The Empty Chair (40 page)

"It's
him!
" a man's voice called in a whisper.

Sachs froze, looked out the window. She saw nothing.

But from a tall stand of bushes near the trailer the forced whisper continued, "I've got him in my sights. I've got a clear shot."

The voice was familiar and she decided it sounded like Culbeau's friend, Sean O'Sarian. The skinny one. The redneck trio had found them – they were going to kill the boy or torture him into telling where Mary Beth was so they could get the reward.

Garrett hadn't heard the voice. Sachs could see him – he was about thirty feet away, setting an empty hornets' nest on the trail. She heard footsteps in the bushes pushing forward toward the clearing where the boy was.

She grabbed the Smith & Wesson and stepped quietly outside. She crouched, motioning desperately to Garrett. He didn't see her.

The footsteps in the bushes grew closer.

"Garrett," she whispered.

He turned, saw Sachs motioning for him to join her. He frowned, seeing the urgency in her eyes. Then he glanced to his left, into the bushes, and she saw terror blossom in his face. He held his hands out, a defensive gesture. He cried, "Don't hurt me, don't hurt me, don't hurt me!"

Sachs dropped into a crouch, curled her finger around the trigger, cocked the pistol and aimed toward the bushes.

It happened so quickly . . .

Garrett falling to his belly in fear, crying out, "Don't, don't!"

Amelia lifting her pistol, two-handed combat stance, pressure on the trigger, waiting for a target to present . . .

The man bursting from the bushes into the clearing, gun raised toward Garrett . . .

Just as Deputy Ned Spoto turned the corner of the trailer right beside Sachs, blinked in surprise and leapt toward her, arms outstretched. Startled, Sachs stumbled away from him. Her weapon fired, bucking hard in her hand.

And thirty feet away – beyond the faint cloud of smoke from the muzzle – she saw the bullet from her gun strike the forehead of the man who'd been in the bushes – not Sean O'Sarian at all but Jesse Corn. A black dot appeared above the young deputy's eye and, as his head jerked back, a horrible pink cloud puffed out behind him. Without a sound he dropped straight to the ground.

Sachs gasped, staring at the body, which twitched once and then lay completely still. She was breathless. She dropped to her knees, the gun tumbling from her hand.

"Oh, Jesus," Ned muttered, also staring in shock at the body. Before the deputy could recover and draw his gun, Garrett rushed him. The boy snagged Sachs' pistol from the ground and pointed it at Ned's head, then took the deputy's weapon and flung it into the bushes.

"Lie down!" Garrett raged at him. "On your face!"

"You killed him, you killed him," Ned muttered.

"Now!"

Ned did as he was told, tears running down his tanned cheeks.

"Jesse!" Lucy Kerr's voice called from nearby. "Where are you? Who's shooting?"

"No, no, no . . ." Sachs moaned. Watching an astonishing amount of blood pour from the dead deputy's shattered skull.

Garrett Hanlon glanced at Jesse's body. Then past it – toward the sound of approaching feet. He put his arm around Sachs. "We have to go."

When she didn't answer, when she simply stared, completely numb, at the scene in front of her – the end of the deputy's life, and the end of her own – Garrett helped her to her feet then took her hand and pulled her after him. They vanished into the woods.

IV

HORNETS' NEST

34

What was happening now?
a frantic Lincoln Rhyme wondered.

An hour ago, at five-thirty A.M., he'd finally gotten a call from a very putout drone in the Real Estate Division of the North Carolina Department of Taxation. The man had been awakened at one-thirty and given the assignment of tracking down delinquent taxes on any land on which a claimed residence was a McPherson trailer. Rhyme had first checked to see if Garrett's parents had owned one and – when he learned they hadn't – reasoned that if the boy was using the place as a hideout it was abandoned. And if it was abandoned the owner had defaulted on the taxes.

The assistant director told him there'd been two such properties in the state. In one case, near the Blue Ridge, to the west, the land and trailer had been sold at a tax lien foreclosure to a couple who currently lived there.

The other, on an acre in Paquenoke County, wasn't worth the time or money to foreclose on. He'd given Rhyme the address, an RFD route about a half-mile from the Paquenoke River. Location C-6 on the map.

