The Bone Collector

glanced at her name badge. “Officer Sachs, I’ve spent hours trying to talk him out of it. Days. But I’ve also worked with quads for years and I know how stubborn they are. Maybe he’d listen to you. Just a few words. I was thinking . . . Could you?—”
    “Oh, goddamn it, Rhyme,” she muttered and started down the sidewalk at a run, leaving the doctor in midsentence.
    She got to the front door of the townhouse just as Thom was closing it. She pushed past him. “Forgot my watchbook.”
    “Your?—”
    “Be right back.”
    “You can’t go up there. He’s with his doctor.”
    “I’ll just be a second.”
    She was at the landing before Thom started after her.
    He must have known it was a scam because he took the stairs two at a time. But she had a good lead and had shoved open Rhyme’s door before the aide got to the top of the stairs.
    She pushed in, startling both Rhyme and the doctor, who was leaning against the table, arms crossed. She closed the door and locked it. Thom began pounding. Berger turned toward her with a frown of curiosity on his face.
    “Sachs,” Rhyme blurted.
    “I have to talk to you.”
    “What about?”
    “About you.”
    “Later.”
    “How much later, Rhyme?” she asked sarcastically. “Tomorrow? Next week?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You want me to schedule a meeting for, maybe, a week from Wednesday? Will you be able to make it then? Will you be around? ”
    “Sachs—”
    “I want to talk to you. Alone.”
    “No.”
    “Then we’ll do it the hard way.” She stepped up to Berger. “You’re under arrest. The charge is attempted assisted suicide.” And the handcuffs flashed, click, click, snapping onto his wrists in a silver blur.
    * * *  
    She guessed the building was a church.
    Carole Ganz lay in the basement, on the floor. A single shaft of cold, oblique light fell on the wall, illuminating a shabby picture of Jesus and a stack of mildewy Golden Book Bible stories. A half-dozen tiny chairs—for Sunday-school students, she guessed—were nested in the middle of the room.
    The cuffs were still on and so was the gag. He’d also tied her to a pipe near the wall with a four-foot-long piece of clothesline.
    On a tall table nearby she could see the top of a large glass jug.
    If she could knock it off she might use a piece of glass to cut the clothesline. The table seemed out of reach but she rolled over onto her side and started to squirm, like a caterpillar, toward it.
    This reminded her of Pammy when she was an infant, rolling on the bed between herself and Ron; she thought of her baby, alone in that horrible basement, and started to cry.
    Pammy, Pooh, purse.
    For a moment, for a brief moment, she weakened. Wished she’d never left Chicago.
    No, stop thinking that way! Quit feeling sorry for yourself! This was the absolute right thing to do. You did it for Ron. And for yourself too. He’d be proud of you. Kate had told her that a thousand times, and she believed it.
    Struggling once more. She moved a foot closer to the table.
    Groggy, couldn’t think straight.
    Her throat stung from the terrible thirst. And the mold and mildew in the air.
    She crawled a little farther then lay on her side, catching her breath, staring up at the table. It seemed hopeless. What’s the use? she thought.
    Wondering what was going through Pammy’s mind.
    You fucker! thought Carole. I’ll kill you for this!
    She squirmed, trying to move farther along the floor. But instead, she lost her balance and rolled onto her back. She gasped, knowing what was coming. No! With a loud pop, her wrist snapped. She screamed through the gag. Blacked out. When she came to a moment later she was overwhelmed with nausea.
    No, no, no . . . If she vomited she’d die. With the gag on, that would be it.
    Fight it down! Fight it. Come on. You can do it. Here I go. . . . She retched once. Then again.
    No! Control it.
    Rising in her throat.
    Control . . .
    Control it. . . .
    And she did. Breathing through her nose, concentrating on Kate and Eddie and Pammy, on the yellow knapsack containing all her precious possessions. Seeing it, picturing it from every angle. Her whole life was in there. Her new life.
    Ron, I don’t want to blow it. I came here for you, honey . . .
    She closed her eyes. Thought: Breathe deep. In, out.
    Finally, the nausea subsided. And a moment later she was feeling better and, though she was crying in pain from the snapped wrist, she managed to continue to