"I do. This's really helpful, Charlie. I appreciate it."

His advice sounded so simple but, though Sachs had carefully listened to everything Sommers had told her, she couldn't escape the fact that this particular weapon was still very alien to her.

How could Luis Martin have avoided it, protected himself against it or cut the beast's head off? The answer was, he couldn't.

"If you need me for anything else technical, just give me a call." He gave her two cell phone numbers. "And, oh, hold on… Here." He handed her a black plastic box with a button on the side and an LCD screen at the top. It looked like an elongated cell phone. "One of my inventions. A noncontact current detector. Most of them only register up to a thousand volts and you have to be pretty close to the wire or terminal for it to read. But this goes to ten thousand. And it's very sensitive. It'll sense voltage from about four or five feet away and give you the level."

"Thanks. That'll be helpful." She gave a laugh, examining the instrument. "Too bad they don't make these to tell you if a guy on the street's carrying a gun."

Sachs had been joking. But Charlie Sommers was nodding, a glaze of concentration on his face; he seemed to be considering her words very seriously. As he said good-bye to her, he shoved some corn chips into his mouth and frantically began drawing a diagram on a slip of paper. She noticed that a napkin was the first thing he'd grabbed.

"LINCOLN, THIS IS Dr. Kopeski."

Thom was standing in the doorway of the lab with a visitor.

Lincoln Rhyme looked up absently. The time was now about 8:30 p.m. and, though the urgency of the Algonquin case was pulsing through the room, there was little he could do until Sachs returned from meeting the power company executive. So he'd reluctantly agreed to see the representative from the disability rights group giving Rhyme his award.

Kopeski's not going to come here and cool his heels like some courtier waiting for an audience with the king…

"Call me Arlen, please."

The soft-spoken man, in a conservative suit and white shirt, a tie like an orange and black candy cane, walked up to the criminalist and nodded. No vestigial offer of a handshake. And he didn't even glance down at Rhyme's legs or at the wheelchair. Since Kopeski worked for a disability rights organization Rhyme's condition was nothing to him. An attitude that Rhyme approved of. He believed that we were all disabled in one way or another, ranging from emotional scar tissue to arthritis to Lou Gehrig's disease. Life was one big disability; the question was simple: What did we do about it? Rhyme rarely dwelt on the subject. He'd never been an advocate for disabled rights; that struck him as a diversion from his job. He was a criminalist who happened to be able to move with less facility than most. He compensated as best he could and got on with his work.

Rhyme glanced at Mel Cooper and nodded toward the den, across the foyer from the lab. Thom ushered Kopeski inside, with Rhyme following in his chair, and eased the pocket doors partially together. He disappeared.

"Sit down, if you like," Rhyme said, the last clause offered to temper the first, hoping that the man would remain standing, get to business and get out. He was carrying a briefcase. Maybe the paperweight was in there. The doc could present it, get a photo and leave. The whole matter would be put to rest.

The doctor sat. "I've followed your career for some time."

"Have you?"

"Are you familiar with the Disability Resources Council?"

Thom had briefed him. Rhyme remembered little of the monologue. "You do some very good work."

"Good work, yes."

Silence.

If we could move this along… Rhyme glanced out the window intently as if a new assignment were winging its way toward the townhouse, like the falcon earlier. Sorry, have to go, duty calls…

"I've worked with many disabled people over the years. Spinal cord injuries, spina bifida, ALS, a lot of other problems. Cancer too."

Curious idea. Rhyme had never thought about that disease being a disability, but he supposed some types could fit the definition. A glance at the wall clock, ticking away slowly. And then Thom brought in a tray of coffee and, oh, for Christ's sake, cookies. The glance at the aide-meaning this was not a fucking tea party-rolled past like vapor.

"Thank you," Kopeski said, taking a cup. Rhyme was disappointed that he added no milk, which would have cooled the beverage so he could drink it, and leave, more quickly.

"For you, Lincoln?"

"I'm fine, thank you," he said with a chill that Thom ignored as effectively as he had the searing glance a moment ago. He left the tray and scooted back to the kitchen.

The doctor eased down into the sighing leather chair. "Good coffee."

I'm so very pleased. A cock of the head.

"You're a busy man, so I'll get to the point."

"I'd appreciate that."

"Detective Rhyme… Lincoln. Are you a religious man?"

The disability group must have a church affiliation; they might not want to honor a heathen.

"No, I'm not."

"No belief in the afterlife?"

"I haven't seen any objective evidence that one exists."

"Many, many people feel that way. So, for you, death would be equal to, say, peace."

"Depending on how I go."

A smile in the kind face. "I misrepresented myself somewhat to your aide. And to you. But for a good reason."

Rhyme wasn't concerned. If the man had pretended to be somebody else to get in and kill me, I'd be dead now. A raised eyebrow meant: Fine. Confess and let's move forward.

"I'm not with DRC."

"No?"

"No. But I sometimes say I'm with one group or another because my real organization sometimes gets me kicked out of people's homes."

"Jehovah's Witnesses?"

A chuckle. "I'm with Die with Dignity. It's a euthanasia advocacy organization based in Florida."

Rhyme had heard of them.

"Have you ever considered assisted suicide?"

"Yes, some years ago. I decided not to kill myself."

"But you kept it as an option."

"Doesn't everybody, disabled or not?"

A nod. "True."

Rhyme said, "It's pretty clear that I'm not getting an award for picking the most efficient way of ending my life. So what can I do for you?"

"We need advocates. People like yourself, with some public recognition factor. Who might consider making the transition."

Transition. Now there's a euphemism for you.

"You could make a video on YouTube. Give some interviews. We were thinking that someday you might decide to take advantage of our services…" He withdrew from his briefcase a brochure. It was subdued and printed on nice card stock and had flowers on the front. Not lilies or daisies, Rhyme noticed. Roses. The title above the flora was "Choices."

He set it on the table near Rhyme. "If you'd be interested in letting us use you as a celebrity sponsor we could not only provide you with our services for free, but there'd be some compensation, as well. Believe it or not, we do okay, for a small group."

And presumably they pay up front, Rhyme thought. "I really don't think I'm the man for you."

"All you'd have to do is talk a bit about how you've always considered the possibility of assisted suicide. We'd do some videos too. And-"

A voice from the doorway startled Rhyme. "Get the fuck out of here!" He noticed Kopeski jump at the sound.

Thom stormed into the room, as the doctor sat back, spilling coffee as he dropped the cup, which hit the floor and shattered. "Wait, I-"

The aide, usually the picture of control, was red-faced. His hands were shaking. "I said out."

Kopeski rose. He remained calm. "Look, I'm having a conversation with Detective Rhyme here," he said evenly. "There's no reason to get upset."