Several things nagged Rhyme. The fiber, for one. Why hadn’t Peretti caught on as to what it was? It was so obvious. And why was this PE – the newspaper scraps and the fiber – all clustered together? Something was wrong here.

“ Lincoln?”

“Sorry.”

“I was saying… You’re not a burn victim in unbearable pain. You’re not homeless. You’ve got money, you’ve got talent. Your police consulting… that helps a lot of people. If you want one, you could have a, yes, productive life ahead of you. A long life.”

“Long, yes. That’s the problem. A long life.” He was tired of being on good behavior. He snapped, “But I don’t want a long life. It’s as simple as that.”

Berger said slowly, “If there’s the slightest chance you might’ve regretted your decision, well, see, I’m the one who’d have to live with it. Not you.”

“Who’s ever certain about something like this?”

Eyes slipping back to the report.

An iron bolt was found on top of the scraps of paper. It was a hex bolt, head-stamped with the letters “CE.“ Two inches long, clockwise twist, 15/16” in diameter.

“I’ve got a busy schedule for the next few days,” Berger said, looking at his watch. It was a Rolex; well, death has always been lucrative. “Let’s take an hour or so now. Talk for a while, then have a cooling-off day and I’ll come back.”

Something was nagging at Rhyme. An infuriating itch – the curse of all quads – though in this case it was an intellectual itch. The kind that had plagued Rhyme all his life.

“Say, doctor, I wonder if you could do me a favor. That report there. Could you flip through it? See if you could find a picture of a bolt.”

Berger hesitated. “A picture?”

“A Polaroid. It’ll be glued in somewhere toward the back. The turning frame takes too long.”

Berger lifted the report out of the frame and turned the pages for Rhyme.

“There. Stop.”

As he gazed at the photo a twinge of urgency pricked at him. Oh, not here, not now. Please, no.

“I’m sorry, could you flip back to the page where we were?”

Berger did.

Rhyme said nothing and read carefully.

The paper scraps…

Three p.m… page 823.

Rhyme’s heart was pounding, sweat popped out on his head. He heard a frantic buzzing in his ears.

Here’s a headline for the tabloids. MAN DIES DURING TALK WITH DEATH DOC…

Berger blinked. “ Lincoln? Are you all right?” The man’s canny eyes examined Rhyme carefully.

As casually as he could, Rhyme said, “You know, doctor, I’m sorry. But there’s something I’ve got to take care of.”

Berger nodded slowly, uncertainly. “Affairs aren’t in order after all?”

Smiling. Nonchalant. “I’m just wondering if I could ask you to come back in a few hours.”

Careful here. If he senses purpose he’ll mark you down non-suicidal, take his bottles and his plastic bag and fly back to Starbucks land.

Opening a date book, Berger said, “The rest of the day isn’t good. Then tomorrow… No. I’m afraid Monday’s the earliest. Day after tomorrow.”

Rhyme hesitated. Lord… His soul’s desire was finally within his grasp, what he’d dreamed of every day for the past year. Yes or no?

Decide.

Finally, Rhyme heard himself say, “All right. Monday.” Plastering a hopeless smile on his face.

“What exactly’s the problem?”

“A man I used to work with. He asked for some advice. I wasn’t paying as much attention to it as I should have. I have to call him.”

No, it wasn’t dysreflexia at all – or an anxiety attack.

Lincoln Rhyme was feeling something he hadn’t felt in years. He was in one big fucking hurry.

“Could I ask you to send Thom up here? I think he’s downstairs in the kitchen.”

“Yes, of course. I’d be happy to.”

Rhyme could see something odd in Berger’s eyes. What was it? Caution? Maybe. It almost seemed like disappointment. But there was no time to think about it now. As the doctor’s footsteps receded down the stairs Rhyme shouted in a booming baritone, “Thom? Thom!”

“What?” the young man’s voice called.

“Call Lon. Get him back here. Now!”

Rhyme glanced at the clock. It was after noon. They had less than three hours.

“THE CRIME SCENE WAS STAGED,” Lincoln Rhyme said.

Lon Sellitto had tossed his jacket off, revealing a savagely wrinkled shirt. He now leaned back, arms crossed, against a table strewn with papers and books.

Jerry Banks was back too and his pale-blue eyes were on Rhyme’s; the bed and its control panel no longer interested him.

Sellitto frowned. “But what story’s the unsub tryin’ to sell us?”

At crime scenes, especially homicides, perps often monkeyed with PE to lead investigators astray. Some were clever about it but most weren’t. Like the husband who beat his wife to death then tried to make it look like a robbery – though he only thought to steal her jewelry, leaving his gold bracelets and diamond pinkie ring on his dresser.

“That’s what’s so interesting,” Rhyme continued. “It’s not about what happened, Lon. It’s what’s going to happen.”

Sellitto the skeptic asked, “What makes you think so?”

“The scraps of paper. They mean three o’clock today.”

“Today?”

“Look!” Nodding toward the report, an impatient jerk of his head.

“That one scrap says three p.m.,” Banks pointed out. “But the other’s a page number. Why do you think it means today?”

“It’s not a page number.” Rhyme lifted an eyebrow. They still didn’t get it. “Logic! The only reason to leave clues was to tell us something. If that’s the case then 823 has to be something more than just a page number because there’s no clue as to what book it’s from. Well, if it’s not a page number what is it?”

Silence.

Exasperated, Rhyme snapped, “It’s a date! Eight twenty-three. August twenty-third. Something’s going to happen at three p.m. today. Now, the ball of fiber? It’s asbestos.”

“Asbestos?” Sellitto asked.

“In the report? The formula? It’s hornblende. Silicon dioxide. That is asbestos. Why Peretti sent it to the FBI is beyond me. So. We have asbestos on a railbed where there shouldn’t be any. And we’ve got an iron bolt with decaying oxidation on the head but none on the threads. That means it’s been bolted someplace for a long time and just recently removed.”

“Maybe it was overturned in the dirt,” Banks offered. “When he was digging the grave?”

Rhyme said, “No. In Midtown the bedrock’s close to the surface, which means so are the aquifers. All the soil from Thirty-fourth Street up to Harlem contains enough moisture to oxidize iron within a few days. It’d be completely rusted, not just the head, if it’d been buried. No, it was unbolted from someplace, carried to the scene and left there. And that sand… Come on, what’s white sand doing on a train roadbed in Midtown Manhattan? The soil composition there is loam, silt, granite, hardpan and soft clay.”

Banks started to speak but Rhyme cut him off abruptly. “And what were these things doing all clustered together? Oh, he’s telling us something, our unsub. You bet he is. Banks, what about the access door?”

“You were right,” the young man said. “They found one about a hundred feet north of the grave. Broken open from the inside. You were also right about the prints. Zip. And no tire tracks or trace evidence either.”

A lock of dirty asbestos, a bolt, a torn newspaper…

“The scene?” Rhyme asked. “Intact?”

“Released.”

Lincoln Rhyme, the crip with the killer lungs, exhaled a loud hiss of air, disgusted. “Who made that mistake?”

“I don’t know,” Sellitto said lamely. “Watch commander probably.”

It was Peretti, Rhyme understood. “Then you’re stuck with what you’ve got.”