“How’d you guess? An anniversary present… Sorry for the scare,” he said, looking away from her. He seemed suddenly timid and that upset her. She thought of her father in the pre-op room at Sloan-Kettering before they took him down to the exploratory surgery he never awoke from.

“Sorry?” she asked ominously. “No more of that shit, Rhyme.”

He appraised her for a minute then said, “You two’ll do fine.”

“We two?”

“You and Lon. Mel too of course. And Jim Polling.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m retiring.”

“You’re what?”

“Too taxing for the old system, I’m afraid.”

“But you can’t quit.” She waved at the Monet poster. “Look at everything we’ve found about 823. We’re so close.”

“So you don’t need me. All you need is a little luck.”

“Luck? It took years to get Bundy. And what about the Zodiac killer? And the Werewolf?”

“We’ve got good information here. Hard information. You’ll come up with some good leads. You’ll nail him, Sachs. Your swan song before they lap you up into Public Affairs. I’ve got a feeling Unsub 823's getting cocky; they might even collar him at the church.”

“You look fine,” she said after a moment. Though he didn’t.

Rhyme laughed. Then the smile faded. “I’m very tired. And I hurt. Hell, I think I hurt in places the docs’ll say I can’t hurt.”

“Do what I do. Take a nap.”

He tried to snort a derisive laugh but he sounded weak. She hated seeing him this way. He coughed briefly, glanced down at the nerve stimulator, and grimaced, as if he was embarrassed that he depended on the machine. “Sachs… I don’t suppose we’ll be working together again. I just wanted to say that you’ve got a good career ahead of you, you make the right choices.”

“Well, I’ll come back and see you after we snag his bad ass.”

“I’d like that. I’m glad you were first officer yesterday morning. There’s nobody else I’d rather’ve walked the grid with.”

“I -”

“Lincoln,” a voice said. She turned to see a man in the doorway. He looked around the room curiously, taking in all the equipment.

“Been some excitement around here, looks like.”

“Doctor,” Rhyme said. His face blossoming into a smile. “Please come in.”

He stepped into the room. “I got Thom’s message. Emergency, he said?”

“Dr. William Berger, this is Amelia Sachs.” But Sachs could see she’d already ceased to exist in Lincoln Rhyme’s universe. Whatever else was left to be said – and she felt there were some things, maybe many things – would have to wait. She walked through the door. Thom, who stood in the large hallway outside, closed the door behind her and, ever proper, paused, nodding for her to precede him.

As Sachs walked out into the steamy night she heard a voice from nearby. “Excuse me.”

She turned and found Dr. Peter Taylor standing by himself under a ginkgo tree. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Sachs followed Taylor up the sidewalk a few doors.

“Yes?” she asked. He leaned against a stone wall and gave another self-conscious swipe at his hair. Sachs recalled how many times she’d intimidated men with a single word or glance. She thought, as she often did: What a useless power beauty is.

“You’re his friend, right?” the doctor asked her. “I mean, you work with him but you’re a friend too.”

“Sure. I guess I am.”

“That man who just went inside. Do you know who he is?”

“Berger, I think. He’s a doctor.”

“Did he say where he was from?”

“No.”

Taylor looked up at Rhyme’s bedroom window for a moment. He asked, “You know the Lethe Society?”

“No, oh, wait… It’s a euthanasia group, right?”

Taylor nodded. “I know all of Lincoln’s doctors. And I’ve never heard of Berger. I was just thinking maybe he’s with them.”

“What?”

Is he still talking to them…

So that’s what the conversation was about.

She felt weightless from the shock. “Has he… has he talked seriously about this before?”

“Oh, yes.” Taylor sighed, gazed into the smoky night sky. “Oh, yes.” Then glanced at her name badge. “Officer Sachs, I’ve spent hours trying to talk him out of it. Days. But I’ve also worked with quads for years and I know how stubborn they are. Maybe he’d listen to you. Just a few words. I was thinking… Could you? -”

“Oh, goddamn it, Rhyme,” she muttered and started down the sidewalk at a run, leaving the doctor in midsentence.

She got to the front door of the townhouse just as Thom was closing it. She pushed past him. “Forgot my watchbook.”

“Your? -”

“Be right back.”

“You can’t go up there. He’s with his doctor.”

“I’ll just be a second.”

She was at the landing before Thom started after her.

He must have known it was a scam because he took the stairs two at a time. But she had a good lead and had shoved open Rhyme’s door before the aide got to the top of the stairs.

She pushed in, startling both Rhyme and the doctor, who was leaning against the table, arms crossed. She closed the door and locked it. Thom began pounding. Berger turned toward her with a frown of curiosity on his face.

“Sachs,” Rhyme blurted.

“I have to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“About you.”

“Later.”

“How much later, Rhyme?” she asked sarcastically. “Tomorrow? Next week?”

“What do you mean?”

“You want me to schedule a meeting for, maybe, a week from Wednesday? Will you be able to make it then? Will you be around?”

“Sachs -”

“I want to talk to you. Alone.”

“No.”

“Then we’ll do it the hard way.” She stepped up to Berger. “You’re under arrest. The charge is attempted assisted suicide.” And the handcuffs flashed, click, click, snapping onto his wrists in a silver blur.

She guessed the building was a church.

Carole Ganz lay in the basement, on the floor. A single shaft of cold, oblique light fell on the wall, illuminating a shabby picture of Jesus and a stack of mildewy Golden Book Bible stories. A half-dozen tiny chairs – for Sunday-school students, she guessed – were nested in the middle of the room.

The cuffs were still on and so was the gag. He’d also tied her to a pipe near the wall with a four-foot-long piece of clothesline.

On a tall table nearby she could see the top of a large glass jug.

If she could knock it off she might use a piece of glass to cut the clothesline. The table seemed out of reach but she rolled over onto her side and started to squirm, like a caterpillar, toward it.

This reminded her of Pammy when she was an infant, rolling on the bed between herself and Ron; she thought of her baby, alone in that horrible basement, and started to cry.

Pammy, Pooh, purse.

For a moment, for a brief moment, she weakened. Wished she’d never left Chicago.

No, stop thinking that way! Quit feeling sorry for yourself! This was the absolute right thing to do. You did it for Ron. And for yourself too. He’d be proud of you. Kate had told her that a thousand times, and she believed it.

Struggling once more. She moved a foot closer to the table.

Groggy, couldn’t think straight.

Her throat stung from the terrible thirst. And the mold and mildew in the air.

She crawled a little farther then lay on her side, catching her breath, staring up at the table. It seemed hopeless. What’s the use? she thought.

Wondering what was going through Pammy’s mind.

You fucker! thought Carole. I’ll kill you for this!

She squirmed, trying to move farther along the floor. But instead, she lost her balance and rolled onto her back. She gasped, knowing what was coming. No! With a loud pop, her wrist snapped. She screamed through the gag. Blacked out. When she came to a moment later she was overwhelmed with nausea.

No, no, no… If she vomited she’d die. With the gag on, that would be it.