The Empty Chair

the van.
    “Shit,” the deputy cried. Ejecting the empty cartridges and reloading with the Speedloader.
    “Inside,” Rhyme said. “Now.”
    Lucy nodded. “Okay.”
    Rhyme said, “Fireman’s carry.” This was a bad position to carry a quad in—it put stress on parts of the body that weren’t used to stress, but it was faster and would expose Thom to the gunshots for the least amount of time. Rhyme was also thinking that his own body would protect Thom’s.
    “No,” Thom said.
    “Do it, Thom. No argument.”
    Lucy said, “I’ll cover you. The three of you go together. Ready?”
    Sachs nodded. Thom lifted Rhyme, cradling him like a child in his strong arms.
    “Thom—” Rhyme protested.
    “Quiet, Lincoln,” the aide snapped. “We’re doing this my way.”
    “Go,” Lucy called.
    Rhyme’s hearing was stunned by several loud gunshots. Everything blurred as they ran up the few stairs into the cabin.
    Another several bullets cracked into the wood of the cabin as they pushed inside. A moment later Lucy rolled into the room after them and slammed the door shut. Thom set Rhyme gently on a couch.
    Rhyme had a glimpse of a terrified young woman sitting in a chair, staring at him. Mary Beth McConnell.
    Garrett Hanlon, with his red, blotched face, eyes wide with fear, sat manically clicking the fingernails of one hand and holding a pistol awkwardly in the other, as Lucy aimed the gun right in his face.
    “Give me the weapon!” she cried. “Now, now!”
    He blinked and immediately handed the gun to her.She put it in her belt and called out something. Rhyme didn’t hear what; he was staring at the boy’s bewildered and frightened eyes, a child’s eyes. And he thought: I understand why you had to do it, Sachs. Why you believed him. Why you had to save him.
    I understand. . . .
    He said, “Everybody okay?”
    “Fine,” Sachs said.
    Lucy nodded.
    “Actually,” Thom said, almost apologetically. “Not really.”
    He lifted his hand away from his trim belly, revealing the bloody exit wound. Then the aide went down on his knees, hard, ripping the slacks that he’d ironed with such care just that morning.

. . . chapter thirty-eight
    Search the wound for severe hemorrhage, stop the bleeding. If possible, check the patient for shock.
    Amelia Sachs, trained in the basic NYPD first-aid course for patrol officers, bent over Thom, examining the wound.
    The aide lay on his back, conscious but pale, sweating fiercely. She clamped one hand over the wound.
    “Get these cuffs off me!” she cried. “I can’t take care of him this way.”
    “No,” Lucy said.
    “Jesus,” Sachs muttered and examined Thom’s stomach as best she could with the restraints on.
    “How are you, Thom?” Rhyme blurted. “Talk to us.”
    “It feels numb. . . . It’s feeling . . . It’s funny . . .” His eyes rolled back under the lids and he passed out.
    A crash above their heads. A bullet tore through the wall. Followed by a thud of a shotgun blast hitting the door. Garrett handed Sachs a wad of napkins. She pressed them against the rip in Thom’s belly. She slapped him gently on the face. He gave no response.
    “Is he alive?” Rhyme asked hopelessly.
    “He’s breathing. Shallow. But he’s breathing. Exit wound isn’t too bad but I don’t know what kind of damage there is inside.”
    Lucy looked out the window fast, ducked. “Why’re they doing this?”
    Rhyme said, “Jim said they were into moonshine. Maybe they had their eye on this place and didn’t want it found. Or maybe there’s a drug lab nearby.”
    “There were two men earlier—they tried to break in,” Mary Beth told them. “They said they were killing marijuana fields but I guess they were growing it. They might all be working together.”
    “Where’s Bell?” Lucy asked. “And Mason?”
    “He’ll be here in a half hour,” Rhyme said.
    Lucy shook her head in dismay at this information. Then looked again out the window. She stiffened as, it seemed, she sighted a target. She lifted the pistol, aimed quickly.
    Too quickly.
    “No, let me!” Sachs cried.
    But Lucy fired twice. Her grimace told them she had missed. She squinted. “Sean’s just found a can. A red can. What is that, Garrett? Gas?” The boy huddled on the floor, frozen in panic. “Garrett! Talk to me!”
    He turned toward her.
    “The red can? What’s in it?”
    “It’s, like, kerosene. For the boat.”
    Lucy muttered, “Hell, they’re going to burn us