In the end, though, the journey wasn’t bad. We’re all disabled in the eyes of the Transportation Security Administration, all immobile, all objects, all baggage to be shuffled about at whim. Lincoln actually felt that he was better off than most of his fellow travelers, who were used to being mobile and independent.
Outside the baggage claim area, on the ground floor of the airport, Rhyme motored to the edge of the sidewalk filled with tourists and locals bustling for cars and taxis and mini vans. He looked at a small garden of plants, some of whose varieties he’d never seen. He had no interest in horticulture for aesthetics but he found flora extremely helpful in crime scene work.
He’d also heard the rum was particularly good in the Bahamas.
Returning to where Thom was standing, making a phone call, Rhyme phoned Sachs and left a message. “Made it okay. I…” He turned, hearing a caterwauling screech behind him. “Christ, scared the hell out of me. There’s a parrot here. He’s talking!”
The cage had been placed there by a local tourist commission. Inside was an Abaco Bahamian parrot, according to the sign. The noisy bird, gray with a flourish of green on the tail, was saying, “Hello! Hi! ¡Hola! ” Rhyme recorded some of the greeting for Sachs.
Another breath of the dank, salty air, tinged with a sour aroma, what he realized was smoke. What was burning? No one else seemed alarmed.
“Got the bags,” came a voice from behind them.
NYPD patrolman Ron Pulaski – young, blond, thin – was wheeling the suitcases on a cart. The trio didn’t expect to be here long but the nature of Rhyme’s condition was such that he required accessories. A lot of them. Medicines, catheters, tubes, disinfectants, air pillows to prevent the sores that could lead to infections.
“What’s that?” Rhyme asked as Thom retrieved a small backpack from one bag and slung it on the back of the wheelchair.
“It’s a portable respirator,” Pulaski answered.
Thom added, “Battery powered. Double oxygen tank. It’ll last for a couple of hours.”
“What the hell did you bring that for?”
“Flying with cabin pressure at seven thousand feet,” the aide replied as if the answer were obvious. “Stress. There’re a dozen reasons it can’t hurt to have one with us.”
“Do I look stressed?” Rhyme asked petulantly. He had weaned himself off the ventilator years ago, to breathe on his own, one of the proudest achievements possible for a quad. But Thom had apparently forgotten – or disregarded – that accomplishment. “I don’t need it.”
“Let’s hope you don’t. But what can it hurt?”
Rhyme had no answer to that. He glanced at Pulaski. “And it’s not a respirator, by the way. Respiration is the exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide. Ventilation is the introduction of gas into the lungs. Hence, it’s a ventilator .”
Pulaski sighed. “Got it, Lincoln.”
At least the rookie had stopped his irritating habit of calling Rhyme “sir” or “captain.”
The young officer then asked, “Does it matter?”
“Of course, it matters,” he snapped. “Precision is the key to everything. Where’s the van?”
Another of Thom’s tasks was getting a disabled accessible vehicle in the Bahamas.
Still on the phone, he glanced at Rhyme, grimacing. “I’m on hold again.”
The aide finally made contact with somebody and several minutes later the van was pulling up to the curb near the resort mini bus waiting area. The white Ford was battered and stank of old cigarette smoke. The windows greasy. Pulaski loaded the luggage into the back while Thom signed forms and handed them to the lean, dark skinned man who’d delivered the vehicle. Credit cards and a certain amount of cash were exchanged and the driver disappeared on foot. Rhyme wondered if the van had been stolen. Then decided that this was unfair.
You’re in a different world, not Manhattan anymore. Keep an open mind.
With Thom at the wheel, they drove along the main highway toward Nassau, a two lane road in good repair. Traffic from the airport was heavy, mostly older American cars and imports from Japan, beat up trucks, mini vans. Hardly any SUVs, not surprising in a land of expensive gas and no ice, snow or mountains. Curiously, though the driving here was left sided – the Bahamas was a former British colony – most of the cars had left hand drive, American style.
As they poked along east, Rhyme noted along the roadside small businesses without signage to indicate what their products or services were, many unkempt plots of land, vendors selling fruits and vegetables out of the backs of their cars; they seemed uninterested in making sales. The van passed some large, rambling homes behind gates, mostly older construction. A number of smaller houses and shacks seemed abandoned, victims of hurricanes, he guessed. Nearly all the locals had very dark skin. Most of the men were dressed in T shirts or short sleeved shirts, untucked, and jeans or slacks or shorts. Women wore similar outfits too but many were in plain dresses of floral patterns or bright solid colors.
“Well,” Thom exclaimed breathlessly, braking hard and managing to avoid the goat while not capsizing their belongings.
“Look at that,” Pulaski said. And captured the animal on his cell phone camera.
Thom obeyed the GPS god and before they came to downtown Nassau itself they turned off the main road, away from dense traffic. They drove past the limestone walls of an old fort. In five minutes the aide pulled the van, rocking on a bad suspension, into the parking lot of a modest but well kept up motel. He and Pulaski handed off the luggage to a bellman and the aide went to the front desk to check in and examine the accessible aspects of the motel. He returned to report they were acceptable.
“Part of Fort Charlotte,” Pulaski said, reading a sign beside a path that led from the motel to the fort.
“What?” Rhyme asked.
“Fort Charlotte. After it was built, nobody ever attacked the Bahamas. Well, never attacked New Providence Island. That’s where we are.”
“Ah,” Rhyme offered, without interest.
“Look at this,” Pulaski said, pointing to a lizard standing motionless on the wall next to the front door of the place.
Rhyme said, “A green anole, an American chameleon. She’s gravid.”
“She’s what?”
“Pregnant. Obviously.”
“That’s what ‘gravid’ means?” the young officer asked.
“The technical definition is ‘distended with eggs.’ Ergo , pregnant.”
Pulaski laughed. “You’re joking.”
Rhyme growled, “Joking? What would be funny about an expectant lizard?”
“No. I mean, how’d you know that?”
“Because I was coming to an area I’m not familiar with, and what’s in chapter one of my forensics book, rookie?”
“The rule that you have to know the geography when you run a crime scene.”
“I needed to learn the basic information about geology and flora and fauna that might help me here. The fact that nobody invaded after Fort Charlotte was built is pointless to me, so I didn’t bother to learn that. Lizards and parrots and Kalik beer and mangroves might be relevant. So I read up on them on the flight. What were you reading?”
“Uhm, People .”
Rhyme scoffed.
The lizard blinked and twisted its head but otherwise remained motionless.
Rhyme removed his mobile phone from his shirt pocket. The prior surgery, on his right arm and hand, had been quite successful. The movements were slightly off, compared with those of a non disabled limb, but they were smooth enough so that an onlooker might not notice they weren’t quite natural. His cell was an iPhone and he’d spent hours practicing the esoteric skills of swiping the screen and calling up apps. He’d had his fill of voice recognition, because of his condition, so he’d put Siri to sleep. He now used the recent calls feature to dial a number with one touch. A richly accented woman’s voice said, “Police, do you have an emergency?”
“No, no emergency. Could I speak to Corporal Poitier, please?”
“One moment, sir.”