Jeffery Deaver - The Vanished Man

Furious mostly at himself for disappointing her.

But she had to understand how hard it was for him to go back there – to the flames, to the smoke that slipped into his nose and threatened his precious lungs -

Wait. Smoke…

Lincoln Rhyme said, "Fire."

"Fire?"

"I think that was what he talked about the most. He was obsessed with it. There was an illusion he mentioned. The… right, the Burning Mirror. That was it. Flames all over the stage, I think. The illusionist has to escape from them. He turns into the devil. Or somebody turns into the devil."

Both Rhyme and Sachs glanced at Kara, who was nodding. "I've heard of it. But it's rare. Takes a lot of setup and it's pretty dangerous. Most theaters owners won't let performers do it nowadays."

"He kept going on about fire. How it's the one thing you can't fake onstage. How audiences see fire and they secretly hope maybe the illusionist'll get burned. Wait. I remember something else. He -"

"Go on, Rhyme, you're on a roll."

"Don't interrupt me," he snapped. "I told you he was acting as if he were giving a performance? He seemed delusional. He kept looking at the blank wall and talking to somebody. It was like, 'My something audience.' I don't remember what he called them. He was manic."

"An imaginary audience."

"Right. Hold on… I think it was 'respected audience.' Talking to them directly, 'My respected audience.'"

Sachs glanced at Kara, who shrugged. "We always talk to the audience. It's called patter. In the old days performers would say things like 'my esteemed audience,' or 'my dear ladies and gentlemen.' But everybody thinks that's hokey and pretentious. Patter's a lot less formal now."

"Let's keep going."

"I don't know, Sachs. I think I'm dry. Everything else is just a big blur."

"I'll bet there's more. It's like that one bit of evidence at the scene. It's there, it might be the key to the whole case. You just have to think a little differently to find it." She leaned closer to Rhyme. "Let's say this is your bedroom. You're in the Flexicair. Where was he standing?"

The criminalist nodded. "There. Near the foot of the bed, facing me. My left side, closest to the door."

"What was his pose?"

"Pose? I don't know."

"Try."

"I guess facing me. He kept moving his hands. Like he was speaking in public."

Sachs stood and took up a position. "Like this?"

"Closer."

She moved in.

"There."

Her standing in this pose did in fact bring back a memory. "One thing… He was talking about the victims. He said killing them wasn't anything personal."

"Nothing personal."

"He killed… yes, I remember now. He killed them because of what they represented ."

Sachs was nodding, scribbling notes to supplement the tape recording.

"Represented?" she mused. "What does that mean?"

"I didn't have any idea. One musician, one lawyer, one makeup artist. Different ages, sexes, professions, residences, no known connection to one other. What could they represent? Upper-middle-class lifestyles, urban dwellers, higher education… Maybe one of those is the key – the rationalization for picking them. Who knows?"

Sachs was frowning. "There's something wrong."

"What?"

She finally said, "Something about what you're remembering."

"Well, it's not fucking verbatim. I didn't exactly have a stenographer handy."

"No, that's not what I mean." She considered for a minute. Then she nodded. "You're characterizing what he said. You're using your language, not his. 'Urban dwellers.' 'Rationalization.' I want his words."

"Well, I don't remember his words, Sachs. He said he didn't have anything personal against the victims. Period."

She shook her head. "No, I'll bet he didn't say that."

"What do you mean?"

"Murderers never think of the people they kill as 'victims.' It's impossible. They never humanize them. At least a pattern doer like the Conjurer wouldn't."

"That's hogwash from police academy psych 101, Sachs."

"No, it's the real world. We know they're victims but the perps always believe they deserve to die for one reason or another. Think about it. He didn't say 'victim,' did he?"

"Well, what difference does it make?"

"Because he said they were representative of something and we have to find out what. How did he refer to them?"

"I don't remember."

"Well, he didn't say 'victim.' I know that. Did he talk about any of them specifically? Svetlana, Tony… How about Cheryl Marston? Did he call her the blonde woman? Did he say lawyer? Did he say the woman with big boobs? I guarantee he didn't say 'urban dweller.'"

Rhyme closed his eyes, tried to go back there. Finally he shook his head. "I don't -"

And then the word came to him.

"'Equestrian.'"

"What?"

"You're right. The word wasn't 'victim.' He called her 'the equestrian.'"

"Excellent!" she said.

Rhyme felt a burst of unreasonable pride.

"How 'bout the others?"

"No, she was the only one he referred to." Rhyme was positive about this.

Sellitto said, "So he thinks of the vics as people doing a particular thing – that may or may not be their jobs."

"Right," Rhyme confirmed. "Playing music. Putting makeup on people. Riding horses."

"But whatta we do with that?" Sellitto asked.

And as Rhyme had said to her so often, when she posed this very same question about crime-scene evidence, she replied, "We don't know yet, Detective. But it's a step closer to figuring him out." The policewoman then consulted the notes she'd been taking. "Okay, he did the razor-blade tricks, mentioned the Burning Mirror. He talked to his respected audience. He's obsessed with fire. He picked a makeup artist, a musician and a horseback rider to kill because of what they represent – whatever that is. Can you think of anything else?"

Eyes closed again. Trying hard.

But kept seeing the razor blades, the flames, smelling the smoke.

"Nope," he said, looking back at her. "I think that's it."

"Okay. Good, Rhyme."

And he recognized the tone in her voice.

He knew it because it was the tone he'd often use.

It meant she wasn't finished.

Sachs looked up from her notes and said slowly, "You know, you're always quoting Locard."

Rhyme nodded at the reference to the early French forensic detective and criminalist, who developed a principle that was later named for him. The rule held that at every crime scene there's always an exchange of evidence between the perpetrator and the victim or the locale itself, however minute.

"Well, I'm thinking there might be a psychological exchange too. Just like a physical one."

Rhyme laughed at the crazy idea. Locard was a scientist; he'd have balked at having his principle applied to something as slippery as the human psyche.

"What're you getting at?"

She continued, "You weren't gagged the whole time, were you?"

"No, just at the end."

"So that means you communicated something too. You took part in an exchange ."

"Me?"

"Didn't you? Didn't you say anything to him?"

"Sure. But so what? It's his words that're important."

"I'm thinking he might've said something in response to you."

Rhyme observed Sachs closely. A smudge of soot the shape of a quarter moon on her cheek, sweat just above her buoyant upper lip. She was sitting forward and, though her voice was calm, he could sense the tension of concentration in her pose. She wouldn't know it, of course, but she seemed to be feeling exactly the same emotions that he felt when he was guiding her through a crime scene miles away.

"Think about it, Rhyme," she said. "Imagine that you're alone with a perp. Not the Conjurer necessarily. Any perp. What would you say to him? What would you want to know?"