Rhyme had called Lucy and the others and sent them there. They were going to approach at first light and, if Garrett and Amelia were inside, surround them and talk them into surrendering.

The last Rhyme had heard they'd spotted the trailer and were moving in slowly.

Unhappy that his boss had gotten virtually no sleep, Thom sent Ben out of the room and went through the morning ritual carefully. The four
Bs
: bladder, bowel, brushing teeth and blood pressure.

"It's high, Lincoln," Thom muttered, putting away the sphygmomanometer. Excessive blood pressure in a quad could lead to an attack of dysreflexia, which in turn could result in a stroke. But Rhyme didn't pay any attention. He was riding on pure energy. He wanted desperately to find Amelia. He wanted –

Rhyme looked up. Jim Bell, an alarmed expression on his face, walked through the doorway. Ben Kerr, equally upset, entered behind him.

"What happened?" Rhyme asked. "Is she all right? Is Amelia –"

"She killed Jesse," Bell said in a whisper. "Shot him in the head."

Thom froze. Glanced at Rhyme. The sheriff continued, "He was about to arrest Garrett. She shot him. They took off."

"No, it's impossible," Rhyme whispered. "There's a mistake. Somebody else did it."

But Bell was shaking his head. "No. Ned Spoto was there. He saw the whole thing . . . I'm not saying she did it on purpose – Ned went for her and her gun went off – but it's still felony murder."

Oh, my God . . .

Amelia . . . second-generation cop, the Portable's Daughter. And now she'd killed one of her own. The worst crime a police officer could commit.

"This's way past us now, Lincoln. I've got to get the state involved."

"Wait, Jim," Rhyme said urgently. "Please . . . She's desperate now, she's scared. So's Garrett. You call in troopers, a lot more people're going to get hurt. They'll be gunning for them both."

"Well, apparently they
oughta
be gunning for them," Bell spat back. "And looks like they shoulda been from the git-go."

"I'll find them for you. I'm close." Rhyme nodded toward the evidence chart and map.

"I gave you one chance and look what happened."

"I'll find them and I'll talk her into surrendering. I know I can. I'll –"

Suddenly Bell was jostled aside and a man rushed into the room. It was Mason Germain. "You fucking son of a bitch!" he cried and made right for Rhyme. Thom stepped in the way but the deputy flung aside the thin man. He rolled to the floor. Mason grabbed Rhyme by the shirt. "You fucking freak! You come down here and play your little –"

"Mason!" Bell started forward but the deputy shoved him aside again.

"– play your little games with the evidence – your little puzzles. And now a good man's dead because of you!" Rhyme smelled the man's potent aftershave as the deputy drew his fist back. The criminalist cringed and turned his face away.

"I'm going to kill you. I'm going to –" But Mason's voice was choked off as a huge arm wrapped around his chest and he was lifted clean off the floor.

Ben Kerr carried the deputy away from Rhyme.

"Kerr, goddamn it, let go of me!" Mason gasped. "You asshole! You're under arrest!"

"Calm yourself down, Deputy," the big man said slowly.

Mason was reaching for his pistol but with his other hand Ben clamped down hard on the man's wrist. Ben looked at Bell, who waited a moment then nodded. Ben released the deputy, who stood back, fury in his eyes. He said to Bell, "I'm going out there and I'm finding that woman and I'm –"

"You are not, Mason," Bell said. "You want to keep working in this department you'll do what I tell you. We're going to handle it my way. You're staying in the office here. You understand?"

"Son of a bitch, Jim. She –"

"Do you understand me?"

"Yeah, I fucking understand you." He stormed out of the lab.

Bell asked Rhyme, "You all right?"

Rhyme nodded.

"And you?" He glanced at Thom.

"I'm fine." The aide adjusted Rhyme's shirt. And despite the criminalist's protest he took the blood pressure again. "The same. Too high but not critical."

The sheriff shook his head. "I've got to call Jesse's parents. Lord, I don't want to do that." He walked to the window and stared outside. "First Ed, now Jesse. What a nightmare this whole thing's been."

Rhyme said, "Please, Jim. Let me find them and give me a chance to talk to her. If you don't, it's going to escalate. You know that. We'll end up with more people dead."

