The Empty Chair

shrugged. “The man’s had a tough life. He grew up north of the Paquo—the wrong side of the tracks. Father tried to make a go of it at a couple businesses and then started running ’shine and when he got collared by revenuers he killed himself. Mason himself worked his way up from dust. There’s an expression ’round here—too poor to paint, too proud to whitewash. That’s Mason. He’s always complaining about being held back, not getting what he wants. He’s an ambitious man in a town that hasn’t got any use for ambition.”
    Rhyme observed, “And he’s gunning for Garrett.”
    “You got that right.”
    “Why?”
    “Mason just about begged to be lead investigator on that case we were telling you about—the girl got stung to death in Blackwater. Meg Blanchard. Truth be told, I think the victim had, you know, some connection with Mason. Maybe they were going out. Maybe there was something else—I don’t know. But he wanted to nail Garrett bad. But he just couldn’t make the case against him. When it came time for the old sheriff to retire, the Board of Supervisors held that against him. I got the joband he didn’t—even though he’s older’n me and’d been on the force longer.”
    Rhyme shook his head. “We don’t need hotheads in an operation like this. Pick somebody else.”
    “Ned Spoto?” Lucy suggested.
    Bell shrugged. “He’s a good man. Sure. Can shoot good but he also won’t unless he for sure has to.”
    Rhyme said, “Just make sure Mason’s nowhere near the search.”
    “He won’t like it.”
    “That’s not a consideration,” Rhyme said. “Find something else for him to do. Something that sounds important.”
    “I’ll do the best I can,” Bell said uncertainly.
    Steve Farr leaned into the doorway. “Just called the hospital,” he announced. “Ed’s still in critical condition.”
    “Has he said anything? About the map he saw?”
    “Not a word. Still unconscious.”
    Rhyme turned to Sachs. “Okay . . . Get going. Hold up where the trail stops in Blackwater Landing and wait to hear from me.”
    Lucy was looking uncertainly at the bags of evidence. “You really think this’s the way to find those girls?”
    “I know it is,” Rhyme answered shortly.
    She said skeptically, “Seems a little too much like magic to me.”
    Rhyme laughed. “Oh, that’s exactly what it is. Sleight of hand, pulling rabbits out of hats. But remember that illusion is based on . . . on what, Ben?”
    The big man cleared his throat, blushed and shook his head. “Uhm, don’t quite know what you mean, sir.”
    “Illusion’s based on science. That’s what.” A glance at Sachs. “I’ll call you as soon as I find something.”
    The two women and Jesse Corn left the evidence room.
    And so, the precious evidence arrayed before him, thefamiliar equipment warmed up, internal politics disposed of, Lincoln Rhyme eased his head back against the wheelchair headrest and stared at the bags Sachs had delivered to him—willing, or coercing, or perhaps just allowing his mind to roam where his legs could not walk, to touch what his hands could not feel.

. . . chapter eight
    The deputies were talking.
    Mason Germain, arms crossed, leaning against the hallway wall beside the door that led to the Sheriff’s Department deputy cubicles, could just hear their voices.
    “How come we’re just sitting here not doing anything?”
    “No, no, no. . . . Didn’t you hear? Jim’s sent out a search party.”
    “Yeah? No, I didn’t hear that.”
    Goddamn, thought Mason. Who hadn’t heard it either.
    “Lucy, Ned and Jesse. And that lady cop from Washington.”
    “Naw, it’s New York. You see that hair of hers?”
    “I don’t care ’bout that hair of hers. I care ’bout finding Mary Beth and Lydia.”
    “I do too. I’m just saying . . .”
    Mason’s gut tightened further. They only sent four people out after the Insect Boy? Was Bell crazy?
    He stormed up the corridor, on his way to the sheriff’s office, and nearly collided with Bell himself as he walkedout of the storeroom—where that weird guy, the one in the wheelchair, was set up. Bell glanced at the senior deputy with a surprised blink.
    “Hey, Mason . . . I was looking for you.”
    Not looking too hard, though, don’t seem.
    “I want you to get over to Rich Culbeau’s place.”
    “Culbeau? What for?”
    “Sue McConnell’s offering some reward or ’nother for Mary Beth and he wants it. We don’t need him to