The Empty Chair

you.”
    “Oh, pride—now there’s a helpful emotion.”
    But Thom was a waterfowl to Rhyme’s rain. He continued, “But I want to say something.”
    “You’re going to anyway whether I want you to or not.”
    “I’ve read a lot about this, Lincoln. The procedure.”
    “Oh, have you? On your time, I hope.”
    “I just want to say that if it doesn’t work this time, we’ll come back. Next year. Two years. Five years. It’ll work then.”
    The sentiment within Lincoln Rhyme was as dead ashis spinal cord but he managed: “Thank you, Thom. Now, where the hell is that doctor? I’ve been hard at work catching psychotic kidnappers for these people. I think they’d be treating me a little better than this.”
    Thom said, “She’s only ten minutes late, Lincoln. And we did change the appointment twice today.”
    “It’s closer to twenty minutes. Ah, here we go.”
    The door to the hospital room swung open. And Rhyme looked up, expecting to see Dr. Weaver. But it wasn’t the surgeon.
    Sheriff Jim Bell, his face dotted with sweat, walked inside. In the corridor behind him was his brother-in-law, Steve Farr. Both men were clearly upset.
    The criminalist’s first thought was that they’d found Mary Beth’s body. That the boy had in fact killed her. And his next thought was how badly Sachs would react to this news, having had her faith in the boy shattered.
    But Bell had different news. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Lincoln.” And Rhyme knew the message was something closer to him personally than just Garrett Hanlon and Mary Beth McConnell. “I was going to call,” the sheriff said. “But then I figured you should hear it from somebody in person. So I came.”
    “What, Jim?” he asked.
    “It’s Amelia.”
    “What?” Thom asked.
    “What about her?” Rhyme couldn’t, of course, feel his heart pounding in his chest but he could sense the blood surge through his chin and temples. “What? Tell me!”
    “Rich Culbeau and those buddies of his went by the lockup. I don’t know what they had in mind exactly—probably no good—but anyway, what they found was my deputy, Nathan, cuffed, in the front office. And the cell was empty.”
    “Cell?”
    “Garrett’s cell,” Bell continued, as if this explained everything.
    Rhyme still didn’t understand the significance. “What—”
    In a gruff voice the sheriff said, “Nathan said that your Amelia trussed him up at gunpoint and broke Garrett outa jail. It’s a felony escape. They’re on the run, they’re armed and nobody has a clue where they are.”

III
Knuckle Time

. . . chapter twenty-three
    Running.
    As best she could. Her legs ached from the waves of arthritic pain coursing through her body. She was drenched in sweat and was already dizzy from the heat and dehydration.
    And she was still in shock at the thought of what she’d done.
    Garrett was beside her, jogging silently through the forest outside Tanner’s Corner.
    This is way past stupid, lady. . . .
    When Sachs had gone into the cell to give Garrett The Miniature World she’d watched the boy’s happy face as he’d taken the book from her. A moment or two passed and, almost as if someone else were forcing her to, she’d reached through the bars, taken the boy by the shoulders. Flustered, he’d looked away. “No, look at me,” she’d instructed. “Look.”
    Finally he had. She’d studied his blotched face, his twitching mouth, the dark pits of eyes, the thick brows. “Garrett, I need to know the truth. This is only between you and me. Tell me—did you kill Billy Stail?”
    “I swear I didn’t. I swear! It was that man—the one in the tan overalls. He killed Billy. That’s the truth!”
    “It’s not what the facts show, Garrett.”
    “But people can see the same thing different,” he’d responded in a calm voice. “Like, the way we can look at the same thing a fly sees but it doesn’t look the same.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “We see something moving—just a blur when somebody’s hand’s trying to swat the fly. But the way a fly ’s eyes work is he sees a hand stopping in midair a hundred times on its way down. Like a bunch of still pictures. It’s the same hand, same motion, but the fly and us see it way different. And colors. . . . We look at something that’s just solid red to us but some insects see a dozen different types of red.”
    The evidence suggests he’s guilty, Rhyme. It doesn’t prove it. Evidence can be interpreted