That nonsense…
He’d meant the suicide. With a glance at Thom, Rhyme said, “Haven’t thought about that for a while.”
“Good.” Taylor looked over the instruments on the table. “This is what you ought to be doing. Maybe the department’ll put you back on the payroll.”
“Don’t think I could pass the physical.”
“How’s the head?”
“ ‘A dozen sledgehammers’ comes close to describing it. My neck too. Had two bad cramps so far today.”
Taylor walked behind the Clinitron, pressed his fingers on either side of Rhyme’s spine, where – Rhyme supposed, though he’d never seen the spot of course – there were prominent incision scars from the operations he’d had over the years. Taylor gave Rhyme an expert massage, digging deep into the taut straps of muscle in his shoulders and neck. The pain slowly vanished.
He felt the doctor’s thumbs pause at what he guessed was the shattered vertebra.
The spaceship, the stingray…
“Someday they’ll fix this,” Taylor said. “Someday, it’ll be no worse than breaking your leg. You listen to me. I predict it.”
Fifteen minutes later Peter Taylor came down the stairs and joined the cops on the sidewalk. “Is he all right?” Amelia Sachs asked anxiously.
“The pressure’s down. He needs rest mostly.”
The doctor, a plain-looking man, suddenly realized he was talking to a very beautiful woman. He smoothed his thinning gray hair and cast a discreet glance at her willowy figure. His eyes then went to the squad cars in front of the townhouse and he asked, “What’s the case he’s helping you with?”
Sellitto demurred, as all detectives will in the face of that question from civilians. But Sachs had guessed Taylor and Rhyme were close so she said, “The kidnappings? Have you heard about them?”
“The taxi-driver case? It’s on all the news. Good for him. Work is the best thing that could happen to him. He needs friends and he needs purpose.”
Thom appeared at the top of the stairs. “He said thanks, Pete. Well, he didn’t actually say thanks. But he meant it. You know how he is.”
“Level with me,” Taylor asked, voice lower now, conspiratorial. “Is he still planning on talking to them?”
And when Thom said, “No, he’s not,” something in his tone told Sachs that he was lying. She didn’t know about what or what significance it might have. But it rankled.
Planning on talking to them?
In any case Taylor seemed not to pick up on the aide’s deceit. He said, “I’ll come back tomorrow, see how he’s doing.”
Thom said he’d appreciate it and Taylor slung his bag over his shoulder and started up the sidewalk. The aide gestured to Sellitto. “He’d like to talk to you for a minute.” The detective climbed the stairs quickly. He disappeared into the room and a few minutes later he and Thom walked outside. Sellitto, solemn himself now, glanced at her. “Your turn.” And nodded toward the stairs.
Rhyme lay in the massive bed, hair mussed, face no longer red, hands no longer ivory. The room smelled ripe, visceral. There were clean sheets on the bed and his clothes had been changed again. This time the pajamas were as green as Dellray’s suit.
“Those are the ugliest PJs I’ve ever seen,” she said. “Your ex gave them to you, didn’t she?”
“How’d you guess? An anniversary present… Sorry for the scare,” he said, looking away from her. He seemed suddenly timid and that upset her. She thought of her father in the pre-op room at Sloan-Kettering before they took him down to the exploratory surgery he never awoke from.
“Sorry?” she asked ominously. “No more of that shit, Rhyme.”
He appraised her for a minute then said, “You two’ll do fine.”
“We two?”
“You and Lon. Mel too of course. And Jim Polling.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m retiring.”
“You’re what?”
“Too taxing for the old system, I’m afraid.”
“But you can’t quit.” She waved at the Monet poster. “Look at everything we’ve found about 823. We’re so close.”
“So you don’t need me. All you need is a little luck.”
“Luck? It took years to get Bundy. And what about the Zodiac killer? And the Werewolf?”
“We’ve got good information here. Hard information. You’ll come up with some good leads. You’ll nail him, Sachs. Your swan song before they lap you up into Public Affairs. I’ve got a feeling Unsub 823's getting cocky; they might even collar him at the church.”
“You look fine,” she said after a moment. Though he didn’t.
Rhyme laughed. Then the smile faded. “I’m very tired. And I hurt. Hell, I think I hurt in places the docs’ll say I can’t hurt.”
“Do what I do. Take a nap.”
He tried to snort a derisive laugh but he sounded weak. She hated seeing him this way. He coughed briefly, glanced down at the nerve stimulator, and grimaced, as if he was embarrassed that he depended on the machine. “Sachs… I don’t suppose we’ll be working together again. I just wanted to say that you’ve got a good career ahead of you, you make the right choices.”
“Well, I’ll come back and see you after we snag his bad ass.”
“I’d like that. I’m glad you were first officer yesterday morning. There’s nobody else I’d rather’ve walked the grid with.”
“I -”
“Lincoln,” a voice said. She turned to see a man in the doorway. He looked around the room curiously, taking in all the equipment.
“Been some excitement around here, looks like.”
“Doctor,” Rhyme said. His face blossoming into a smile. “Please come in.”
He stepped into the room. “I got Thom’s message. Emergency, he said?”
“Dr. William Berger, this is Amelia Sachs.” But Sachs could see she’d already ceased to exist in Lincoln Rhyme’s universe. Whatever else was left to be said – and she felt there were some things, maybe many things – would have to wait. She walked through the door. Thom, who stood in the large hallway outside, closed the door behind her and, ever proper, paused, nodding for her to precede him.
As Sachs walked out into the steamy night she heard a voice from nearby. “Excuse me.”
She turned and found Dr. Peter Taylor standing by himself under a ginkgo tree. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Sachs followed Taylor up the sidewalk a few doors.
“Yes?” she asked. He leaned against a stone wall and gave another self-conscious swipe at his hair. Sachs recalled how many times she’d intimidated men with a single word or glance. She thought, as she often did: What a useless power beauty is.
“You’re his friend, right?” the doctor asked her. “I mean, you work with him but you’re a friend too.”
“Sure. I guess I am.”
“That man who just went inside. Do you know who he is?”
“Berger, I think. He’s a doctor.”
“Did he say where he was from?”
“No.”
Taylor looked up at Rhyme’s bedroom window for a moment. He asked, “You know the Lethe Society?”
“No, oh, wait… It’s a euthanasia group, right?”
Taylor nodded. “I know all of Lincoln’s doctors. And I’ve never heard of Berger. I was just thinking maybe he’s with them.”
“What?”
Is he still talking to them…
So that’s what the conversation was about.
She felt weightless from the shock. “Has he… has he talked seriously about this before?”
“Oh, yes.” Taylor sighed, gazed into the smoky night sky. “Oh, yes.” Then glanced at her name badge. “Officer Sachs, I’ve spent hours trying to talk him out of it. Days. But I’ve also worked with quads for years and I know how stubborn they are. Maybe he’d listen to you. Just a few words. I was thinking… Could you? -”