“You say they fought, Sachs? The unsub and this Everett?”

“Wasn’t much of a fight. Everett grabbed his shirt.”

Rhyme clicked his tongue. “I must be getting tired. If I’d thought about it I would have had you scrape under his nails. Even if he was underwater that’s one place -”

“Here you go,” she said, holding up two small plastic bags.

“You scraped?”

She nodded.

“But why’re there two bags?”

Holding up one bag then the other she said, “Left hand, right hand.”

Mel Cooper broke into a laugh. “Even you never thought about separate bags for scraping, Lincoln. It’s a great idea.”

Rhyme grunted. “Differentiating the hands might have some marginal forensic value.”

“Whoa,” Cooper said, laughing still. “That means he thinks it’s a brilliant idea and he’s sorry he didn’t think of it first.”

The tech examined the scrapings. “Got some brick here.”

“There was no brick anywhere around the drainpipe or the field,” Sachs said.

“It’s fragments. But there’s something attached to it. I can’t tell what.”

Banks asked, “Could it’ve come from the stockyard tunnel? There was a lotta brick there, right?”

“All that came from Annie Oakley here,” Rhyme said, nodding ruefully at Sachs. “No, remember, the unsub’d left before she pulled out her six-gun.” Then he frowned, found himself straining forward. “Mel, I want to see that brick. In the ’scope. Is there any way?”

Cooper looked over Rhyme’s computer. “I think we can rig something up.” He ran a cable from the video-output port on the compound ’scope to his own computer and then dug into a large suitcase. He pulled out a long, thick gray wire. “This’s a serial cable.” He connected the two computers and transferred some software to Rhyme’s Compaq. In five minutes, Rhyme, delighted, was seeing exactly what Cooper was looking at through the eyepiece.

The criminalist’s eyes scanned the chunk of brick – hugely magnified. He laughed out loud. “He outfoxed himself. See those white blobs attached to the brick?”

“What are they?” Sellitto asked.

“Looks like glue,” Cooper offered.

“Exactly. From a pet-hair roller. Perps who’re real cautious use them to clean trace off themselves. But it backfired. Some bits of adhesive must’ve come off the roller and stuck to his clothes. So we know it’s from his safe house. Held the brick in place until Everett picked it up under his fingernails.”

“Does the brick tell us anything?” Sachs asked.

“It’s old. And it’s expensive – cheap brick was very porous because they mixed in filler. I’d guess his place is either institutional or built by someone wealthy. At least a hundred years old. Maybe older.”

“Ah, here we go,” Cooper said. “Another bit of glove, it looks like. If the damn things keep disintegrating we’ll be down to his friction ridges before too long.”

Rhyme’s screen flashed and a moment later what he recognized as a tiny fleck of leather came on the screen. “Something’s funny here,” Cooper said.

“It’s not red,” Rhyme observed. “Like the other particle. This fleck’s black. Run it through the microspectro-photometer.”

Cooper ran the test and then tapped his computer screen. “It’s leather. But the dye is different. Maybe it’s stained or faded.”

Rhyme was leaning forward, straining, looking closely at the fleck on the screen when he realized he was in trouble. Serious trouble.

“Hey, you okay?” It was Sachs who’d spoken.

Rhyme didn’t answer. His neck and jaw began to shiver violently. A feeling like panic rose from the crest of his shattered spine and moved up into his scalp. Then, as if a thermostat had clicked on, the chills and goose bumps vanished and he began to sweat. Perspiration poured from his face and tickled frantically.

“Thom!” he whispered. “Thom, it’s happening.”

Then he gasped as the headache seared through his face and spread along the walls of his skull. He jammed his teeth together, swayed his head, anything to stop the unbearable agony. But nothing worked. The light in the room flickered. The pain was so bad his reaction was to flee from it, to run flat-out on legs that hadn’t moved in years.

“Lincoln!” Sellitto was shouting.

“His face,” Sachs gasped, “it’s bright red.”

And his hands were pale as ivory. All of his body below the magic latitude at C4 was turning white. Rhyme’s blood, on its phony, desperate mission to get to where it thought it was needed, surged into the tiny capillaries of his brain, expanding them, threatening to burst the delicate filaments.

As the attack grew worse Rhyme was aware of Thom over him, ripping the blankets off the Clinitron. He was aware of Sachs stepping forward, her radiant blue eyes narrowed in concern. The last thing he saw before the blackness was the falcon pushing off the ledge on his huge wings, startled by the sudden flurry of activity in the room, seeking easy oblivion in the hot air over the empty streets of the city.

WHEN RHYME PASSED OUT, Sellitto got to the phone first.

“Call 911 for EMS,” Thom instructed. “Then hit that number there. Speed dial. It’s Pete Taylor, our spinal cord specialist.”

Sellitto made the calls.

Thom was shouting, “I’ll need some help here. Somebody!”

Sachs was closest. She nodded, stepped up to Rhyme. The aide had grabbed the unconscious man under the arms and pulled him higher up in bed. He ripped open the shirt and prodded the pale chest, saying, “Everybody else, if you could just leave us.”

Sellitto, Banks and Cooper hesitated for a moment then stepped through the doorway. Sellitto closed the door behind them.

A beige box appeared in the aide’s hands. It had switches and dials on the top and sprouted a wire ending in a flat disk, which he placed over Rhyme’s chest and taped down.

“Phrenic nerve stimulator. It’ll keep him breathing.” He clicked on the machine.

Thom slipped a blood-pressure cuff onto Rhyme’s alabaster-white arm. Sachs realized with a start that his body was virtually wrinkle-free. He was in his forties but his body was that of a twenty-five-year-old.

“Why’s his face so red? It looks like he’s going to explode.”

“He is,” Thom said matter-of-factly, yanking a doctor’s kit from underneath the bedside table. He opened it then he continued to take the pressure. “Dysreflexia… All the stress today. Mental and physical. He’s not used to it.”

“He kept saying he was tired.”

“I know. And I wasn’t paying careful enough attention. Shhhh. I have to listen.” He plugged the stethoscope into his ears, inflated the cuff and let the air out slowly. Staring at his watch. His hands were rock-steady. “Shit. Diastolic’s one twenty-five. Shit.”

Father in heaven, Sachs thought. He’s going to stroke out.

Thom nodded at the black bag. “Find the bottle of nifedipine. And open up one of those syringes.” As she searched, Thom yanked down Rhyme’s pajamas and grabbed a catheter from beside the bed, tore open its plastic wrapper too. He smeared the end with K-Y jelly and lifted Rhyme’s pale penis, inserting the catheter gently but quickly into the tip.

“This’s part of the problem. Bowel and urinary pressure can trigger an attack. He’s been drinking way more than he should today.”

She opened the hypodermic but said, “I don’t know how to do the needle.”

“I’ll do it.” He looked up at her. “Could I ask… would you mind doing this? I don’t want the tube to get a kink in it.”

“Okay. Sure.”

“You want gloves?”

She pulled on a pair and carefully took Rhyme’s penis in her left hand. She held the tube in her right. It had been a long, long time since she’d held a man here. The skin was soft and she thought how strange it was that this center of a man’s being is, most of the time, as delicate as silk.

Thom expertly injected the drug.