Jeffery Deaver - The Empty Chair

"Jim," he whispered. "Not you too?"

"You got that right."

Rhyme's eyes closed. "No, no," he whispered. His head dipped. But only a few millimeters. As with most great men Lincoln Rhyme's gestures of defeat were very subtle.

Mason Germain and the sullen black man moved slowly through the alley next to the Tanner's County lockup.

The man was sweating and he slapped in irritation at a mosquito. He muttered something and wiped a long hand over his short kinky hair.

Mason felt an urge to needle him but resisted.

The man was tall and by stretching up on his toes he could look into the lockup window. Mason saw that he wore short black boots – shiny patent leather – which for some reason added to the deputy's contempt for the out-of-towner. He wondered how many men he'd shot.

"She's in there," the man said. "She's alone."

"We're keeping Garrett on the other side."

"You go in the front. Can somebody get out through the back?"

"I'm a deputy, remember? I got a key. I can unlock it." He said this in a snide tone, wondering again if this fellow was halfway bright.

He got snide in return. "I was only asking if there's a door in the back. Which I don't know, never having been in this swamp of a town before."

"Oh. Yeah, there's a door."

"Well, let's go then."

Mason noticed that the man's gun was in his hand and that he hadn't seen him draw it.

Sachs sat on the bench in her cell, hypnotized by the motion of a fly.

What kind was it? she wondered. Garrett would know in an instant. He was a warehouse of knowledge. A thought occurred to her: There'd be that moment when a child's knowledge of a subject surpasses his parents'. It must be a miraculous thing, exhilarating, to know that you'd produced this creation who'd outsoared you. Humbling too.

An experience that she now would never know.

She thought once again about her father. The man had diffused crime. Never fired his gun in all his years on duty. Proud as he was of his daughter, he'd worried about her fascination with firearms. "Shoot last ," he'd often remind her.

Oh, Jesse… What can I say to you?

Nothing, of course. I can't say a word. You're gone.

She thought she saw a shadow outside the lockup window. But she ignored it, and her thoughts slipped to Rhyme.

You and me , she was thinking. You and me. Recalling the time a few months ago, lying together in his opulent Clinitron bed in his Manhattan townhouse, as they watched Baz Luhrmann's stylish Romeo and Juliet , an updated version set in Miami. With Rhyme, death always hovered close and, watching the final scenes of the movie, Amelia Sachs had realized that, like Shakespeare's characters, she and Rhyme were in a way star-crossed lovers too. And another thought had then flashed through her mind: that the two of them would also die together.

She hadn't dared share this thought with rationalist Lincoln Rhyme, who didn't have a sentimental cell in his brain. But once this notion had occurred to her it seated itself permanently in her psyche and for some reason gave her great comfort.

Yet now she couldn't even find solace in this odd thought. No, now – thanks to her – they'd live separately and die separately. They'd -

The door to the lockup swung open and a young deputy walked inside. She recognized him. It was Steve Farr, Jim Bell's brother-in-law.

"Hey there," he called.

Sachs nodded. Then she noticed two things about him. One was that he wore a Rolex watch, which must've cost half the annual salary of a typical cop in North Carolina.

The other was that he wore a sidearm and that the holster thong was unsnapped.

Despite the sign outside the door to the cells: PLACE ALL WEAPONS IN THE LOCKBOX BEFORE ENTERING THE CELL AREA.

"How you doing?" Farr asked.

She looked at him, gave no reaction.

"Being the silent type today, huh? Well, miss, I got good news for you. You're free to go." He flicked at one of his prominent ears.

"Free? To go?"

He fished for his keys. "Yep. They've decided the shooting was accidental. You can just leave."

She studied his face closely. He wasn't looking her way. "What about the disposition report?"

"What's that?" Farr asked.

"Nobody charged with a crime can be released from custody without a disposition report waiving charges, signed by the prosecutor."

Farr unlocked the cell door and stood back. Hand hovering near the pistol butt. "Oh, maybe that's how you do things in the big city. But down here we're a ton more casual. You know, they say we move slower in the South. But that ain't right. No, ma'am. We're really more efficient."

Sachs remained seated. "Can I ask why you're wearing your weapon in the lockup?"

"Oh, this?" He tapped the gun. "We don't have any hard-and-fast rules about that sort of thing. Now, come on. You're free to leave. Most people'd be jumping up and down at that news." He nodded toward the back of the lockup.

"Out the back door?" she asked.

"Sure."

"You can't shoot a fleeing prisoner in the back. That's murder."

He nodded slowly.

How was it set up? she wondered. Was there someone else outside the door to do the actual shooting? Probably. Farr bangs himself on the head and calls for help. Fires a shot into the ceiling. Outside, somebody – maybe a "concerned" citizen – claims he heard the gun and assumes Sachs is armed, shoots her.

She didn't move.

"Now stand up and git your ass outside." Farr pulled the pistol from his holster.

Slowly she stood.

You and me, Rhyme…

"You were pretty close, Lincoln," Jim Bell said.

After a moment he added, "Ninety percent right. My experience in law-enforcement is that's a good percentage. Too bad for you I'm the ten percent you missed."

Bell shut off the air-conditioner. With the window closed the room heated up immediately. Rhyme felt sweat on his forehead. His breathing grew labored.

The sheriff continued, "Two families along Blackwater Canal wouldn't grant Mr. Davett easements to run his barges."

A respectful Mister Davett, Rhyme noted.

"So his security chief hired a few of us to take care of the problem. We had a long talk with the Conklins and they decided to grant the easement. But Garrett's father never would agree. We were going to make it look like a car crash and we got a can of that shit" – he nodded to the jar on the table – "to knock them out. We knew the family went out to dinner every Wednesday. We poured the poison into the car's vent and hid in the woods. They got in and Garrett's father turned on the air-conditioner. The stuff sprayed out all over them. But we used too much -"

He glanced again at the jar. "That there's enough to kill a man twice over." He continued, frowning at the memory. "The family started twitching and convulsing… Was a hard thing to see. Garrett wasn't in the car but he ran up and saw what was going on. He tried to get inside but couldn't. He got a good whiff of the stuff, though, and it was like he became this zombie. He just stumbled off into the woods 'fore we could catch him. And by the time he surfaced – a week or two later – he didn't remember what'd happened. That MCS thing you were mentioning, I guess. So we just let him be for the time being – too suspicious if he was to die right after his family did. Then we did just what you figured. Set fire to the bodies and buried them at Blackwater Landing. Pushed the car into the inlet by Canal Road. Paid the coroner a hundred thousand for some ginned-up reports. Whenever we heard that somebody else'd got a funny kind of cancer and was asking questions why, Culbeau and the others took care of them."