"Well, yeah. Medevac--to get Ed Schaeffer out."
"But the downdraft from the rotors ruined the site," Sachs said. "Standard procedure is to move an injured victim away from the scene before you set the chopper down."
"Standard procedure?" Lucy Kerr asked abrasively. "Sorry, but we were a little worried about Ed. Trying to save his life, you know."
Sachs didn't respond. She eased into the shed slowly so she wouldn't disturb the dozens of wasps that were hovering around a shattered nest. But whatever maps or other clues Deputy Schaeffer had seen inside were gone now and the wind from the helicopter had mixed up the topsoil so much that it was pointless to even take a sample of the dirt.
"Let's get back to the lab," Sachs said to Lucy and Jesse.
They were returning to the shore when there was a crashing sound behind her and a huge man lumbered toward them from the tangle of brush surrounding a cluster of black willows.
Jesse Corn drew his weapon but before he cleared leather Sachs had the borrowed Smittie out of the holster, cocked to double-action, and the blade sight aimed at the intruder's chest. He froze, lifted his hands outward, blinking in surprise.
He was bearded, tall and heavy, wore his hair in a braid. Jeans, gray T-shirt, denim vest. Boots. Something familiar about him.
Where had she seen him before?
It took Jesse's mentioning his name for her to remember. "Rich."
One of the trio they'd seen outside the County Building earlier. Rich Culbeau--she remembered the unusual name. Sachs recalled too how he and his friends had glanced at her body with a tacit leer and at Thom with an air of contempt; she kept the pistol pointed at him a moment longer than she would have otherwise. Slowly she aimed the weapon at the ground, uncocked it and replaced it in the holster.
"Sorry," Culbeau said. "Didn't mean to spook nobody. Hey, Jesse."
"This's a crime scene," Sachs said.
In her earphone she heard Rhyme's voice: "Who's there?"
She turned away, whispering into the stalk mike, "One of those characters out of Deliverance we saw this morning."
"We're working here, Rich," Lucy said. "Can't have you in our way."
"I don't intend to be in your way," he said, switching his gaze into the woods. "But I got a right to try for that thousand like everybody else. You can't stop me from looking."
"What thousand?"
"Hell," Sachs spat out into the microphone, "there's a reward, Rhyme."
"Oh, no. Last thing we need."
Of the major factors contaminating crime scenes and hampering investigations, reward and souvenir seekers are among the worst.
Culbeau explained, "Mary Beth's mom's offering it. That woman's got some money and I'll bet by nightfall, the girl's still not back, she'll be offering two thousand. Maybe more." He then looked at Sachs. "I'm not gonna cause any trouble, miss. You're not from here and you lookit me and think I must be just bad pay--I heard you talking 'bout Deliverance in that fancy radio gear of yours. I liked the book better'n the movie, by the way. You ever read it? Well, don't matter. Just don't go puttin' too much stock in appearances. Jesse, tell her who rescued that girl gone missing in the Great Dismal last year. Who ever-body knew was gone to snakes and skeeters and the whole county tore up about it."
Jesse said, "Rich and Harris Tomel found her. Three days lost in the swamp. She'd've died, it wasn't for them."
"Was me mostly," Culbeau muttered. "Harris don't like gettin' his boots dirty."
"That was good of you," Sachs said stiffly. "I just want to make sure you don't hurt our chances of finding those women."
"That's not gonna happen. There's no reason for you to get all ashy on me." Culbeau turned and lumbered away.
"Ashy?" Sachs asked.
"Means angry, you know."
She told Rhyme and told him about the encounter.
He dismissed it. "We don't have time to worry about the locals, Sachs. We've got to get on the trail. And fast. Get back here with what you've found."
As they sat in the boat on the way back over the canal Sachs asked, "How much trouble's he gonna be?"
"Culbeau?" Lucy responded. "He's lazy mostly. Smokes dope and drinks too much but he's never done worse than broke some jaws in public. We think he's got a still someplace and, even for a thousand bucks, I can't imagine him getting too far from it."
"What do he and his two cronies do?"
