The Empty Chair (9 page)

"I don't remember hearing that temperature was bad for blood pressure, Thom," Rhyme said. "Did you read that somewhere? I didn't read it. Maybe you could show me where you read it."

"I don't need your sarcasm, Lincoln."

"Oh, I'm sarcastic, am I?"

The aide patiently said to Bell, "Heat causes tissue swelling. Swelling causes increased pressure and irritation. And
that
can lead to dysreflexia. Which can kill him. We need an air-conditioner. Simple as that."

Thom was the only one of Rhyme's care-giving aides who'd survived more than a few months in the service of the criminalist. The others had either quit or been peremptorily fired.

"Plug that in," Rhyme ordered a deputy who was wheeling a battered gas chromatograph into the corner.

"No." Thom crossed his arms and stood in front of the extension cord. The deputy saw the look on the aide's face and paused uneasily, not prepared for a confrontation with the persistent young man. "When we get the air-conditioner up and running . . .
then
we'll plug it in."

"Jesus Christ." Rhyme grimaced. One of the most frustrating aspects of being a quad is the inability to bleed off anger. After his accident Rhyme quickly came to realize how a simple act like walking or clenching our fists – not to mention flinging a heavy object or two (a favorite pastime of Rhyme's ex-wife, Elaine) – dissipates fury. "If I get
angry
I could start spasming or get contractures," Rhyme pointed out testily.

"Neither of which will kill you – the way dysreflexia will." Thom said this with a tactical cheerfulness that infuriated Rhyme all the more.

Bell gingerly said, "Gimme five minutes." He disappeared and the troopers continued to wheel in the equipment. The chromatograph went unelectrified for the moment.

Lincoln Rhyme surveyed the machinery. Wondered what it would be like to actually close his fingers
around
an object again. With his left ring finger he could touch and had a faint sense of pressure. But actually gripping something, feeling its texture, weight, temperature . . . those were unimaginable.

Terry Dobyns, the NYPD therapist, the man who'd been sitting at Rhyme's bedside when he'd awakened after the accident at a crime scene left him a quadriplegic, had explained to the criminalist all the clichéd stages of grief. Rhyme had been assured that he'd experience – and survive – all of them. But what the doctor hadn't told him was that certain stages sneak back. That you carried them around with you like sleeping viruses and that they might erupt at any time.

Over the past several years he'd re-experienced despair and denial.

Now, he was consumed with fury. Why, here were two kidnapped young women and a killer on the run. How badly he wanted to speed to the crime scene, walk the grid, pluck elusive evidence from the ground, gaze at it through the luxurious lenses of a compound microscope, punch the buttons of the computers and the other instruments, pace as he drew his conclusions.

He wanted to get to work without worrying that the fucking heat would kill him. He thought again about Dr. Weaver's magic hands, about the operation.

"You're quiet," Thom said cautiously. "What're you plotting?"

"I'm not plotting anything. Would you please plug in the gas chromatograph and turn it on? It needs time to warm up."

Thom hesitated then walked to the machine and got it running. He arranged the rest of the equipment on a fiberboard table.

Steve Farr walked into the office, lugging a huge Carrier air-conditioner. The deputy was apparently as strong as he was tall and the only clue to the effort was the red hue to his prominent ears.

He gasped, "Stole it from Planning and Zoning. We don't much like them."

Bell helped Farr mount the unit in the window and a moment later cold air was chugging into the room.

A figure appeared in the doorway – in fact, he
filled
the doorway. A man in his twenties. Massive shoulders, a prominent forehead. Six-five, close to three hundred pounds. For a difficult moment Rhyme thought this might be a relative of Garrett's and that the man had come to threaten them. But in a high, bashful voice he said, "I'm Ben?"

The three men stared at him as he glanced uneasily at Rhyme's wheelchair and legs.

Bell said, "Can I help you?"

"Well, I'm looking for Mr. Bell."

"I'm Sheriff Bell."

Eyes still surveying Rhyme's legs awkwardly. He glanced away quickly then cleared his throat and swallowed. "Oh, well, now. I'm Lucy Kerr's nephew?" He seemed to ask questions more than make statements.

"Ah, my forensics assistant!" Rhyme said. "Excellent! Just in time."

