The Broken Window (Lincoln Rhyme 8)

Obstacles existed, yes. He was leaving next year for college in Boston; she, for San Diego to study biology and work in the zoo. But those were mere complications and Lincoln Rhyme, then as now, would not accept complications as excuses.

Afterward--after the accident, and after he and Blaine divorced--Rhyme often wondered what would have happened if he and Adrianna had stayed together and pursued what they'd started. That Christmas Eve night, in fact, he'd come very close to proposing. He'd considered offering her not a ring but, as he'd cleverly rehearsed, "a different kind of rock"--his uncle's prize from the science trivia contest.

But he'd balked, thanks to the weather. As they'd sat, clutching each other on a bench, the snow had begun to tumble suicidally from the silent Midwest sky and in minutes their hair and coats were covered with a damp white blanket. She'd just made it back to her house and Lincoln to his before the roads were blocked. He lay in bed that night, the plastic box containing the concrete beside him, and practiced a proposal speech.

Which was never delivered. Events intruded in their lives, sending them on different paths, seemingly minute events, though small in the way of invisible atoms tricked to fission in a chilly sports stadium, changing the world forever.

Everything would've been different. . . .

Rhyme now caught a glimpse of Sachs brushing her long red hair. He watched her for some moments, glad she'd be staying tonight--more pleased than usual. Rhyme and Sachs weren't inseparable. They were staunchly independent people, preferring often to spend time apart. But tonight he wanted her here. Enjoying the presence of her body next to his, the sensation--in those few places he was able to feel--all the more intense for its rarity.

His love for her was one of the motivators for his exercise regimen, working on a computerized treadmill and Electrologic bike. If medical science crept past that finishing line--allowing him to walk again--his muscles were going to be ready. He was also considering a new operation that might improve his condition until that day arrived. Experimental, and controversial, it was known as peripheral nerve rerouting, a technique that had been talked about--and occasionally tried--for years without many positive results. But recently foreign doctors had been performing the operation with some success, despite the reservation of the American medical community. The procedure involved surgically connecting nerves above the site of the injury to nerves below it. A detour around a washed-out bridge, in effect.

The successes were mostly in bodies less severely damaged than Rhyme's but the results were remarkable: return of bladder control, movement of limbs, even walking. The latter would not be the result in Rhyme's case but discussions with a Japanese doctor who'd pioneered the procedure and with a colleague at an Ivy League university teaching hospital gave some hope of improvement. Possibly sensation and movement in his arms, hands and bladder.

Sex too.

Paralyzed men, even quads, are perfectly capable of having sex. If the stimulus is mental--seeing a man or woman who appeals to us--then, no, the message doesn't make it past the site of the damaged spinal cord. But the body is a brilliant mechanism and there's a magic loop of nerve that operates on its own, below the injury. A little local stimulus, and even the most severely disabled men can often make love.

The bathroom light clicked out and he watched her silhouette join him and climb into what she'd announced long ago was the most comfortable bed in the world.

"I--" he began, and his voice was immediately muffled by her mouth as she kissed him hard.

"What did you say?" she whispered, moving her lips along his chin, then to his neck.

He'd forgotten. "I forgot."

He gripped her ear with his lips and was then aware of the blankets being pulled down. This took some effort on her part; Thom made up the bed like a soldier afraid of his drill sergeant. But soon he could see that the blankets were bunched up at the foot. Sachs's T-shirt had joined them.

She kissed him again. He kissed her back hard.

Which is when her phone rang.

"Uh-uh," she whispered. "I didn't hear that." After four rings, blessed voice mail took over. But a moment later it rang again.

"Could be your mother," Rhyme pointed out.

Rose Sachs had been undergoing some treatments for a cardiac problem. The prognosis was good but she'd had some recent setbacks.

Sachs grunted and flipped it open, bathing both of their bodies in a blue light. Looking at caller ID, she said, "Pam. I better take it."

"Of course."

"Hey, there. What's up?"

As the one-sided conversation continued, Rhyme deduced that something was wrong.

"Okay . . . Sure . . . But I'm at Lincoln's. You want to come over here?" She glanced at Rhyme, who was nodding agreement. "Okay, honey. We'll be awake, sure." She snapped the phone shut.

"What is it?"

"I don't know. She wouldn't say. She just said Dan and Enid had two emergency placements tonight. So all the older kids had to room together. She had to get out. And s

he doesn't want to be at my place alone."

"It's fine with me. You know that."

Sachs lay back down and her mouth explored energetically. She whispered, "I did the math. She's got to pack a bag, get her car out of the garage . . . it'll take her a good forty-five minutes to be here. We've got a little time."