Bell sighed. Glanced at the map. "They've got a twenty-minute lead. You think you can find them?"

"Yes," Rhyme answered. "I can find them."

• • •

"That direction," Sean O'Sarian said. "I'm positive."

Rich Culbeau was looking west, where the young man was pointing – toward where they'd heard the gunshot and the shouting fifteen minutes ago.

Culbeau finished peeing against a pine tree and asked, "What's over that way?"

"Swamp, a few old houses," said Harris Tomel, who had hunted probably every square foot of Paquenoke County. "Not much else. Saw a gray wolf there a month ago." The wolves had supposedly been extinct but were making a comeback.

"No fooling," Culbeau said. He'd never seen one, always wanted to.

"You shoot it?" O'Sarian asked.

"You don't shoot 'em," Tomel said.

Culbeau added, "They're protected."

"So?"

And Culbeau realized he didn't have an answer for that.

They waited a few minutes longer but there were no more gunshots, no more shouts. "May as well keep going," Culbeau said, pointing toward where the shot had come from.

"May as well," said O'Sarian as he took a hit from a bottle of water.

"Hot again today," Tomel offered, looking at the low disk of radiant sun.

"It's hot every day," Culbeau muttered. He picked up his gun and started along the path, his army of two trudging along behind him.

• • •

Thunk.

Mary Beth's eyes shot open, pulling her from a deep, unwanted sleep.

Thunk.

"Hey, Mary Beth," a man's voice called cheerfully. Like an adult speaking to a child. In her grogginess she thought:
It's my father! What's he doing back from the hospital? He's in no shape to chop wood. I'll have to get him back to bed. Has he had his medicine?

Wait!

She sat up, dizzy, head throbbing. She'd fallen asleep in the dining-room chair.

Thunk.

Wait. It's not my father. He's dead . . . It's Jim Bell . . .

Thunk.

"Mareeeeeeee Bayeth . . ."

She jumped as the leering face looked in the window. It was Tom.

Another slam on the door as the Missionary's ax bit into the wood.

Tom leaned inside, squinting into the gloom. "Where are you?"

She stared at him, paralyzed.

Tom continued, "Oh, hey, there you are. My, you're prettier'n I remembered." He held up his wrist, showed her thick bandages. "I lost a pint of blood, thanks to you. I think it's only fair I get a little back."

Thunk.

"I have to tell you, honey," he said. "I fell asleep last night thinking about feeling up your titties yesterday. Thank you much for that sweet thought."

Thunk.

With this blow the ax broke through the door. Tom disappeared from the window and joined his friend.

"Keep going, boy," he called encouragingly. "You're on a roll."

Thunk.

35

His worry now was that she'd hurt herself. Since he'd known Amelia Sachs, Lincoln Rhyme had watched her hands disappear into her scalp and return bloody. He'd watched her worry nails with teeth, and skin with nails. He'd seen her drive at a hundred fifty miles per hour. He didn't know exactly what pushed her but he knew there was something within her that made Amelia Sachs live on the edge.

Now that this had happened, now that she'd killed, the anxieties might push her over the line. After the accident that left Rhyme a broken man, Terry Dobyns, the NYPD psychologist, had explained to him that, yes, he would feel like killing himself. But it wasn't depression that would motivate him to act. Depression depleted your energy; the main cause of suicide was a deadly fusion of hopelessness, anxiety and panic.

Which would be exactly what Amelia Sachs – hunted, betrayed by her own nature –would be feeling right now.

Find her!
was his only thought.
Find her fast.

But where was she? The answer to that question still eluded him.

He looked at the chart again. There was no evidence from the trailer. Lucy and the other deputies had searched it fast – too fast, of course. They were under the spell of hunt lust – even immobilized Rhyme often felt this – and the deputies were desperate to get on the trail of the enemy who'd killed their friend.

The only clues he had to Mary Beth's location – to where Garrett and Sachs were now headed – were right in front of him. But they were as enigmatic as any set of clues he'd ever analyzed.

FOUND AT THE SECONDARY CRIME SCENE –

MILL

Brown Paint on Pants

Sundew Plant

Clay

Peat Moss

Fruit Juice

Paper Fibers

Stinkball Bait

Sugar

Camphene

Alcohol

Kerosene