Another glance at the legs, the wheelchair. "Aunt Lucy didn't say . . ."

What was coming next? Rhyme wondered.

". . . didn't say anything about forensics," he mumbled. "I'm just a student, post-grad at UNC in Avery. Uhm, what do you mean, sir, 'just in time'?" The question was directed to Rhyme but Ben was looking at the sheriff.

"I mean: Get over to that table. I've got samples coming in any minute and you have to help me analyze them."

"Samples . . . Okay. What kind of fish would that be?" he asked Bell.

"Fish?" Rhyme responded. "Fish?"

"What it is, sir," the big man said softly, still looking at Bell, "I'd be happy to help but I have to tell you, I have pretty limited experience."

"We're not talking about fish. We're talking
crime scene
samples! What'd you think?"

"Crime scene? Well, I didn't know," Ben told the sheriff.

"You can talk to
me
," Rhyme corrected sternly.

A rosy blush blossomed on the man's face and his eyes snapped to attention. His head seemed to shiver as he forced himself to look at Rhyme. "I was just . . . I mean, he's the sheriff."

Bell said, "But Lincoln here's running the show. He's a forensics scientist from New York. He's helping us out."

"Sure." Eyes on the wheelchair, eyes on Rhyme's legs, eyes on the sip-and-puff controller. Back to the safety of the floor.

Rhyme decided he hated this man, who was acting as if the criminalist were the oddest kind of circus freak.

And part of him hated Amelia Sachs too – for engineering this whole diversion and taking him away from his shark cells and Dr. Weaver's hands.

"Well, sir –"

"'Lincoln' is fine."

"The thing is I specialize in marine sociozoology."

"Which is?" Rhyme asked impatiently.

"Basically, the behavior of marine animal life."

Oh, great
, Rhyme thought.
Not only do I get a crip-phobe for an assistant but I get one who's a fish shrink.
"Well, it doesn't matter. You're a scientist. Principles are principles. Protocols are protocols. You've used a gas chromatograph?"

"Yessir."

"And compound and comparison microscopes?"

An affirmative nod though not as assertive as Rhyme would have liked. "But . . ." Looking at Bell for a moment then returning obediently to Rhyme's face. ". . . Aunt Lucy just asked me to stop by. I didn't know she meant I was supposed to help you on a case . . . I'm not really sure . . . I mean, I have classes –"

"Ben, you
have
to help us," Rhyme said curtly.

The sheriff explained, "Garrett Hanlon."

Ben let the name settle in his massive head somewhere. "Oh, that kid in Blackwater Landing."

The sheriff explained about the kidnappings and Ed Schaeffer's wasp attack.

"Gosh, I'm sorry about Ed," Ben said. "I met him once at Aunt Lucy's house and –"

"So we need you," Rhyme said, trying to steer the conversation back on track.

"We don't have a clue where he's gone with Lydia," the sheriff continued. "And we hardly have any time left to save those women. And, well, as you can see – Mr. Rhyme, he needs somebody to help him."

"Well . . ." A glance toward, but not at, Rhyme. "It's just I have this test coming up. I'm in school and all. Like I said."

Rhyme said patiently, "We don't really have any options here, Ben. Garrett's got three hours on us and he could kill either of his victims at any time – if he hasn't already."

The zoologist looked around the dusty room for a reprieve and found none. "Guess I can stick around for a little while, sir."

"Thank you," Rhyme said. He inhaled into the controller and swung around to the table on which the instruments rested. He stopped and surveyed them. He looked over at Ben. "Now, if you could just change my catheter we'll get to work."

The big man looked stricken. Whispered, "You want me to . . ."

"It's a joke," Thom said.

But Ben didn't smile. He just nodded uneasily and with the grace of a bison walked over to the chromatograph and began studying the control panel.

• • •

Sachs jogged into the impromptu lab in the County Building, Jesse Corn keeping up the speedy pace beside her.

Moving more leisurely, Lucy Kerr joined them a moment later. She said hello to her nephew Ben and introduced the huge man to Sachs and Jesse. Sachs held up one cluster of bags. "This is the evidence from Garrett's room," she said, then held up more bags. "This is from Blackwater Landing – the primary scene."

