Davett saw Rhyme's reaction. He said, "Wish I could be more helpful."
"No, no, I appreciate it. It will be helpful. We just need to narrow down more of the clues."
The businessman read, "Sugar, fruit juice, kerosene ..." He shook his head, unsmiling. "You have a difficult job, Mr. Rhyme."
"These are the tough cases," Rhyme explained. "When you have no clues you're free to speculate. When you have a lot of them you can usually get the answer pretty quickly. But having a few clues, like this ..." Rhyme's voice faded.
"We're hog-tied by the facts," Ben muttered.
Rhyme turned to him. "Exactly, Ben. Exactly."
"I should be getting home," Davett said. "My family's expecting me." He wrote a phone number on a business card. "You can call me anytime."
Rhyme thanked him again and turned his gaze back to the evidence chart.
Hog-tied by the facts ...
Rich Culbeau sucked the blood off his arm from where the brambles had scratched it deeply. He spit against a tree.
It had taken them twenty minutes of hard slogging through the brush to get to the side porch of the A-frame vacation house without being seen by the bitch with the sniper gun. Even Harris Tomel, who normally looked like he'd just stepped off a country club patio, was bloody and dust-stained.
The new Sean O'Sarian, quiet and thoughtful and, well, sane, was waiting back on the path, lying on the ground with his black gun like an infantry grunt at Khe Sahn, ready to slow up Lucy and the other Vietcong with a few shots over their heads in case they came up the trail toward the house.
"You ready?" Culbeau asked Tomel, who nodded.
Culbeau eased open the knob of the mudroom door and pushed the door inside, his gun up and ready. Tomel followed. They were skittish as cats, knowing that the redheaded cop with the deer rifle she surely knew how to use could be waiting for them anywhere in the house.
"You hear anything?" Culbeau whispered.
"Just music." It was soft rock--the sort Culbeau listened to because he hated country-western.
The two men moved slowly down the dim hallway, guns up and cocked. They slowed. Ahead of them was the kitchen, where Culbeau had seen somebody--probably the boy--moving when he'd sighted on the house through the rifle 'scope. He nodded toward the room.
"Don't think they heard us," Tomel said. The music was up pretty high.
"We go in together. Shoot for their legs or knees. Don't kill him--we still gotta get him to tell us where Mary Beth is."
"The woman too?"
Culbeau thought for a moment. "Yeah, why not? We might want to keep her alive for a while. You know what for."
Tomel nodded.
"One, two ... three."
They pushed fast into the kitchen and found themselves about to shoot a weatherman on a big-screen TV. They crouched and spun around, looking for the boy and the woman. Didn't see them. Then Culbeau looked at the set. He realized it didn't belong here. Somebody'd rolled it in from the living room and set it up in front of the stove, facing the windows.
Culbeau peered out through the blinds. "Shit. They put the set here so we'd see it from across the field, from the path. And think there was somebody in the house." He took off up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
"Wait," Tomel called. "She's up there. With the gun."
But of course the redhead wasn't up there at all. Culbeau kicked into the bedroom where he'd seen the rifle barrel and the telescopic sight aiming at them and he now found pretty much what he expected to find: a piece of narrow pipe on top of which was taped the ass end of a Corona bottle.
In disgust he said, "That's the gun and 'scope. Jesus Christ. They rigged it to bluff us out. It cost us a half fucking hour. And the goddamn deputies're probably five minutes away. We gotta get outa here."
He stormed past Tomel, who started to say, "Pretty smart of her..." But, seeing the fire in Culbeau's eyes, he decided not to finish his sentence.
The battery ran down and the tiny electric trolling engine fell silent.
Their narrow skiff they'd stolen from the vacation house drifted on the current of the Paquenoke, through the oily mist covering the river. It was dusk. The water was no longer golden but moody gray.
Garrett Hanlon picked up a paddle in the bottom of the boat and headed toward shore. "We gotta land someplace," he said. "Before it's, like, totally dark."
Amelia Sachs noticed that the landscape had changed. The trees had thinned and large pools of marsh met the river. The boy was right; a wrong turn would take them into a back alley of some impenetrable bog.
"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, seeing her troubled expression.
"I'm a hell of a long way from Brooklyn."
"That's in New York?"
"Right," she said.
He clicked his nails. "And it bothers you not being there?"
"You bet it does."
Steering toward the shore, he said, "That's what scares insects the most."
"What's that?"
"Like, it's weird. They don't mind working and they don't mind fighting. But they get all freaked out in an unfamiliar place. Even if it's safe. They hate it, don't know what to do."
Okay, Sachs thought, I guess I'm a card-carrying insect. She preferred the way Lincoln phrased it: Fish out of water.
"You can always tell when an insect's really upset. They clean their antennas over and over again.... Insects' antennas show their moods. Like our faces. Only the thing is," he added cryptically, "they don't fake it. Like we do." He laughed in an odd way--a sound she hadn't heard before.
He eased over the side of the boat into the water and pulled the boat onto the land. Sachs climbed out. He directed her through the woods and seemed to know exactly where he was going despite the darkness of dusk and the absence of any path that she could see.
"How do you know where to go?" she asked.
Garrett said, "I guess I'm like the monarchs. I just know directions pretty good."
