The Twelfth Card

stuck his head in the doorway. “Doctor, you want some coffee? Soda?”
    “Oh, we don’t want to take up the doctor’s precious time,” Rhyme said quickly. “Now that he knows that there’s nothing wrong, I’m sure he’ll want to—”
    “A case?” Sherman asked, still looking over the board.
    After a moment Rhyme said in a brittle voice, “A tough one. Very bad man out there. One we were in the process of trying to catch when you stopped by.” Rhyme wasn’t inclined to give an inch and didn’t apologize for his rude behavior. But doctors or therapists who deal with SCI patients know that they come with some bonuses: anger, bad attitudes and searing tongues. Sherman was completely unaffected by Rhyme’s behavior. The doctor continued to study Rhyme as he responded: “No, nothing for me, Thom, thank you. I can’t stay long.”
    “You sure?” A nod toward Rhyme. “Don’t mind him.”
    “I’m fine, yes.”
    But even though he didn’t want a refreshing beverage, even though he couldn’t stay long, nonetheless here he was, not making any immediate move to depart. In fact, he was pulling up a fucking chair and sitting down.
    Sachs glanced toward Rhyme. He gave her a blank look and turned back to the doctor, who scooted his chair closer. Then he leaned forward and whispered,“Lincoln, you’ve been resisting the tests for months now.”
    “It’s been a whirlwind. Four cases we’ve been working on. And now five. Time-consuming, as you can imagine . . . And fascinating, by the way. Unique issues.” Hoping the doctor would ask him for some details, which would at least deflect the course of the conversation.
    But the man didn’t, of course. SCI doctors never went for the bait. They’d seen it all. Sherman said, “Let me say one thing.”
    And how the hell can I stop you? thought the criminalist.
    “You’ve worked harder on our exercises than any other patient of mine. I know you’re resisting the test because you’re afraid it won’t’ve had any effect. Am I right?”
    “Not really, Doctor. I’m just busy.”
    As if he hadn’t heard, Sherman said, “I know you’re going to find considerable improvement in your overall condition and functional status.”
    Doctor-talk could be as prickly as cop-talk, Rhyme reflected. He replied, “I hope so. But if not, believe me, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got the muscle mass improvement, the bone density improvement . . . . Lungs and heart are better. That’s all I’m after. Not motor movement.”
    Sherman eyed him up and down. “You really feel that way?”
    “Absolutely.” Looking around, he lowered his voice as he said, “These exercises won’t let me walk.”
    “No, that won’t happen.”
    “So why would I want some tiny improvement in my left little toe? That’s pointless. I’ll do the exercises, keep myself in the best shape I can and in fiveor ten years, when you folks come up with a miracle graft or clone or something, I’ll be ready to start walking again.”
    The doctor smiled and clapped his hand on Rhyme’s leg, a gesture he did not feel. Sherman nodded. “I’m so glad to hear you say that, Lincoln. The biggest problem I have is patients’ giving up because they find that all the exercise and hard work doesn’t really change their lives very much. They want big wins and cures. They don’t realize that this kind of war is won with small victories.”
    “I think I’ve already won.”
    The doctor rose. “I’d still like those scans done. We need the data.”
    “As soon as—hey, Lon, are you listening? Incoming cliché! As soon as the deck is cleared.”
    Sellitto, who had no clue what Rhyme was talking about, or didn’t care, gave him a hollow look.
    “All right,” Sherman said and walked to the door. “And good luck with the case.”
    “We’ll hope for the best,” Rhyme said cheerily.
    The man of small victories left the town house and Rhyme immediately turned back to the evidence boards.
    Sachs took a call and listened for a moment, hung up. “That was Bo Haumann. Those guys on the entry team? The ones who took the electricity? The first one’s got some bad burns, but he’ll live. The other one’s been released.”
    “Thank God,” Sellitto said, seeming hugely relieved. “Man, what that must’ve been like. All that juice going through you.” He closed his eyes momentarily. “The burns. And the smell. Jesus. His hair was fucking burnt off . . . . I’ll send him something. No, I’ll