"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 in a lot of different ways.
"And Lydia," Sachs had persisted, gripping the boy even more firmly, "why'd you kidnap her?"
"I told everybody why.... 'Cause she was in danger too. Blackwater Landing ... it's a dangerous place. People die there. People disappear. I was just protecting her."
Of course it's a dangerous place, she'd thought. But is it dangerous because of you?
Sachs had then said, "She said you were going to rape her."
"No, no, no.... She jumped into the water and her uniform got wet and torn. I saw her, you know, on top. Her chest. And I got kind of ... turned on. But that's all."
"And Mary Beth. Did you hurt her, rape her?"
"No, no, no! I told you! She hit her head and I cleaned it off with that tissue. I'd never do that, not to Mary Beth."
Sachs had stared at him a moment longer. Blackwater Landing... it's a dangerous place.
Finally she'd asked, "If I get you out of here will you take me to Mary Beth?"
Garrett had frowned. "I do that, then you'd bring her back to Tanner's Corner. And she might get hurt."
"It's the only way, Garrett. I'll get you out if you take me to her. We can make sure she'll be safe, Lincoln Rhyme and I."
"You can do that?"
"Yes. But if you don't agree you'll stay in jail for a long time. And if Mary Beth dies because of you it'll be murder, same as if you shot her. And you'll never get out of jail."
He'd looked out the window. It seemed that his eyes were following the flight of an insect. Sachs couldn't see it. "All right."
"How far away is she?"
"On foot, it'll take us eight, ten hours. Depending." "On what?"
"On how many they got coming after us and how careful we are getting away."
Garrett said this quickly and his assured tone troubled Sachs--it was as if he'd been anticipating that someone would break him out or that he'd escape and he'd already considered avoiding pursuit.
"Wait here," she'd told him. And stepped back into the office. She'd reached into the lockbox, pulled out her gun and knife and, against all training and sense, turned the Smith & Wesson on Nathan Groomer.
"I'm sorry to do this," she whispered. "I need the key to his cell and then I need you to turn around and put your hands behind your back."
Wide-eyed, he'd hesitated, perhaps debating whether or not to go for his sidearm. Or--she realized now--probably not even thinking at all. Instinct or reflex or just plain anger might've driven him to pull the weapon from his holster.
"This is way past stupid, lady," he'd said.
"The key."
He opened the drawer and tossed it on the desk. He put his hands behind his back. She cuffed him with his own handcuffs and ripped the phone from the wall.
She'd then freed Garrett, cuffed him too. The back door to the lockup seemed to be open but she thought she heard footsteps and a running car engine outside. She opted for the front door. They'd made a clean escape, undetected.
Now, a mile from downtown, surrounded by brush and trees, the boy directed her along an ill-defined path. The chains of the cuffs clinked as he pointed in the direction they should go.
She was thinking: But, Rhyme, there was nothing I could do! Do you understand? I had no choice. If the detention center in Lancaster was like what she expected he'd be raped and beaten his first day there and perhaps killed before a week passed. Sachs knew too that this was the only way to find Mary Beth. Rhyme had exhausted the possibilities with the evidence and the defiance in Garrett's eyes told her that he'd never cooperate.
(No, I'm not confusing being maternal with being concerned, Dr. Penny. All I know is that if Lincoln and I had a son he'd be as single-minded and stubborn as we are and that if anything happened to us I'd pray for someone to look out for him the way I'm looking out for Garrett....)
They moved quickly. Sachs was surprised at how elegantly the boy slipped through the woods, despite having his hands cuffed. He seemed to know exactly where to put his feet, what plants you could easily push through and which offered resistance. Where the ground was too soft to walk on.
"Don't step there," he said sternly. "That's clay from a Carolina bay. It'll hold you like glue."
They hiked for a half hour until the ground grew soupy and the air became fragrant with the smells of methane and decay. The route finally became impassable--the path ended in a thick bog--and Garrett led them to a two-lane asphalt road. They started through the brush beside the shoulder.
Several cars drove by leisurely, their drivers oblivious to the felony they were passing.
Sachs watched them enviously. On the lam for only twenty minutes, she reflected, and already she felt a heart-wrenching tug at the normalcy of everyone else's life--and at the dark turn hers had taken.
This is way past stupid, lady.
"Hey there!"
Mary Beth McConnell jerked awake.
With the heat and oppressive atmosphere in the cabin she'd fallen asleep on the smelly couch.
The voice, nearby, called again. "Miss, are you all right? Hello? Mary Beth?"
She leapt from the bed and walked quickly toward the broken window. She felt dizzy, had to lower her head for a minute, steady herself against the wall. The pain in her temple throbbed ferociously. She thought: Fuck you, Garrett.
The pain subsided, her vision cleared. And she continued to the window.
It was the Missionary. He had his friend with him, a tall, balding man in gray slacks and a work shin. The Missionary carried an ax.
