The Bone Collector

either. . . . Individuation was not possible.
    Several things nagged Rhyme. The fiber, for one. Why hadn’t Peretti caught on as to what it was? It was so obvious. And why was this PE—the newspaper scraps and the fiber—all clustered together? Something was wrong here.
    “Lincoln?”
    “Sorry.”
    “I was saying . . . You’re not a burn victim in unbearable pain. You’re not homeless. You’ve got money, you’ve got talent. Your police consulting . . . that helps a lot of people. If you want one, you could have a, yes, productive life ahead of you. A long life.”
    “Long, yes. That’s the problem. A long life.” He was tired of being on good behavior. He snapped, “But I don’t want a long life. It’s as simple as that.”
    Berger said slowly, “If there’s the slightest chance you might’ve regretted your decision, well, see, I’m the one who’d have to live with it. Not you.”
    “Who’s ever certain about something like this?”
    Eyes slipping back to the report.
An iron bolt was found on top of the scraps of paper. It was a hex bolt, head-stamped with the letters “CE.” Two inches long, clockwise twist, 15 ⁄ 16 " in diameter.
    “I’ve got a busy schedule for the next few days,”Berger said, looking at his watch. It was a Rolex; well, death has always been lucrative. “Let’s take an hour or so now. Talk for a while, then have a cooling-off day and I’ll come back.”
    Something was nagging at Rhyme. An infuriating itch—the curse of all quads—though in this case it was an intellectual itch. The kind that had plagued Rhyme all his life.
    “Say, doctor, I wonder if you could do me a favor. That report there. Could you flip through it? See if you could find a picture of a bolt.”
    Berger hesitated. “A picture?”
    “A Polaroid. It’ll be glued in somewhere toward the back. The turning frame takes too long.”
    Berger lifted the report out of the frame and turned the pages for Rhyme.
    “There. Stop.”
    As he gazed at the photo a twinge of urgency pricked at him. Oh, not here, not now. Please, no.
    “I’m sorry, could you flip back to the page where we were?”
    Berger did.
    Rhyme said nothing and read carefully.
    The paper scraps . . .
    Three p.m.  . . . page 823.
    Rhyme’s heart was pounding, sweat popped out on his head. He heard a frantic buzzing in his ears.
    Here’s a headline for the tabloids. MAN DIES DURING TALK WITH DEATH DOC . . . .
    Berger blinked. “Lincoln? Are you all right?” The man’s canny eyes examined Rhyme carefully.
    As casually as he could, Rhyme said, “You know, doctor, I’m sorry. But there’s something I’ve got to take care of.”
    Berger nodded slowly, uncertainly. “Affairs aren’t in order after all?”
    Smiling. Nonchalant. “I’m just wondering if I could ask you to come back in a few hours.”
    Careful here. If he senses purpose he’ll mark you down non-suicidal, take his bottles and his plastic bag and fly back to Starbucks land.
    Opening a date book, Berger said, “The rest of the day isn’t good. Then tomorrow . . . No. I’m afraid Monday’s the earliest. Day after tomorrow.”
    Rhyme hesitated. Lord . . . His soul’s desire was finally within his grasp, what he’d dreamed of every day for the past year. Yes or no?
    Decide.
    Finally, Rhyme heard himself say, “All right. Monday.” Plastering a hopeless smile on his face.
    “What exactly’s the problem?”
    “A man I used to work with. He asked for some advice. I wasn’t paying as much attention to it as I should have. I have to call him.”
    No, it wasn’t dysreflexia at all—or an anxiety attack.
    Lincoln Rhyme was feeling something he hadn’t felt in years. He was in one big fucking hurry.
    “Could I ask you to send Thom up here? I think he’s downstairs in the kitchen.”
    “Yes, of course. I’d be happy to.”
    Rhyme could see something odd in Berger’s eyes. What was it? Caution? Maybe. It almost seemed like disappointment. But there was no time to think about it now. As the doctor’s footsteps receded down the stairs Rhyme shouted in a booming baritone, “Thom? Thom!”
    “What?” the young man’s voice called.
    “Call Lon. Get him back here. Now!”
    Rhyme glanced at the clock. It was after noon. They had less than three hours.

FOUR
    T he crime scene was staged,” Lincoln Rhyme said.
    Lon Sellitto had tossed his jacket off, revealing a savagely wrinkled shirt. He now leaned back, arms crossed, against a table