little better than this."

Thom said, "She's only ten minutes late, Lincoln. And we did change the appointment twice today."

"It's closer to twenty minutes. Ah, here we go."

The door to the hospital room swung open. And Rhyme looked up, expecting to see Dr. Weaver.

But it wasn't the surgeon.

Sheriff Jim Bell, his face dotted with sweat, walked inside. In the corridor behind him was his brother-in-law, Steve Farr. Both men were clearly upset.

The criminalist's first thought was that they'd found Mary Beth's body. That the boy had in fact killed her.

And his next thought was how badly Sachs would react to this news, having had her faith in the boy shattered.

But Bell had different news. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Lincoln." And Rhyme knew the message was something closer to him personally than just Garrett Hanlon and Mary Beth McConnell. "I was going to call," the sheriff said. "But then I figured you should hear it from somebody in person. So I came."

"What, Jim?" he asked.

"It's Amelia."

"What?" Thom asked.

"What about her?" Rhyme couldn't, of course, feel his heart pounding in his chest but he could sense the blood surge through his chin and temples. "What? Tell me!"

"Rich Culbeau and those buddies of his went by the lockup. I don't know what they had in mind exactly – probably no good – but anyway, what they found was my deputy, Nathan, cuffed, in the front office. And the cell was empty."

"Cell?"

"Garrett's cell," Bell continued, as if this explained everything.

Rhyme still didn't understand the significance. "What –"

In a gruff voice the sheriff said, "Nathan said that your Amelia trussed him up at gunpoint and broke Garrett outa jail. It's a felony escape. They're on the run, they're armed and nobody has a clue where they are."

III

KNUCKLE TIME

23

Running. As best she could. Her legs ached from the waves of arthritic pain coursing through her body. She was drenched in sweat and was already dizzy from the heat and dehydration.

And she was still in shock at the thought of what she'd done.

Garrett was beside her, jogging silently through the forest outside Tanner's Corner.

This is way past stupid, lady . . .

When Sachs had gone into the cell to give Garrett
The Miniature World
she'd watched the boy's happy face as he'd taken the book from her. A moment or two passed and, almost as if someone else were forcing her to, she'd reached through the bars, taken the boy by the shoulders. Flustered, he'd looked away. "No, look at me," she'd instructed. "Look."

Finally he had. She'd studied his blotched face, his twitching mouth, the dark pits of eyes, the thick brows. "Garrett, I need to know the truth. This is only between you and me. Tell me – did you kill Billy Stail?"

"I swear I didn't. I swear! It was that man – the one in the tan overalls.
He
killed Billy. That's the truth!"

"It's not what the facts show, Garrett."

"But people can see the same thing different," he'd responded in a calm voice. "Like, the way
we
can look at the same thing a fly sees but it doesn't look the same."

"What do you mean?"

"
We
see something moving – just a blur when somebody's hand's trying to swat the fly. But the way
a fly's
eyes work is he sees a hand stopping in midair a hundred times on its way down. Like a bunch of still pictures. It's the same hand, same motion, but the fly and us see it way different. And colors . . . We look at something that's just solid red to us but some insects see a dozen different types of red."

The evidence suggests he's guilty, Rhyme. It doesn't prove it. Evidence can be interpreted in a lot of different ways.

"And Lydia," Sachs had persisted, gripping the boy even more firmly, "why'd you kidnap her?"

"I
told
everybody why . . . 'Cause she was in danger too. Blackwater Landing . . . it's a dangerous place. People die there. People disappear. I was just protecting her."

Of course it's a dangerous place
, she'd thought.
But is it dangerous because of
you!

Sachs had then said, "She said you were going to rape her."

"No, no, no . . . She jumped into the water and her uniform got wet and torn. I saw her, you know, on top. Her chest. And I got kind of . . . turned on. But that's all."

"And Mary Beth. Did you hurt her, rape her?"

"No, no, no! I told you! She hit her head and I cleaned it off with that tissue. I'd never do that, not to Mary Beth."

Sachs had stared at him a moment longer.

Blackwater Landing . . . it's a dangerous place.

Finally she'd asked, "If I get you out of here will you take me to Mary Beth?"

Garrett had frowned. "I do that, then you'd bring her back to Tanner's Corner. And she might get hurt."

"It's the only way, Garrett. I'll get you out if you take me to her. We can make sure she'll be safe, Lincoln Rhyme and I."

"You can do that?"

"Yes. But if you don't agree you'll stay in jail for a long time. And if Mary Beth dies because of you it'll be murder, same as if you shot her. And you'll never get out of jail."

He'd looked out the window. It seemed that his eyes were following the flight of an insect. Sachs couldn't see it. "All right."

"How far away is she?"

"On foot, it'll take us eight, ten hours. Depending."

"On what?"

"On how many they got coming after us and how careful we are getting away."

Garrett said this quickly and his assured tone troubled Sachs – it was as if he'd been anticipating that someone would break him out or that he'd escape and he'd already considered avoiding pursuit.

"Wait here," she'd told him. And stepped back into the office. She'd reached into the lockbox, pulled out her gun and knife and, against all training and sense, turned the Smith & Wesson on Nathan Groomer.

"I'm sorry to do this," she whispered. "I need the key to his cell and then I need you to turn around and put your hands behind your back."

Wide-eyed, he'd hesitated, perhaps debating whether or not to go for his sidearm. Or – she realized now – probably not even thinking at all. Instinct or reflex or just plain anger might've driven him to pull the weapon from his holster.

"This is way past stupid, lady," he'd said.

"The key."

He opened the drawer and tossed it on the desk. He put his hands behind his back. She cuffed him with his own handcuffs and ripped the phone from the wall.

She'd then freed Garrett, cuffed him too. The back door to the lockup seemed to be open but she thought she heard footsteps and a running car engine outside. She opted for the front door. They'd made a clean escape, undetected.

Now, a mile from downtown, surrounded by brush and trees, the boy directed her along an ill-defined path. The chains of the cuffs clinked as he pointed in the direction they should go.

She was thinking:
But, Rhyme, there was nothing I could do! Do you understand? I had no choice.
If the detention center in Lancaster was like what she expected he'd be raped and beaten his first day there and perhaps killed before a week passed. Sachs knew too that this was the only way to find Mary Beth. Rhyme had exhausted the possibilities with the evidence and the defiance in Garrett's eyes told her that he'd never cooperate.

(
No, I'm
not
confusing being maternal with being concerned, Dr. Penny. All I know is that if Lincoln and I had a son he'd be as single-minded and stubborn as we are and that if anything happened to us I'd pray for someone to look out for him the way I'm looking out for Garrett. . .
)

They moved quickly. Sachs was surprised at how elegantly the boy slipped through the woods, despite having his hands cuffed. He seemed to know exactly where to put his feet, what plants you could easily push through and which offered resistance. Where the ground was too soft to walk on.

"Don't step there," he said sternly. "That's clay from a Carolina bay. It'll hold you like glue."

They hiked for a half-hour until the ground grew soupy and the air became fragrant with the smells of methane and decay. The route finally became impassable – the path ended in a thick bog – and Garrett led them to a two-lane asphalt road. They started through the brush beside the shoulder.