Roadside Crosses

he’d misread the strategy completely.
    “By the way,” he heard Sachs ask Kathryn Dance, “how was that romantic weekend away?” This had to do, it seemed, with Dance’s new love interest. The single mother of two had been a widow for several years.
    “We had a great time,” the agent reported.
    “Where did you go?”
    Rhyme wondered why on earth Sachs was asking about Dance’s social life? She ignored his impatient glance.
    “Santa Barbara. Stopped at Hearst Castle on the way. . . . Listen, I’m still waiting for you two to come out here. The children really want to meet you. Wes wrotea paper about forensics for school and mentioned you, Lincoln. His teacher used to live in New York and had read all about you.”
    “Yes, that’d be nice,” Rhyme said, thinking exclusively about Mexico City.
    Sachs smiled at the impatience in his voice and told Dance they had to go.
    After disconnecting, she wiped some sweat from Rhyme’s forehead—he hadn’t been aware of the moisture—and they sat silent for a moment, looking out the window at the blur of a peregrine falcon sweeping into view. It veered up to its nest on Rhyme’s second floor. Though not uncommon in major cities—plenty of fat, tasty pigeons for meals—these birds of prey usually nested higher. But for some reason several generations of the birds had called Rhyme’s town house home. He liked their presence. They were smart, fascinating to watch and were the perfect visitors, not demanding anything from him.
    A male voice intruded. “Well, did you get him?”
    “Who?” Rhyme snapped. “And how artful a verb is ‘get’?”
    Thom Reston, Lincoln Rhyme’s caregiver, said, “The Watchmaker.”
    “No,” grumbled Rhyme.
    “But you’re close, aren’t you?” asked the trim man, wearing dark slacks, a businessman’s starched yellow shirt and a floral tie.
    “Oh, close,” Rhyme muttered. “ Close . That’s very helpful. Next time you’re being attacked by a mountain lion, Thom, how would you feel if the park ranger shot really close to it? As opposed to, oh, say, actually hitting it?”
    “Aren’t mountain lions endangered?” Thom asked, not even bothering with an ironic inflection. He was impervious to Rhyme’s edge. He’d worked for the forensic detective for years, longer than many married couples had been together. And the aide was as seasoned as the toughest spouse.
    “Ha. Very funny. Endangered.”
    Sachs walked around behind Rhyme’s wheelchair and gripped his shoulders, massaged. Sachs was tall and in better shape than most NYPD detectives her age and, though arthritis often plagued her knees and lower extremities, her arms and hands were strong and largely pain-free.
    They wore their work clothes: Rhyme was in black sweat pants and a knit shirt of dark green. Sachs had shed her navy blue jacket but was wearing matching slacks and a white cotton blouse, one button open at the collar, pearls present. Her Glock was high on her hip in a fast-draw polymer holster, and two magazines sat side by side in holsters of their own, along with a Taser.
    Rhyme could feel the pulsing of her fingers; he had perfect sensation above his upper chest—the level where he’d sustained a nearly fatal spinal cord fracture some years ago, the fourth cervical vertebra. Although at one point he’d considered risky surgery to improve his condition, he’d opted for a different rehabilitative approach. Through an exhausting regimen of exercise and therapy he’d managed to regain some use of his fingers and hand. He could also use his left ring finger, which had for some reason remained intact after the subway beam broke his neck.
    He now enjoyed her fingers digging into his flesh. It was as if the small percentage of remaining sensation in his body was enhanced. He glanced down at the useless legs. He closed his eyes.
    Thom now looked him over carefully. “You all right, Lincoln?”
    “All right? Aside from the fact that the perp I’ve been searching for for years slipped out of our grasp and is now hiding out in the second largest metropolitan area in this hemisphere, I’m just peachy.”
    “That’s not what I’m talking about. You’re not looking too good.”
    “You’re right. Actually I need some medicine.”
    “Medicine?”
    “Whisky. I’d feel better with some whisky.”
    “No, you wouldn’t.”
    “Well, why don’t we try an experiment. Science. Cartesian. Rational. Who can argue with that? I know how I feel now. Then