Jeffery Deaver - The Empty Chair

"Moonshine? You don't bust 'em?"

After a moment Jesse said, "Sometimes, down here, you go lookin' for trouble. Sometimes you don't."

Which was a bit of law-enforcement philosophy that, Sachs knew, was hardly limited to the South.

They landed again on the south shore of the river, beside the crime scenes, and Sachs climbed out before Jesse could offer his hand, which he did anyway.

Suddenly a huge, dark shape came into view. A black motorized barge, forty feet long, eased down the canal, then passed them and headed into the river. She read on the side: DAVETT INDUSTRIES.

Sachs asked, "What's that?"

Lucy answered, "A company outside of town. They move shipments up the Intracoastal through the Dismal Swamp Canal and into Norfolk. Asphalt, tar paper, stuff like that."

Rhyme had heard this through the radio and said, "Let's ask if there was a shipment around the time of the killing. Get the name of the crew."

Sachs mentioned this to Lucy but she said, "I already did that. One of the first things Jim and I did." Her answer was clipped. "It was a negative. If you're interested we also canvassed everybody in town normally makes the commute along Canal Road and Route 112 here. Wasn't any help."

"That was a good idea," Sachs said.

"Just standard procedure," Lucy said coolly and strode back to her car like a homely girl in high school who'd finally managed to fling a searing put-down at the head cheerleader.

"I'm not letting him do anything until you get an air-conditioner in here."

"Thom, we don't have time for this," Rhyme spat out. Then told the workmen where to unload the instruments that had arrived from the state police.

Bell said, "Steve's out trying to dig one up. Isn't quite as easy as I thought."

"I don't need one."

Thom explained patiently. "I'm worried about dysreflexia."

"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.