"Thank you, thank you!" she whispered.
"Miss, you all right?"
"I'm fine. He hasn't come back." Her voice was still painfully raw. He handed her another canteen of water and she drank the whole container down
.
"I called the town police," he told her. "They're on their way. They'll be here in fifteen, twenty minutes. But we aren't gonna wait for them. We're gonna get you out now, the two of us."
"I can't thank you enough."
"Stand back a little. I been chopping wood all my life and that door's gonna be a stack of firewood in one minute. This's Tom. He's working for the county too."
"Hi, Tom."
"Hi. Your head okay there?" he asked, frowning.
"Looks worse than it is," she said, touching the scab.
Thunk, thunk.
The ax drove into the door. From the window she could see the blade as it lifted high into the air and caught the sunlight. The cutting edge of the tool glistened, meaning it was very sharp. Mary Beth used to help her father chop wood for their fireplace. She remembered how much she loved watching him edge the ax with a grinding stone on the end of his drill--the orange sparks would fly into the air like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
"Who's this boy who kidnapped you?" Tom asked. "Some kind of pervert?"
Thunk ... thunk.
"He's a high school kid from Tanner's Corner. He's scary. Look at all this." She waved at the insects in the jars.
"Gosh," Tom said, leaning close to the window, looking in.
Thunk.
A crack as the Missionary worked a large splinter out of the door.
Thud.
Mary Beth glanced at the door. Garrett must have reinforced it, maybe nailing two doors together. She said to Tom, "I feel like I'm one of his damn bugs myself. He--" Mary Beth saw a blur as Tom's left arm shot through the window and gripped the collar of her shirt. His right hand socketed onto her breast. He yanked her forward against the bars and planted his wet, beery-tobacco mouth on her lips. His tongue darted out and ran hard into her teeth.
He probed her chest, pinching, trying to find her nipple through her shirt as she twisted her head away from him, spitting and screaming.
"What the hell're you doing?" the Missionary cried, dropping the ax. He ran to the window.
But before he could pull Tom off, Mary Beth gripped the hand that spidered across her chest and pulled downward, hard. She ran Tom's wrist into a stalagmite of glass rising from the window frame. He cried out in pain and shock and let go of her, stumbling backward.
Wiping her mouth, Mary Beth ran from the window to the middle of the room.
The Missionary shouted at Tom, "What the fuck'd you do that for?"
Hit him! Mary Beth was thinking. Nail him with the ax. He's crazy. Turn him over to the police too.
Tom wasn't listening. He was squeezing his bloody arm, examining the slash. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus ..."
The Missionary muttered, "I told you to be patient. We woulda had her out in five minutes and spread-eagle at your place in a half hour. Now we got a mess."
Spread-eagle...
His comment registered in Mary Beth's thoughts an instant before its corollary arrived: that there'd been no call to the police; there was no one coming to rescue her.
"Man, look at this. Look!" Tom held up his split wrist, blood cascading down his arm.
"Fuck," the Missionary muttered. "We gotta get that stitched up. You dumb shit. Why couldn't you wait? Come on, let's get it taken care of."
Mary Beth watched Tom stagger into the field. He stopped ten feet away from the window. "You fucking bitch! You get yourself ready. We'll be back." He glanced down and crouched out of view for a moment. He stood up again, holding a rock the size of a large orange in his good hand. He flung it through the bars. Mary Beth stumbled backward as it sailed into the room, missing her by a scant foot. She sank onto the couch, sobbing.
As they walked toward the woods she heard Tom call again, "Get yourself ready!"
They were at Harris Tomel's house, a nice five-bedroom colonial on a good-sized cut of grass the man'd never done a lick of work to. Tomel's idea of lawn decorations was parking his F-250 in the front yard and his Suburban in the back.
He did this because, being the sort-of college boy of the trio and owning more sweaters than plaid shirts, Tomel had to try a little harder to seem like a shit-kicker. Oh, sure, he'd done fed time but it was for some crappy scam in Raleigh where he sold stocks and bonds in companies whose only problem was that they didn't exist. He could shoot good as a sniper but Culbeau'd never known him to whale on anybody by himself, skin on skin, at least nobody who wasn't tied up. Tomel also thought about things too much, spent too much time on his clothes, asked for call liquor, even at Eddie's.
So unlike Culbeau, who worked hard on his own split-level, and unlike O'Sarian, who worked hard picking up waitresses who'd keep his trailer nice, Harris Tomel just let the house and yard go. Hoping, Culbeau assumed, that it'd goose the impression that he was a mean fuck.
But that was Tomel's business and the three men weren't at the house with its scruffy yard and Detroit lawn ornaments to discuss landscaping; they were here for one reason only. Because Tomel had inherited the gun collection to end all gun collections when his father went into Spivy Pond ice fishing on New Year's Eve a few years ago and didn't surface till the next tax day.
