The Vanished Man

loved to put it so indelicately in front of strangers, needs to piss or shit and hasn’t for a while—there was a risk of autonomic dysreflexia, a soaring of the blood pressure that could result in a stroke, leading to more paralysis or death. Dysreflexia’s rare but it’ll send you to the hospital, or a grave, pretty damn fast, and so Rhyme acquiesced to a trip upstairs for the personal business and then a rest. It was moments like this—disruptions of “normal” life—that infuriated him most about his disability. Infuriated and, though he refused to let on, deeply depressed him.
    In the bedroom upstairs Thom took care of the necessary bodily details. “Okay. Two hours’ rest. Get some sleep.”
    “One hour,” Rhyme grumbled.
    The aide was going to argue but then he glanced at Rhyme’s face and, while he probably saw anger and don’t-fuck-with-me eyes, which wouldn’t have affectedhim one bit, he observed too the criminalist’s heartfelt concern for the next victims on the Conjurer’s list. Thom conceded, “One hour. If you sleep.”
    “An hour it is,” Rhyme said. Then added wryly, “And I’ll have the sweetest of dreams. . . . A drink would help, you know.”
    The aide tugged at the subtle purple tie—a gesture of weakening that Rhyme seized on like a shark lapping a molecule of blood. “Just one,” the criminalist said.
    “All right.” He poured a little ancient Macallan into one of Rhyme’s tumblers and arranged the straw next to his mouth.
    The criminalist sipped long. “Ah, heaven . . .” Then he glanced at the empty glass. “Someday I’ll teach you how to pour a real drink.”
    “I’ll be back in an hour,” Thom said.
    “Command, alarm clock,” Rhyme said sternly. On the flat-screen monitor a clock face appeared and he orally set the alarm to sound in one hour.
    “I would’ve gotten you up,” the aide said.
    “Ah, well, just in case you were occupied and somehow forgot,” Rhyme said coyly, “now I’ll be sure to be awake, won’t I?”
    The aide left, closing the door behind him, and Rhyme’s eyes slipped to the window, where the peregrine falcons perched, lording over the city, their heads turning in that odd way of theirs—both jerky and elegant at the same time. Then one—the female, the better hunter—glanced quickly at him, blinking her narrow slits of eyes, as if she’d just sensed his gaze. A cock of her head. Then she returned to herexamination of the hubbub of the circus in Central Park.
    Rhyme closed his eyes though his mind was speeding through the evidence, trying to figure out what the clues might mean: the brass, the hotel key, the press pass, the ink. Mysteriouser and mysteriouser. . . . Finally his eyes sprang open. This was absurd. He wasn’t the least bit tired. He wanted to get the hell back downstairs and return to work. Sleeping was out of the question.
    He felt a breeze tickle his cheek and was angrier yet at Thom—for leaving the air-conditioning on. When a quad’s nose runs, there goddamn well better be somebody nearby to wipe it. He summoned up the climate control panel on the monitor, thinking about telling Thom that he would’ve gotten to sleep except that the room was too cold. But one look at the screen told him that the air conditioner was off.
    What had the breeze been?
    The door was still closed.
    There! He felt it again, a definite waft of air on his other cheek, his right one. He turned his head quickly. Was it from the windows? No, they too were closed. Well, it was probably—
    But then he noticed the door.
    Oh, no, he thought, chilled to his heart. The door to his bedroom had a bolt on it—a latch that could be closed only by someone in his room. Not from the outside.
    It was locked.
    Another breath on his skin. Hot, this time. Very close. He heard a faint wheeze too.
    “Where are you?” Rhyme whispered.
    He gasped as a hand appeared suddenly in front of his face, two fingers deformed, fused together. The hand held a razor blade, the sharp edge aimed toward Rhyme’s eyes.
    “If you call for help,” said the Conjurer in a breathy whisper, “if you make a noise, I’ll blind you. Understood?”
    Lincoln Rhyme nodded.

Chapter Twenty-five
    The blade in the Conjurer’s hand vanished.
    He didn’t put it away, didn’t hide it. One moment the metal rectangle was in his fingers, aimed at Rhyme’s face; the next, it was gone.
    The man—brown-haired, beardless, wearing a policeman’s uniform—walked around