Jeffery Deaver - The Bone Collector

“ Lincoln,” Berger continued kindly, “I have to make sure you’re the appropriate candidate for the program.”

“'Candidate'? 'Program'? Ah, the tyranny of euphemism,” Rhyme said bitterly. “Doctor, I’ve made up my mind. I’d like to do it today. Now, as a matter of fact.”

“Why today?”

Rhyme’s eyes had returned to the bottles and the bag. He whispered, “Why not? What’s today? August twenty-third? That’s as good a day to die as any.”

The doctor tapped his narrow lips. “I have to spend some time talking to you, Lincoln. If I’m convinced that you really want to go ahead -”

“I do,” Rhyme said, noting as he often did how weak our words sound without the body gestures to accompany them. He wanted desperately to lay his hand on Berger’s arm or lift his palms beseechingly.

Without asking if he could, Berger pulled out a packet of Marlboros and lit a cigarette. He took a folding metal ashtray from his pocket and opened it up. Crossed his thin legs. He looked like a foppish frat boy at an Ivy League smoker. “ Lincoln, you understand the problem here, don’t you?”

Sure, he understood. It was the very reason why Berger was here and why one of Rhyme’s own doctors hadn’t “done the deed.” Hastening an inevitable death was one thing; nearly one-third of practicing doctors who treated terminal patients had prescribed or administered fatal doses of drugs. Most prosecutors turned a blind eye toward them unless a doctor flaunted it – like Kevorkian.

But a quad? A hemi? A para? A crip? Oh, that was different. Lincoln Rhyme was forty years old. He’d been weaned off the ventilator. Barring some insidious gene in the Rhyme stock, there was no medical reason why he couldn’t live to eighty.

Berger added, “Let me be blunt, Lincoln. I also have to be sure this isn’t a setup.”

“Setup?”

“Prosecutors. I’ve been entrapped before.”

Rhyme laughed. “The New York attorney general’s a busy man. He’s not going to wire a crip to bag himself a euthanasist.”

Glancing absently at the crime scene report.

… ten feet southwest of victim, found in a cluster on a small pile of white sand: a ball of fiber, approximately six centimeters in diameter, off-white in color. The fiber was sampled in the energy-dispersive X-ray unit and found to consist of A 2B 5(Si, Al) 8O 22(OH) 2. No source was indicated and the fibers could not be individuated. Sample sent to FBI PERT office for analysis.

“I just have to be careful,” Berger continued. “This is my whole professional” life now. I gave up orthopedics completely. Anyway, it’s more than a job. I’ve decided to devote my life to helping others end theirs.”

Adjacent to this fiber, approximately three inches away were found two scraps of paper. One was common newsprint, with the words “three p.m.” printed in Times Roman type, in ink consistent with that used in commercial newspapers. The other scrap appeared to be the corner of a page from a book with the page number “ 823” printed on it. The typeface was Garamond and the paper was calendared. ALS and subsequent ninhydrin analysis reveal no latent friction-ridge prints on either… Individuation was not possible.

Several things nagged Rhyme. The fiber, for one. Why hadn’t Peretti caught on as to what it was? It was so obvious. And why was this PE – the newspaper scraps and the fiber – all clustered together? Something was wrong here.

“ Lincoln?”

“Sorry.”

“I was saying… You’re not a burn victim in unbearable pain. You’re not homeless. You’ve got money, you’ve got talent. Your police consulting… that helps a lot of people. If you want one, you could have a, yes, productive life ahead of you. A long life.”

“Long, yes. That’s the problem. A long life.” He was tired of being on good behavior. He snapped, “But I don’t want a long life. It’s as simple as that.”

Berger said slowly, “If there’s the slightest chance you might’ve regretted your decision, well, see, I’m the one who’d have to live with it. Not you.”

“Who’s ever certain about something like this?”

Eyes slipping back to the report.

An iron bolt was found on top of the scraps of paper. It was a hex bolt, head-stamped with the letters “CE.“ Two inches long, clockwise twist, 15/16” in diameter.

“I’ve got a busy schedule for the next few days,” Berger said, looking at his watch. It was a Rolex; well, death has always been lucrative. “Let’s take an hour or so now. Talk for a while, then have a cooling-off day and I’ll come back.”

Something was nagging at Rhyme. An infuriating itch – the curse of all quads – though in this case it was an intellectual itch. The kind that had plagued Rhyme all his life.

“Say, doctor, I wonder if you could do me a favor. That report there. Could you flip through it? See if you could find a picture of a bolt.”

Berger hesitated. “A picture?”

“A Polaroid. It’ll be glued in somewhere toward the back. The turning frame takes too long.”

Berger lifted the report out of the frame and turned the pages for Rhyme.

“There. Stop.”

As he gazed at the photo a twinge of urgency pricked at him. Oh, not here, not now. Please , no .

“I’m sorry, could you flip back to the page where we were?”

Berger did.

Rhyme said nothing and read carefully.

The paper scraps…

Three p.m… page 823.

Rhyme’s heart was pounding, sweat popped out on his head. He heard a frantic buzzing in his ears.

Here’s a headline for the tabloids. MAN DIES DURING TALK WITH DEATH DOC…

Berger blinked. “ Lincoln? Are you all right?” The man’s canny eyes examined Rhyme carefully.

As casually as he could, Rhyme said, “You know, doctor, I’m sorry. But there’s something I’ve got to take care of.”

Berger nodded slowly, uncertainly. “Affairs aren’t in order after all?”

Smiling. Nonchalant. “I’m just wondering if I could ask you to come back in a few hours.”

Careful here. If he senses purpose he’ll mark you down non-suicidal, take his bottles and his plastic bag and fly back to Starbucks land.

Opening a date book, Berger said, “The rest of the day isn’t good. Then tomorrow… No. I’m afraid Monday’s the earliest. Day after tomorrow.”

Rhyme hesitated. Lord… His soul’s desire was finally within his grasp, what he’d dreamed of every day for the past year. Yes or no?

Decide.

Finally, Rhyme heard himself say, “All right. Monday.” Plastering a hopeless smile on his face.

“What exactly’s the problem?”

“A man I used to work with. He asked for some advice. I wasn’t paying as much attention to it as I should have. I have to call him.”

No, it wasn’t dysreflexia at all – or an anxiety attack.

Lincoln Rhyme was feeling something he hadn’t felt in years. He was in one big fucking hurry.

“Could I ask you to send Thom up here? I think he’s downstairs in the kitchen.”

“Yes, of course. I’d be happy to.”

Rhyme could see something odd in Berger’s eyes. What was it? Caution? Maybe. It almost seemed like disappointment. But there was no time to think about it now. As the doctor’s footsteps receded down the stairs Rhyme shouted in a booming baritone, “Thom? Thom!”

“What?” the young man’s voice called.

“Call Lon. Get him back here. Now!”

Rhyme glanced at the clock. It was after noon. They had less than three hours.

“THE CRIME SCENE WAS STAGED,” Lincoln Rhyme said.

Lon Sellitto had tossed his jacket off, revealing a savagely wrinkled shirt. He now leaned back, arms crossed, against a table strewn with papers and books.