The Empty Chair (Lincoln Rhyme 3)

Bell said, "Steve's out trying to dig one up. Isn't quite as easy as I thought."

"I don't need one."

Thom explained patiently, "I'm worried about dysreflexia."

"I don't remember hearing that temperature was bad for blood pressure, Thom," Rhyme said. "Did you read that somewhere? I didn't read it. Maybe you could show me where you read it."

"I don't need your sarcasm, Lincoln."

"Oh, I'm sarcastic, am I?"

The aide patiently said to Bell, "Heat causes tissue swelling. Swelling causes increased pressure and irritation. And that can lead to dysreflexia. Which can kill him. We need an air conditioner. Simple as that."

Thom was the only one of Rhyme's care giving aides who'd survived more than a few months in the service of the criminalist. The others had either quit or been peremptorily fired.

"Plug that in," Rhyme ordered a deputy who was wheeling a battered gas chromatograph into the corner.

"No." Thom crossed his arms and stood in front of the extension cord. The deputy saw the look on the aide's face and paused uneasily, not prepared for a confrontation with the persistent young man. "When we get the air conditioner up and running ... then we'll plug it in."

"Jesus Christ." Rhyme grimaced. One of the most frustrating aspects of being a quad is the inability to bleed off anger. After his accident Rhyme quickly came to realize how a simple act like walking or clenching our fists--not to mention flinging a heavy object or two (a favorite pastime of Rhyme's ex-wife, Blaine)--dissipates f

ury. "If I get angry I could start spasming or get contractures," Rhyme pointed out testily.

"Neither of which will kill you--the way dysreflexia will." Thom said this with a tactical cheerfulness that infuriated Rhyme all the more.

Bell gingerly said, "Gimme five minutes." He disappeared and the troopers continued to wheel in the equipment. The chromatograph went unelectrified for the moment.

Lincoln Rhyme surveyed the machinery. Wondered what it would be like to actually close his fingers around an object again. With his left ring finger he could touch and had a faint sense of pressure. But actually gripping something, feeling its texture, weight, temperature ... those were unimaginable.

Terry Dobyns, the NYPD therapist, the man who'd been sitting at Rhyme's bedside when he'd awakened after the accident at a crime scene left him a quadriplegic, had explained to the criminalist all the cliched stages of grief. Rhyme had been assured that he'd experience--and survive--all of them. But what the doctor hadn't told him was that certain stages sneak back. That you carried them around with you like sleeping viruses and that they might erupt at any time.

Over the past several years he'd reexperienced despair and denial.

Now, he was consumed with fury. Why, here were two kidnapped young women and a killer on the run. How badly he wanted to speed to the crime scene, walk the grid, pluck elusive evidence from the ground, gaze at it through the luxurious lenses of a compound microscope, punch the buttons of the computers and the other instruments, pace as he drew his conclusions.

He wanted to get to work without worrying that the fucking heat would kill him. He thought again about Dr. Weaver's magic hands, about the operation.

"You're quiet," Thom said cautiously. "What're you plotting?"

"I'm not plotting anything. Would you please plug in the gas chromatograph and turn it on? It needs time to warm up."

Thom hesitated then walked to the machine and got it running. He arranged the rest of the equipment on a fiberboard table.

Steve Farr walked into the office, lugging a huge Carrier air conditioner. The deputy was apparently as strong as he was tall and the only clue to the effort was the red hue to his prominent ears.

He gasped, "Stole it from Planning and Zoning. We don't much like them."

Bell helped Farr mount the unit in the window and a moment later cold air was chugging into the room.

A figure appeared in the doorway--in fact, he filled the doorway. A man in his twenties. Massive shoulders, a prominent forehead. Six-five, close to three hundred pounds. For a difficult moment Rhyme thought this might be a relative of Garrett's and that the man had come to threaten them. But in a high, bashful voice he said, "I'm Ben?"

The three men stared at him as he glanced uneasily at Rhyme's wheelchair and legs.

Bell said, "Can I help you?"

"Well, I'm looking for Mr. Bell."

"I'm Sheriff Bell."