The Empty Chair

conclusion that she and Rhyme were on the case.
    “Parents’re dead. He’s got foster parents. We looked through his room at their place. Didn’t find any secret trapdoors or diaries or anything.”
    One never does, thought Lincoln Rhyme, wishing devoutly this man would hightail it back to his unpronounceable county and take his problems with him.
    “I think we should, Rhyme,” Sachs said.
    “Sachs, the surgery . . .”
    She said, “Two victims in two days? He could be a progressive.” Progressive felons are like addicts. To satisfy their increasing psychological hunger for violence, the frequency and severity of their acts escalate.
    Bell nodded. “You got that right. And there’s stuff I didn’t mention. There’ve been three other deaths in Paquenoke County over the past couple of years and a questionable suicide just a few days ago. We think the boy might’ve been involved in all of them. We just didn’t find enough evidence to hold him.”
    But then I wasn’t working the cases, now, was I? Rhyme thought before reflecting that pride was probably the sin that would do him in.
    He reluctantly felt his mental gears turning, intrigued by the puzzles that the case presented. What had kept Lincoln Rhyme sane since his accident—what had stopped him from finding some Jack Kevorkian to help with assisted suicide—were mental challenges like this.
    “Your surgery’s not till day after tomorrow, Rhyme,” Sachs pushed. “And all you have are those tests before then.”
    Ah, your ulterior motives are showing, Sachs . . .
    But she’d made a good point. He was looking at a lotof downtime before the operation itself. And it would be pre-surgery downtime—which meant without eighteen-year-old scotch. What was a quad going to do in a small North Carolina town anyway? Lincoln Rhyme’s greatest enemy wasn’t the spasms, phantom pain or dysreflexia that plague spinal cord patients; it was boredom.
    “I’ll give you one day,” Rhyme finally said. “As long as it doesn’t delay the operation. I’ve been on a waiting list for fourteen months to have this procedure.”
    “Deal, sir,” Bell said. His weary face brightened.
    But Thom shook his head. “Listen, Lincoln, we’re not here to work. We’re here for your procedure and then we’re leaving. I don’t have half the equipment I need to take care of you if you’re working.”
    “We’re in a hospital, Thom. I wouldn’t be surprised to find most of what you need here. We’ll talk to Dr. Weaver. I’m sure she’ll be happy to help us out.”
    The aide, resplendent in white shirt, pressed tan slacks and tie, said, “For the record, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
    But like hunters everywhere—mobile or not—once Lincoln Rhyme had made the decision to pursue his prey nothing else mattered. He now ignored Thom and began to interrogate Jim Bell. “How long has he been on the run?”
    “Just a couple hours,” Bell said. “What I’ll do is have a deputy bring over the evidence we found and maybe a map of the area. I was thinking . . .”
    But Bell’s voice faded as Rhyme shook his head and frowned. Sachs suppressed a smile; she’d know what was coming.
    “No,” Rhyme said firmly. “We’ll come to you. You’ll have to set us up someplace in—what’s the county seat again?”
    “Uhm, Tanner’s Corner.”
    “Set us up someplace we can work. I’ll need a forensics assistant. . . . You have a lab in your office?”
    “Us?” asked the bewildered sheriff. “Not hardly.”
    “Okay, we’ll get you a list of equipment we’ll need. You can borrow it from the state police.” Rhyme looked at the clock. “We can be there in a half hour. Right, Thom?”
    “Lincoln . . .”
    “ Right? ”
    “A half hour,” the resigned aide muttered.
    Now who was in a bad mood?
    “Get the forms from Dr. Weaver. Bring them with us. You can fill them out while Sachs and I’re working.”
    “Okay, okay.”
    Sachs was writing a list of the basic forensics lab equipment. She held it up for Rhyme to read. He nodded then said, “Add a density gradient unit. Otherwise, it looks good.”
    She wrote this item on the list and handed it to Bell. He read it, nodding his head uncertainly. “I’ll work this out, sure. But I really don’t want you to go to too much trouble—”
    “Jim, hope I can speak freely.”
    “Sure.”
    The criminalist said in a low voice, “Just looking over a little evidence isn’t going to do any good. If