Jesse asked, "Oh, you saw them too? Well, Sean--that's the skinny one--and Rich don't have what you'd call real jobs. Scavenge and do day labor some. Harris Tomel's been to college--a couple years anyway. He's always trying to buy a business or put some deal together. Nothing ever pays out that I heard of. But all three of those boys have money and that means they're running 'shine."
"Moonshine? You don't bust 'em?"
After a moment Jesse said, "Sometimes, down here, you go lookin' for trouble. Sometimes you don't."
Which was a bit of law enforcement philosophy that, Sachs knew, was hardly limited to the South.
They landed again on the south shore of the river, beside the crime scenes, and Sachs climbed out before Jesse could offer his hand, which he did anyway.
Suddenly a huge, dark shape came into view. A black motorized barge, forty feet long, eased down the canal, then passed them and headed into the river. She read on the side: DAVETT INDUSTRIES.
Sachs asked, "What's that?"
Lucy answered, "A company outside of town. They move shipments up the Intracoastal through the Dismal Swamp Canal and into Norfolk. Asphalt, tar paper, stuff like that."
Rhyme had heard this through the radio and said, "Let's ask if there was a shipment around the time of the killing. Get the name of the crew."
Sachs mentioned this to Lucy but she said, "I already did that. One of the first things Jim and I did." Her answer was clipped. "It was a negative. If you're interested we also canvassed everybody in town normally makes the commute along Canal Road and Route 112 here. Wasn't any help."
"That was a good idea," Sachs said.
"Just standard procedure," Lucy said coolly and strode back to her car like a homely girl in high school who'd finally managed to fling a searing put-down at the head cheerleader.
... chapter seven
"I'm not letting him do anything until you get an air conditioner in here."
"Thom, we don't have time for this," Rhyme spat out. Then told the workmen where to unload the instruments that had arrived from the state police.
Bell said, "Steve's out trying to dig one up. Isn't quite as easy as I thought."
"I don't need one."
Thom explained patiently, "I'm worried about dysreflexia."
"I don't remember hearing that temperature was bad for blood pressure, Thom," Rhyme said. "Did you read that somewhere? I didn't read it. Maybe you could show me where you read it."
"I don't need your sarcasm, Lincoln."
"Oh, I'm sarcastic, am I?"
The aide patiently said to Bell, "Heat causes tissue swelling. Swelling causes increased pressure and irritation. And that can lead to dysreflexia. Which can kill him. We need an air conditioner. Simple as that."
Thom was the only one of Rhyme's care giving aides who'd survived more than a few months in the service of the criminalist. The others had either quit or been peremptorily fired.
"Plug that in," Rhyme ordered a deputy who was wheeling a battered gas chromatograph into the corner.
"No." Thom crossed his arms and stood in front of the extension cord. The deputy saw the look on the aide's face and paused uneasily, not prepared for a confrontation with the persistent young man. "When we get the air conditioner up and running ... then we'll plug it in."
"Jesus Christ." Rhyme grimaced. One of the most frustrating aspects of being a quad is the inability to bleed off anger. After his accident Rhyme quickly came to realize how a simple act like walking or clenching our fists--not to mention flinging a heavy object or two (a favorite pastime of Rhyme's ex-wife, Blaine)--dissipates f
ury. "If I get angry I could start spasming or get contractures," Rhyme pointed out testily.
"Neither of which will kill you--the way dysreflexia will." Thom said this with a tactical cheerfulness that infuriated Rhyme all the more.
Bell gingerly said, "Gimme five minutes." He disappeared and the troopers continued to wheel in the equipment. The chromatograph went unelectrified for the moment.
Lincoln Rhyme surveyed the machinery. Wondered what it would be like to actually close his fingers around an object again. With his left ring finger he could touch and had a faint sense of pressure. But actually gripping something, feeling its texture, weight, temperature ... those were unimaginable.
Terry Dobyns, the NYPD therapist, the man who'd been sitting at Rhyme's bedside when he'd awakened after the accident at a crime scene left him a quadriplegic, had explained to the criminalist all the cliched stages of grief. Rhyme had been assured that he'd experience--and survive--all of them. But what the doctor hadn't told him was that certain stages sneak back. That you carried them around with you like sleeping viruses and that they might erupt at any time.
Over the past several years he'd reexperienced despair and denial.
