The Twelfth Card (Lincoln Rhyme 6)

"Of course."

He asked her too to see if any school security tapes might have picked him up. They exchanged phone numbers, then the detective dropped into the driver's seat, started the engine. "Buckle up, everybody. We aren't exactly going to be moseyin' on out of here."

Just as Geneva clicked her seat belt on, the policeman hit the gas and the car skidded away from the curb and started a roller-coaster ride through the ragged streets of Harlem, as Langston Hughes High School--her last fortress of sanity and comfort--disappeared from view.

*

As Amelia Sachs and Lon Sellitto organized the evidence she'd collected at the safe house on Elizabeth Street, Rhyme was thinking about Unsub 109's accomplice--the man who'd just gotten real damn close to Geneva at her school.

There was a possibility that the unsub had been using this man solely for surveillance, except that with the ex-con's violent background and the fact he was armed, he too was probably prepared to kill her himself. Rhyme had hoped that the man had shed some evidence near the school yard, but no--a crime scene team had looked over the area carefully and found nothing. And a canvass team had located no witnesses on the street who'd seen him or how he got away. Maybe--

"Hi, Lincoln," a male voice said.

Startled, Rhyme looked up and saw a man standing nearby. In his mid-forties, with broad shoulders, a close-cropped cap of silver hair, bangs in the front. He wore an expensive, dark gray suit.

"Doctor. Didn't hear the bell."

"Thom was outside. He let me in."

Robert Sherman, the doctor supervising Rhyme's physical therapy, ran a clinic that specialized in working with spinal cord injury patients. It was he who'd developed Rhyme's regimen of therapy, the bicycle and the locomotor treadmill, as well as aquatherapy and the traditional range-of-motion exercises that Thom performed on Rhyme.

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 respo

nded: "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.