A chuckle. “You’ve won, Charles. There’re no tricks I can pull. I just want to see the birds one last time.”
Rhyme guided the chair into the small elevator and pressed the button to take him to the second floor. He wheeled out of the cage and turned to the left into the hallway and then to the main bedroom, which faced Central Park West. The glass was bulletproof and the view of the greenery and distant battlement of posh buildings on the East Side were distorted.
He looked down to the nest.
The birds — a couple and two fledglings — turned their heads his way. The faces, by nature, radiated hostile suspicion, whatever was truly in their hearts. Of the quartet, the youngsters were by far the more aggressive. They would spar for sparring’s sake. Their parents took prey — at two hundred miles an hour — not for the joy of killing; for them the process was merely shopping for dinner.
He gazed at them for a full minute, then said, “All right. I’m ready.” Glancing down at the hypos. “Two. In case I dropped one, I assume. Fentanyl...” He added sardonically, “Such a lovely concoction of phenethyl, piperidinyl, phenylpropanamide. You know you can change the potency by moving the methyl group into the three-position of the ring. I assume this is the strongest. Now, your word about Ron?”
“My word.”
Rhyme sighed, looked at the birds one more time and slipped the needle into the vein on the back of his left hand. He slowly pressed the plunger.
By the time the last of the liquid was in the blood vessel, his head was lolling.
The heart rate on the sensor began a countdown.
In ten seconds, the small screen read 0.
And there it remained.
66
As with so many human constructs meant to interpret indifferent nature, time knows no natural intervals. We’ve decided on hours and minutes and seconds.
So while it could be said that Lincoln Rhyme died at 10:14:53 post meridiem on Tuesday, April 16, the most accurate way to put it is the truism: he lived the length of time from his birth to his death.
Requiescat in pace, Lincoln.
Hale put the tablet into his backpack and, still crouching in the bushes, pulled out his phone and read the message he’d received a few moments earlier. It was from the pilot, reporting that the plane was in Teterboro, the private airport in New Jersey, and ready to go at any time. The drive there would take forty minutes.
This portion of his mission was completed, yes, but he decided he’d been inaccurate to think of Rhyme’s death as the finale. It was the penultimate mission — next to last.
Clocks are not moral or amoral. They count second by second, marking moments of joy and sorrow and pain and pleasure and cruelty, but they remain utterly indifferent to what occurs at any particular click.
This was the template too for Charles Vespasian Hale, who with no affect whatsoever carried out his jobs in the most logical way possible, regardless of the consequence to anyone.
And so it was with no regret — or joy — that he dialed the number that detonated the charge on the acid jar in the warehouse basement where Ron Pulaski was held. He’d kept him alive until now in case Rhyme had wanted proof that he was all right.
Lincoln Rhyme had died thinking that he had saved the life of the young man. That would have brought him some peace.
But Hale could not afford another grain of sand in the works of his life.
Pulaski was heir to Rhyme’s skill and had that grit that would motivate him to do whatever it took to find Hale and either bring him back to New York for trial or — he believed the officer capable of it — kill him on the spot.
He had to go.
And Amelia Sachs?
She was less of a threat. Justice was within her, like a vein of a diamond. But revenge was not. She wouldn’t choose to forgo her job of stopping evil in the city for the lengthy and possibly futile mission of pursuing her husband’s killer.
Hale had been dramatic with Rhyme in describing the effects of HF gas on Ron Pulaski. There was no time-release mechanism on the device. All the acid in the jar would flood the room at once. A painful death, yes, but brief. He’d be dead by now.
Hale looked around him and, seeing no threats, lifted his backpack to his shoulder.
With a fleeting thought of Simone, he began the hike back to the SUV — and from there, to his new life.
67
Her world was abuzz.
A barred owl!
Rare in Central Park, and Carol would not miss it for the world. It was nighttime, yes, but serious birdwatchers took to the forest and field at all hours, especially in hopes of catching a glimpse of the stunning creature, which was as tall as the great horned — seventeen to twenty-five inches — and had the distinction of being the only owl on earth with brown eyes.
Like other birdwatchers presently in Central Park, she would be patient and dogged and happily ignore the pain of “bird neck,” from staring straight up into the trees.
She was walking quickly, camera bouncing on her chest, night-vision binoculars in hand. You never strung two accessories around you. The tap and clank would scare off your subject. And always, rubber-soled shoes, quiet as spilling flour.
Then she slowed. Not because of the owl, or any other bird. She had noted a person not far ahead, walking her way. He was passing through a cone of overhead light.
Was it...?
Yes, it was him! David. The fellow birdwatcher from the other day. The unmarried man, with a job.
He wore tan overalls — which gave a hint as to his profession — and had a backpack over his shoulder.
She’d been back to this area several times in hopes of seeing him again.
Couldn’t wait to tell him about the barred owl — that would be a surefire catch — and maybe together they could stalk it.
Then, she might ask, Coffee?
Alcohol was never suggested by a woman first, but if he did...
Ah, the complex choreography of the mating game.
A bird flashed by — not a brown streak, so it wasn’t the owl in question. She ignored it and slowed, fixing a smile on her face, standing a bit taller.
He walked closer yet, head down, examining a phone.
When he was about twenty-five, thirty feet away, she called out a bright “David!” Wondering if he’d remember her name. Of course she’d identify herself. She hated it when people assumed you knew who they were.
He stopped.
And looked up. He was frowning.
Damn, she sensed she hadn’t handled it right. She’d been too far away when she called out. She should’ve waited.
But then Carol noted he was looking not at her but over her shoulder.
She turned and gasped.
A tall redheaded woman in jacket and jeans and bulletproof vest was trotting forward, leading a dozen other officers, some in full battle gear. She held a large black pistol. Others slipped from the bushes beside and behind David.
Who, she now guessed, might not be a David after all.
He shook his head and lifted his hands above his head.
Carol had had potential romances fail for any number of reasons.
None of them involved arrests.
“You, keep moving,” the redhead said to her sternly.
“Well, no need to be huffy,” Carol replied, but strode quickly away.
When she was some distance from the officers, she glanced back and watched David being handcuffed. His eyes were up, in the air, and she wondered if, whatever had landed him in hot water, he was in fact a birdwatcher and had spotted something important.