Rhyme looked at the bags but did so with some discouragement. Not only was there very little physical evidence but Rhyme was troubled again by what had occurred to him earlier: he had to analyze the clues without any firsthand knowledge of the surrounding area.

Fish out of water
. . .

He had a thought.

"Ben, how long've you lived here?" the criminalist asked.

"All my life, sir."

"Good. What's this general area of the state called?"

He cleared his throat. "I guess the Northern Coastal Plain."

"You have any friends who're geologists who specialize in the area? Cartographers? Naturalists?"

"No. They're all marine biologists."

"Rhyme," Sachs said, "when we were at Blackwater Landing I saw that barge, remember? It was shipping asphalt or tar paper from a factory near here."

"Henry Davett's company," Lucy said.

Sachs asked, "Would they have a geologist on staff?"

"I don't know about that," Bell said, "but Davett, he's an engineer and's lived here for years. Probably knows the land as good as anybody."

"Give him a call, will you?"

"You bet." Bell disappeared. He returned a moment later. "I got Davett. There's no geologist on staff but he said he might be able to help. He'll be over in a half hour." Then the sheriff asked, "So, Lincoln, how do you want to handle the pursuit?"

"I'll be here, with you and Ben. We're going to go through the evidence. I want a small search party over at Blackwater Landing now – to where Jesse saw Garrett and Lydia disappear. I'll guide the team as best I can, depending on what the evidence shows."

"Who do you want on the team?"

"Sachs in charge," Rhyme said. "Lucy with her."

Bell nodded and Rhyme noticed that Lucy gave no reaction to these orders about the chain of command.

"I'd like to volunteer," Jesse Corn said quickly.

Bell looked at Rhyme, who nodded. Then he said, "Probably one other."

"Four people? That's
all?
" Bell asked, frowning. "Hell, I could get dozens of volunteers."

"No, less is better in a case like this."

"Who's the fourth?" Lucy asked. "Mason Germain?"

Rhyme looked at the doorway, could see nobody outside. He lowered his voice. "What's Mason's story? He's got some history. I don't like cops with histories. I like blank slates."

Bell shrugged. "The man's had a tough life. He grew up north of the Paquo – the wrong side of the tracks. Father tried to make a go of it at a couple businesses and then started running 'shine and when he got collared by revenuers he killed himself. Mason himself worked his way up from dust. There's an expression 'round here – too poor to paint, too proud to whitewash. That's Mason. He's always complaining about being held back, not getting what he wants. He's an ambitious man in a town that hasn't got any use for ambition."

Rhyme observed, "And he's gunning for Garrett."

"You got that right."

"Why?"

"Mason just about begged to be lead investigator on that case we were telling you about – the girl got stung to death in Blackwater. Meg Blanchard. Truth be told, I think the victim had, you know, some connection with Mason. Maybe they were going out. Maybe there was something else – I don't know. But he wanted to nail Garrett bad. But he just couldn't make the case against him. When it came time for the old sheriff to retire, the Board of Supervisors held that against him. I got the job and he didn't – even though he's older'n me and'd been on the force longer."

Rhyme shook his head. "We don't need hotheads in an operation like this. Pick somebody else."

"Ned Spoto?" Lucy suggested.

Bell shrugged. "He's a good man. Sure. Can shoot good but he also won't unless he for sure has to."

Rhyme said, "Just make sure Mason's nowhere near the search."

"He won't like it."

"That's not a consideration," Rhyme said. "Find something else for him to do. Something that sounds important."

"I'll do the best I can," Bell said uncertainly.

Steve Farr leaned into the doorway. "Just called the hospital," he announced. "Ed's still in critical condition."

"Has he said anything? About the map he saw?"

"Not a word. Still unconscious."

Rhyme turned to Sachs. "Okay . . . Get going. Hold up where the trail stops in Blackwater Landing and wait to hear from me."

Lucy was looking uncertainly at the bags of evidence. "You really think this's the way to find those girls?"

"I
know
it is," Rhyme answered shortly.

She said skeptically, "Seems a little too much like magic to me."

Rhyme laughed. "Oh, that's
exactly
what it is. Sleight of hand, pulling rabbits out of hats. But remember that illusion is based on . . . on
what
, Ben?"

The big man cleared his throat, blushed and shook his head. "Uhm, don't quite know what you mean, sir."