Jeffery Deaver - The Twelfth Card

The doctor and Sachs exchanged greetings, then he glanced at the lab, noting the bustle of activity. From a therapeutic point of view, he was pleased that Rhyme had a job. Being engaged in an activity, he’d often said, vastly improved one’s will and drive to improve (though he caustically urged Rhyme to avoid situations where he could be, say, burned to death, which had nearly happened in a recent case).

The doctor was talented and amiable and damn smart. But Rhyme had no time for him at the moment, now that he knew two armed perps were after Geneva. He greeted the medico in a distracted mood.

“My receptionist said you canceled the appointment today. I wondered if you were okay.”

A concern that could easily have been addressed via telephone, the criminalist reflected.

But that way the doctor couldn’t have put the same pressure on Rhyme to take the tests as he could in person.

And Sherman had indeed been pressuring him. He wanted to know that the exercise plan was paying off. Not only for the patient’s sake but also so that the doctor himself could incorporate the information into his ongoing studies.

“No, everything’s fine,” Rhyme said. “A case just fell into our laps.” He gestured toward the evidence board. Sherman eyed it.

Thom stuck his head in the doorway. “Doctor, you want some coffee? Soda?”

“Oh, we don’t want to take up the doctor’s precious time,” Rhyme said quickly. “Now that he knows that there’s nothing wrong, I’m sure he’ll want to – ”

“A case?” Sherman asked, still looking over the board.

After a moment Rhyme said in a brittle voice, “A tough one. Very bad man out there. One we were in the process of trying to catch when you stopped by.” Rhyme wasn’t inclined to give an inch and didn’t apologize for his rude behavior. But doctors or therapists who deal with SCI patients know that they come with some bonuses: anger, bad attitudes and searing tongues. Sherman was completely unaffected by Rhyme’s behavior. The doctor continued to study Rhyme as he responded: “No, nothing for me, Thom, thank you. I can’t stay long.”

“You sure?” A nod toward Rhyme. “Don’t mind him.”

“I’m fine, yes.”

But even though he didn’t want a refreshing beverage, even though he couldn’t stay long, nonetheless here he was, not making any immediate move to depart. In fact, he was pulling up a fucking chair and sitting down.

Sachs glanced toward Rhyme. He gave her a blank look and turned back to the doctor, who scooted his chair closer. Then he leaned forward and whispered, “Lincoln, you’ve been resisting the tests for months now.”

“It’s been a whirlwind. Four cases we’ve been working on. And now five. Time-consuming, as you can imagine…And fascinating, by the way. Unique issues.” Hoping the doctor would ask him for some details, which would at least deflect the course of the conversation.

But the man didn’t, of course. SCI doctors never went for the bait. They’d seen it all. Sherman said, “Let me say one thing.”

And how the hell can I stop you? thought the criminalist.

“You’ve worked harder on our exercises than any other patient of mine. I know you’re resisting the test because you’re afraid it won’t’ve had any effect. Am I right?”

“Not really, Doctor. I’m just busy.”

As if he hadn’t heard, Sherman said, “I know you’re going to find considerable improvement in your overall condition and functional status.”

Doctor-talk could be as prickly as cop-talk, Rhyme reflected. He replied, “I hope so. But if not, believe me, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got the muscle mass improvement, the bone density improvement… Lungs and heart are better. That’s all I’m after. Not motor movement.”

Sherman eyed him up and down. “You really feel that way?”

“Absolutely.” Looking around, he lowered his voice as he said, “These exercises won’t let me walk.”

“No, that won’t happen.”

“So why would I want some tiny improvement in my left little toe? That’s pointless. I’ll do the exercises, keep myself in the best shape I can and in five or ten years, when you folks come up with a miracle graft or clone or something, I’ll be ready to start walking again.”

The doctor smiled and clapped his hand on Rhyme’s leg, a gesture he did not feel. Sherman nodded. “I’m so glad to hear you say that, Lincoln. The biggest problem I have is patients’ giving up because they find that all the exercise and hard work doesn’t really change their lives very much. They want big wins and cures. They don’t realize that this kind of war is won with small victories.”

“I think I’ve already won.”

The doctor rose. “I’d still like those scans done. We need the data.”

“As soon as – hey, Lon, are you listening? Incoming cliché! As soon as the deck is cleared.”

Sellitto, who had no clue what Rhyme was talking about, or didn’t care, gave him a hollow look.

“All right,” Sherman said and walked to the door. “And good luck with the case.”

“We’ll hope for the best,” Rhyme said cheerily.

The man of small victories left the town house and Rhyme immediately turned back to the evidence boards.

Sachs took a call and listened for a moment, hung up. “That was Bo Haumann. Those guys on the entry team? The ones who took the electricity? The first one’s got some bad burns, but he’ll live. The other one’s been released.”

“Thank God,” Sellitto said, seeming hugely relieved. “Man, what that must’ve been like. All that juice going through you.” He closed his eyes momentarily. “The burns. And the smell. Jesus. His hair was fucking burnt off… I’ll send him something. No, I’ll take him a present myself. Maybe flowers. Think he’d like some flowers?”

This reaction, like his earlier behavior, wasn’t typical of Sellitto. Cops got hurt and cops got killed, and everybody on the force accepted that reality in his or her own way. There were plenty of officers who’d say, “Thank God he’s alive,” and bless themselves and trot to the closest church to pray their thanks. But Sellitto’s way was to nod and get on with the job. Not to act like this.

“No clue,” Rhyme said.

Flowers?

Mel Cooper called out, “ Lincoln, I’ve got Captain Ned Seely on the line.” The tech had been talking to the Texas Rangers about the killing in Amarillo that VICAP had reported was similar to the incident at the museum.

“Speaker it.”

He did and Rhyme asked, “Hello, Captain?”

“Yes, sir,” came the response, a drawl. “Mr. Rhyme?”

“That’s right.”

“Got your associate’s request for information on the Charlie Tucker case. I pulled what he had but it wasn’t much. You think it’s the same fellow causing a stir up your way?”

“The M.O.’s similar to an incident we had here this morning. His shoes were the same brand – so was the tread wear. And he left some fake evidence to lead us off, the same way he left those candles and occult markings at Tucker’s killing. Oh, and our perp’s got a Southern accent. There was also a similar killing in Ohio a few years later. That one was a contract hit.”

“So y’all’re thinkin’ somebody hired this fella to kill Tucker?”

“Maybe. Who was he?”

“Tucker? Ordinary fellow. Just retired from the Department of Justice – that’s our corrections outfit down here. Was happily married, a grandfather. Never in any trouble. Went to church regular.”

Rhyme frowned. “What’d he do for prisons?”

“Guard. In our maximum security facility in Amarillo…Hmmm, you thinkin’ maybe a prisoner hired somebody to get even for something that happened inside? Prisoner abuse, or some such?”