Now, he was consumed with fury. Why, here were two kidnapped young women and a killer on the run. How badly he wanted to speed to the crime scene, walk the grid, pluck elusive evidence from the ground, gaze at it through the luxurious lenses of a compound microscope, punch the buttons of the computers and the other instruments, pace as he drew his conclusions.
He wanted to get to work without worrying that the fucking heat would kill him. He thought again about Dr. Weaver's magic hands, about the operation.
"You're quiet," Thom said cautiously. "What're you plotting?"
"I'm not plotting anything. Would you please plug in the gas chromatograph and turn it on? It needs time to warm up."
Thom hesitated then walked to the machine and got it running. He arranged the rest of the equipment on a fiberboard table.
Steve Farr walked into the office, lugging a huge Carrier air conditioner. The deputy was apparently as strong as he was tall and the only clue to the effort was the red hue to his prominent ears.
He gasped, "Stole it from Planning and Zoning. We don't much like them."
Bell helped Farr mount the unit in the window and a moment later cold air was chugging into the room.
A figure appeared in the doorway--in fact, he filled the doorway. A man in his twenties. Massive shoulders, a prominent forehead. Six-five, close to three hundred pounds. For a difficult moment Rhyme thought this might be a relative of Garrett's and that the man had come to threaten them. But in a high, bashful voice he said, "I'm Ben?"
The three men stared at him as he glanced uneasily at Rhyme's wheelchair and legs.
Bell said, "Can I help you?"
"Well, I'm looking for Mr. Bell."
"I'm Sheriff Bell."
Eyes still surveying Rhyme's legs awkwardly. He glanced away quickly then cleared his throat and swallowed. "Oh, well, now. I'm Lucy Kerr's nephew?" He seemed to ask questions more than make statements.
"Ah, my forensics assistant!" Rhyme said. "Excellent! Just in time."
Another glance at the legs, the wheelchair. "Aunt Lucy didn't say ..."
What was coming next? Rhyme wondered.
"... didn't say anything about forensics," he mumbled. "I'm just a student, post-grad at UNC in Avery. Uhm, what do you mean, sir, 'just in time'?" The question was directed to Rhyme but Ben was looking at the sheriff.
"I mean: Get over to that table. I've got samples coming in any minute and you have to help me analyze them."
"Samples ... Okay. What kind of fish would that be?" he asked Bell.
"Fish?" Rhyme responded. "Fish?"
"What it is, sir," the big man said softly, still looking at Bell, "I'd be happy to help but I have to tell you, I have pretty limited experience."
"We're not talking about fish. We're talking crime scene samples! What'd you think?"
"Crime scene? Well, I didn't know," Ben told the sheriff.
"You can talk to me," Rhyme corrected sternly.
A rosy blush blossomed on the man's face and his eyes snapped to attention. His head seemed to shiver as he forced himself to look at Rhyme. "I was just... I mean, he's the sheriff."
Bell said, "But Lincoln here's running the show. He's a forensics scientist from New York. He's helping us out."
"Sure." Eyes on the wheelchair, eyes on Rhyme's legs, eyes on the sip-and-puff controller. Back to the safety of the floor.
Rhyme decided he hated this man, who was acting as if the criminalist were the oddest kind of circus freak.
And part of him hated Amelia Sachs too--for engineering this whole diversion and taking him away from his shark cells and Dr. Weaver's hands.
"Well, sir--"
"'Lincoln' is fine."
"The thing is I specialize in marine sociozoology."
"Which is?" Rhyme asked impatiently.
"Basically, the behavior of marine animal life."
Oh, great, Rhyme thought. Not only do I get a cripphobe for an assistant but I get one who's a fish shrink. "Well, it doesn't matter. You're a scientist. Principles are principles. Protocols are protocols. You've used a gas chromatograph?"
"Yessir."
"And compound and comparison microscopes?"
An affirmative nod though not as assertive as Rhyme would have liked. "But ..." Looking at Bell for a moment then returning obediently to Rhyme's face. "... Aunt Lucy just asked me to stop by. I didn't know she meant I was supposed to help you on a case.... I'm not really sure ... I mean, I have classes--"
"Ben, you have to help us," Rhyme said curtly.
The sheriff explained, "Garrett Hanlon."