They stood in the man's paneled den, looking over the gun cases the same way Culbeau and O'Sarian had stood at the penny candy rack in Peterson's Drugs on Maple Street twenty years ago, deciding what to steal.
O'Sarian picked the black Colt AR-15, the civvy version of the M-16, because he was always yammering on and on about Vietnam and watched every war movie he could find.
Tomel took the beautiful Browning shotgun with the inlay, which Culbeau coveted as much as he coveted any woman in the county, even though he himself was a rifle man and would rather drill a hole in a deer's heart from three hundred yards than blow a duck into a dust of feathers. For himself, today, he chose Tomel's nifty Winchester .30-06 with a 'scope the size of Texas.
They packed plenty of ammo, water, Culbeau's cell phone and food. 'Shine of course.
Sleeping bags, too. Though none of them expected the hunt to last very long.
... chapter twenty-four
A grim Lincoln Rhyme wheeled into the dismantled forensic lab in the Paquenoke County Building.
Lucy Kerr and Mason Germain stood beside the fiber-board table that had held the microscopes. Their arms were crossed and, as Thom and Rhyme entered, both deputies regarded the criminalist and his aide with a blend of contempt and suspicion.
"How the hell could she do it?" Mason asked. "What was she thinking of?"
But these were two of many questions about Amelia Sachs and what she'd done that couldn't be answered, not yet, and so Rhyme asked merely, "Was anybody hurt?"
"No," Lucy said. "But Nathan was pretty shook up, looking down the barrel of that Smith and Wesson. Which we were crazy enough to give her."
Rhyme struggled to remain outwardly calm, yet his heart was pierced with fear for Sachs. Lincoln Rhyme trusted evidence before all else and the evidence showed clearly that Garrett Hanlon was a kidnapper and killer. Sachs, tricked by his calculated facade, was as much at risk as Mary Beth or Lydia.
Jim Bell entered the room.
"Did she take a car?" Rhyme continued.
"I don't think so," Bell said. "I asked around. No vehicles missing yet."
Bell looked at the map, still taped to the wall. "This isn't an easy area to get out of and not get seen. Lot of marshland, not many roads. I've--"
Lucy said, "Get some dogs, Jim. Irv Wanner runs a couple hounds for the state police. Call Captain Dexter in Elizabeth City and get Irv's number. He'll track 'em down."
"Good idea," Bell said. "We'll--"
"I want to propose something," Rhyme interrupted.
Mason gave a cold laugh.
"What?" Bell asked.
"I'll make a deal with you."
"No deals," Bell said. "She's a fleeing felon. And armed, to boot."
"She's not going to shoot anybody," Thom said.
Rhyme continued, "Amelia's convinced there's no other way to f
ind Mary Beth. That's why she did it. They're going to where she's being held."
"Doesn't matter," Bell said. "You can't go breaking murderers out of jail."
"Give me twenty-four hours before you call the state police. I'll find them for you. We can work something out with the charges. But if troopers and dogs get involved we all know they'll play it by the book and that means there's a good chance of people getting hurt."
"That's a hell of a deal, Lincoln," Bell said. "Your friend busts out our prisoner--"
"He wouldn't be your prisoner if it weren't for me. You never would've found him on your own."
"No damn way," Mason said. "We're wasting time and they're getting farther away every minute we've wasted talking. I'm of a mind to get every man in town out looking for 'em now. Deputize the lot. Do what Henry Davett suggested. Pass out rifles and--"
Bell interrupted him and asked Rhyme, "If we give you your twenty-four hours then what's in it for us?"
"I'll stay and help you find Mary Beth. However long it takes."
Thom said, "The operation, Lincoln ..."
"Forget the operation," he muttered, feeling the despair as he said this. He knew that Dr. Weaver's schedule was so tight that if he missed his appointed date on the table he'd have to go back on the waiting list. Then it crossed his mind that one reason Sachs had done this was to keep Rhyme from having the surgery. To buy a few more days and give him a chance to change his mind. But he pushed this thought aside, raging to himself: Find her, save her. Before Garrett adds her to the list of his victims.
Stung 137 times.
Lucy said, "We're looking at a bit of, what would you say, divided loyalty here, aren't we?"
Mason: "Yeah, how do we know you aren't gonna send us 'round Robin Hood's barn and let her get away?"
"Because," Rhyme said patiently, "Amelia's wrong. Garrett is a murderer and he just used her to break out of jail. Once he doesn't need her he'll kill her."
Bell paced for a moment, gazing up at the map. "Okay, we'll do it, Lincoln. You've got twenty-four hours."
Mason sighed. "And how the hell're you going to find her in that wilderness?" He motioned toward the map. "You just going to call her up and ask where she is?"
"That's exactly what I'm going to do. Thom, let's get the equipment set up again. And somebody get Ben Kerr back here!"