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The Empty Chair

The Empty Chair

Titel: The Empty Chair Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Jeffery Deaver
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of.
    She cringed as Lucy eased the last leaf off the pile.
    The deputy sighed, sat back on her haunches. “It’s a spider,” she muttered.
    Sachs saw it too. It wasn’t fishing line at all, just a long string of web.
    They rose to their feet.
    “Spider,” Ned said, laughing. Jesse chuckled too.
    But their voices were humorless and, Sachs noticed, as they started down the path once more each one of them carefully lifted their feet well over the glistening strand.

    Lincoln Rhyme, head back, eyes squinting at the chalkboard.
    F OUND AT S ECONDARY C RIME S CENE —G ARRETT’S R OOM
    Skunk Musk
    Cut Pine Needles
    Drawings of Insects
    Pictures of Mary Beth and Family
    Insect Books
    Fishing Line
    Money
    Unknown Key
    Kerosene
    Ammonia
    Nitrates
    Camphene
    He sighed angrily. Felt completely helpless. The evidence was inexplicable to him.
    His eyes focused on: Insect Books.
    Then glanced at Ben. “So. You’re a student, are you?”
    “That’s right, sir.”
    “Read a lot, I’ll bet.”
    “How I spend most of my time—if I’m not in the field.”
    Rhyme was gazing at the spines of the books that Amelia had brought from Garrett’s room. He mused,“What do a person’s favorite books say about them? Other than the obvious—that they’re interested in the subject of the books, I mean.”
    “How’s that?”
    “Well, if a person has mostly self-help books, that says one thing about them. If he’s got mostly novels, that says something else. These books of Garrett’s are all nonfiction guidebooks. What do you make of that?”
    “I wouldn’t know, sir.” The big man glanced once at Rhyme’s legs—involuntarily, it seemed—then he turned his attention to the evidence chart. He mumbled, “I can’t really figure out people. Animals make a lot more sense to me. They’re a lot more social, more predictable, more consistent than people. Hell of a lot more clever too.” Then he realized he was rambling and, with a ruddy blush, stopped talking.
    Rhyme glanced again at the books. “Thom, could you get me the turning frame?” Rigged to an ECU—an environmental-control unit—that Rhyme could manipulate with his one working finger, the device used a rubber armature to turn pages of books. “It’s in the van, isn’t it?”
    “I think so.”
    “I hope you packed it. I told you to pack it.”
    “I said I think it is,” the aide said evenly. “I’ll go see if it’s there.” He left the room.
    Hell of a lot more clever too . . .
    Thom returned a moment later with the turning frame.
    “Ben,” Rhyme called. “That book on top?”
    “There?” the big man asked, staring at the books. It was the Field Guide to Insects of North Carolina.
    “Put it in the frame.” He stepped on his urgency. “If you would be so kind.”
    The aide showed Ben how to mount the book then plugged a different set of wires into the ECU underneath Rhyme’s left hand.
    He read the first page, found nothing helpful. Then his mind ordered his ring finger to move. An impulse shotfrom the brain, spiraled down through a tiny surviving axon in his spinal cord, past a million of its dead kin, then streaked along Rhyme’s arm and into his hand.
    The finger flicked a fraction of an inch.
    The armature’s own finger slid sideways. The page turned.

. . . chapter eleven
    They followed the path through the forest, surrounded by the oily scent of pine and the sweet fragrance from one of the plants they passed. Lucy Kerr recognized it as a chicken grape.
    As she stared at the path in front of them, looking for trip wires, she was suddenly aware that they hadn’t seen any of Garrett’s or Lydia’s footprints for a long time. She swatted what she thought was a bug on her neck but it turned out to be just a rivulet of sweat, tickling as it ran down her skin. Lucy felt dirty today. Other times—evenings and days off—she loved to be outside, in her garden. As soon as she got home from her tour at the Sheriff’s Department she would pull on her faded plaid shorts and T-shirt and navy blue running shoes that trailed stitching and would go to work in one of the three cuts of property surrounding her pale green colonial home that Bud had eagerly signed over to her outright as part of the divorce, laid low by a fever of guilt. There Lucy tended her long-spurred violets, yellow lady slippers, fringed orchids and orange bell lilies. She scoopeddirt, led plants up trellises, watered them and whispered encouragements as if she were

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