Ben let the name settle in his massive head somewhere. "Oh, that kid in Blackwater Landing."
The sheriff explained about the kidnappings and Ed Schaeffer's wasp attack.
"Gosh, I'm sorry about Ed," Ben said. "I met him once at Aunt Lucy's house and--"
"So we need you," Rhyme said, trying to steer the conversation back on track.
"We don't have a clue where he's gone with Lydia," the sheriff continued. "And we hardly have any time left to save those women. And, well, as you can see--Mr. Rhyme, he needs somebody to help him."
"Well ..." A glance toward, but not at, Rhyme. "It's just I have this test coming up. I'm in school and all. Like I said."
Rhyme said patiently, "We don't really have any options here, Ben. Garrett's got three hours on us and he could kill either of his victims at any time--if he hasn't already."
The zoologist looked around the dusty room for a reprieve and found none. "Guess I can stick around for a little while, sir."
"Thank you," Rhyme said. He inhaled into the controller and swung around to the table on which the instruments rested. He stopped and surveyed them. He looked over at Ben. "Now, if you could just change my catheter we'll get to work."
The big man looked stricken. Whispered, "You want me to ..."
"It's a joke," Thom said.
But Ben didn't smile. He just nodded uneasily and with the grace of a bison walked over to the chromatograph and began studying the control panel.
Sachs jogged into the impromptu lab in the County Building, Jesse Corn keeping up the speedy pace beside her.
Moving more leisurely, Lucy Kerr joined them a moment later. She said hello to her nephew Ben and introduced the huge man to Sachs and Jesse. Sachs held up one cluster of bags. "This is the evidence from Garrett's room," she said, then held up more bags. "This is from Blackwater Landing--the primary scene."
Rhyme looked at the bags but did so with some discouragement. Not only was there very little physical evidence but Rhyme was troubled again by what had occurred to him earlier: he had to analyze the clues without any firsthand knowledge of the surrounding area.
Fish out of water...
He had a thought.
"Ben, how long've you lived here?"
the criminalist asked.
"All my life, sir."
"Good. What's this general area of the state called?"
He cleared his throat. "I guess the Northern Coastal Plain."
"You have any friends who're geologists who specialize in the area? Cartographers? Naturalists?"
"No. They're all marine biologists."
"Rhyme," Sachs said, "when we were at Blackwater Landing I saw that barge, remember? It was shipping asphalt or tar paper from a factory near here."
"Henry Davettt's company," Lucy said.
Sachs asked, "Would they have a geologist on staff?"
"I don't know about that," Bell said, "but Davett, he's an engineer and's lived here for years. Probably knows the land as good as anybody."
"Give him a call, will you?"
"You bet." Bell disappeared. He returned a moment later. "I got Davett. There's no geologist on staff but he said he might be able to help. He'll be over in a half hour." Then the sheriff asked, "So, Lincoln, how do you want to handle the pursuit?"
"I'll be here, with you and Ben. We're going to go through the evidence. I want a small search party over at Blackwater Landing now--to where Jesse saw Garrett and Lydia disappear. I'll guide the team as best I can, depending on what the evidence shows."
"Who do you want on the team?"
"Sachs in charge," Rhyme said. "Lucy with her."
Bell nodded and Rhyme noticed that Lucy gave no reaction to these orders about the chain of command.
"I'd like to volunteer," Jesse Corn said quickly.
Bell looked at Rhyme, who nodded. Then he said, "Probably one other."
"Four people? That's all?" Bell asked, frowning. "Hell, I could get dozens of volunteers."
"No, less is better in a case like this."
"Who's the fourth?" Lucy asked. "Mason Germain?"
Rhyme looked at the doorway, could see nobody outside. He lowered his voice. "What's Mason's story? He's got some history. I don't like cops with histories. I like blank slates."
Bell shrugged. "The man's had a tough life. He grew up north of the Paquo--the wrong side of the tracks. Father tried to make a go of it at a couple businesses and then started running 'shine and when he got collared by revenuers he killed himself. Mason himself worked his way up from dust. There's an expression 'round here--too poor to paint, too proud to whitewash. That's Mason. He's always complaining about being held back, not getting what he wants. He's an ambitious man in a town that hasn't got any use for ambition."