"You're going to bed," Thom said.
"I have to--"
"Sleep. You have to sleep."
Rhyme acquiesced. He was very tired.
"All right, Thom. All right." He wheeled toward the elevator. "One thing." He looked back. "Could you come up in a few minutes, Sachs?"
She nodded, watching the tiny elevator door swing shut.
She found him in the Clinitron.
Sachs had waited ten minutes to give him time to take care of bedtime functions--Thom had applied the catheter and brushed his boss's teeth. She knew Rhyme talked tough--he had a crip's disregard for modesty. But she knew too that there were certain personal routines he didn't want her to witness.
She used the time to take a shower in the downstairs bathroom, dressed in clean clothes--hers--which Thom happened to have in the laundry room in the basement.
The lights were dim. Rhyme was rubbing his head against the pillow like a bear scratching his back on a tree. The Clinitron was the most comfortable bed in the world. Weighing a half ton, it was a massive slab containing glass beads through which flowed heated air.
"Ah, Sachs, you did good today. You out-thought him."
Except thanks to me Jerry Banks lost his arm.
And I let the Dancer get away.
She walked to his bar and poured a glass of Macallan, lifted an eyebrow.
"Sure," he said. "Mother's milk, the dew of nepenthe . . . "
She kicked her issue shoes off, pulled up her blouse to look at the bruise.
"Ouch," Rhyme said.
The bruise was the shape of Missouri and dark as an eggplant.
"I don't like bombs," she said. "Never been that close to one. And I don't like them."
Sachs opened her purse, found and swallowed three aspirin dry (a trick arthritics learn early). She walked to the window. There were the peregrines. Beautiful birds. They weren't large. Fourteen, sixteen inches. Tiny for a dog. But for a bird . . . utterly intimidating. Their beaks were like the claws on a creature from one of those Alien movies.
"You all right, Sachs? Tell me true?"
"I'm okay."
She returned to the chair, sipped more of the smokey liquor.
"You want to stay tonight?" he asked.
On occasion she'd spend the night here. Sometimes on the couch, sometimes in bed next to him. Maybe it was the fluidized air of the Clinitron, maybe it was the simple act of lying next to another human being--she didn't know the reason--but she never slept better than when she slept here. She hadn't enjoyed being close to another man since her most recent boyfriend, Nick. She and Rhyme would lie together and talk. She'd tell him about cars, about her pistol matches, about her mother and her goddaughter. About her father's full life and sad, protracted death. She'd ante up far more personal information than he. But that was all right. She loved listening to him say whatever he wanted to. His mind was astonishing. He'd tell her about old New York, about Mafia hits the rest of the world had never heard about, about crime scenes so clean they seemed hopeless until the searchers found the single bit of dust, the fingernail, the dot of spit, the hair or fiber that revealed who the perp was or where he lived--well, revealed these facts to Rhyme, not necessarily anyone else. No, his mind never stopped. She knew that before the injury he'd roam the streets of New York looking for samples of soil or glass or plants or rocks--anything that might help him solve cases. It was as if that restlessness had moved from his useless legs into his mind, which roamed the city--in his imagination--well into the night.
But tonight was different. Rhyme was distracted. She didn't mind him ornery--which was good because he was ornery a lot. But she didn't like him being elsewhere. She sat on the edge of the bed.
He began to say what he'd apparently asked her here for. "Sachs . . . Lon told me. About what happened at the airport."
She shrugged.
"There's nothing you could've done except gotten yourself killed. You did the right thing, going for cover. He fired one for range and would've gotten you with the second shot."
"I had two, three seconds. I could've hit him. I know I could've."