"Monarchs?"
"You know, the butterflies. They migrate a thousand miles and know exactly where they're going. It's really, really cool--they navigate by the sun and, like, change course automatically depending on where it is on the horizon. Oh, and when it's overcast or dark they use this other sense they have--they can feel the earth's magnetic fields."
When a bat shoots out a beam of sound to find them, moths fold their wings and drop to the ground and hide.
She was smiling at his enthusiastic lecture when she stopped suddenly and crouched. "Look out," she whispered. "There! There's a light."
Faint illumination reflecting off a murky pond. An eerie yellow light like a failing lantern.
But Garrett was laughing.
She looked at him quizzically.
He said, "Just a ghost."
"What?" she asked.
"It's the Lady of the Swamp. Like, this Indian maiden who died the night before her wedding. Her ghost still paddles through the Dismal Swamp looking for the guy she was going to marry. We're not in the Great Dismal but it's near here." He nodded toward the glow. "What it is really is just fox fire--this gross fungus that glows."
She didn't like the light. It reminded her of the uneasiness she felt as they drove into Tanner's Corner that morning, seeing the small coffin at the funeral.
"I don't like the swamp, with or without ghosts," Sachs said.
"Yeah?" Garrett said. "Maybe you'll get to like it. Someday."
He led her along a road and after ten minutes he turned down a short, overgrown driveway. There was an old trailer sitting in a clearing. In the gloom she couldn't see clearly but it seemed to be a ramshackle place, leaning to the side, rusted, tires flat and overgrown with ivy and moss.
"This is yours?"
"Well, nobody's lived here for years so I guess it's mine. I have a key but it's at home. I didn't have a chance to get it." He went around to the side and managed to open a window, boosted himself up and through it. A moment later the door opened.
She wal
ked inside. Garrett was rummaging through a cabinet in the tiny kitchen. He found some matches and lit a propane lantern. It gave off a warm, yellow glow. He opened another cabinet, peered inside.
"I had some Doritos but the mice got 'em." He pulled out some Tupperware and examined it. "Chewed right through. Shit. But I've got Farmer John macaroni. It's good. I eat it all the time. And some beans too." He started opening cans as Sachs looked around the trailer. A few chairs, a table. In the bedroom she could see a dingy mattress. There was a thick mat and a pillow on the living room floor. The trailer itself radiated poverty: broken doors and fixtures, bullet holes in the walls, windows broken, carpet stained beyond cleaning. In her days as a patrol officer for the NYPD she'd seen many sad places like this--but always from the outside; now this was her temporary home.
Thinking of Lucy's words from that morning.
Normal rules don't apply to anybody north of the Paquo. Us or them. You can see yourself shooting before you read anybody their rights and that'd be perfectly all right.
Remembering the stunning blasts of the shotgun, intended for her and Garrett.
The boy hung pieces of greasy cloth over the windows to keep anyone from seeing the light inside. He stepped outside for a moment then came back with a rusty cup, filled, presumably, with rainwater. He held it out to her. She shook her head. "Feel like I drank half the Paquenoke."
"This's better."
"I'm sure it is. I'll still pass."
He drank the contents of the cup and then stirred the food as it heated on the small propane stove. In a soft voice he sang an eerie tune over and over, "Farmer John, Farmer John. Enjoy it fresh from Farmer John. ..." It was nothing more than an advertising jingle but the chant was unsettling and she was glad when he stopped.
Sachs was going to pass on the food but she realized suddenly that she was famished. Garrett poured the contents into two bowls and handed her a spoon. She spit on the utensil and wiped it on her shirt. They ate for a few minutes in silence.
Sachs noticed a sound outside, a raucous, high-pitched noise. "What's that?" she asked. "Cicadas?"
"Yeah," he said. "It's just the males make that noise. Only the males. Make all that noise just from these little plates on their body." He squinted, reflected for a moment. "They live this totally weird life.... The nymphs dig into the ground and stay there for, like, twenty years before they hatch. Then they come out and climb a tree. Their skin splits down the back and the adult crawls out. All those years in the ground, just hiding, before they come out and become adults."
"Why do you like insects so much, Garrett?" Sachs asked.
He hesitated. "I don't know. I just do."
"Haven't you ever wondered about it?"
He stopped eating. Scratched one of his poison oak welts. "I guess I got interested in them after my parents died. After that happened I was pretty unhappy. I felt funny in my head a lot. Confused and, I don't know, just different. The counselors at school just said it was because Mom and Dad and my sister died and they, like, told me I should work harder to get over it. But I couldn't. I just felt like I wasn't a real person. I didn't care about anything. All I did was lie in bed or go into the swamp or the woods and read. For a year that's all I did. Like, I hardly saw anybody. Just moved from foster home to foster home.... But then I read something neat. In that book there."
Flipping open The Miniature World, he found a page. He showed it to her. He'd circled a passage headed Characteristics of Healthy Living Creatures. Sachs scanned it, read several of the list of eight or nine entries.
--A healthy creature strives to grow and develop.
--A healthy creature strives to survive.
--A healthy creature strives to adapt to its environment.
Garrett said, "I read that and it was like, wow, I could be like that. I could be healthy and normal again. I tried totally hard to follow the rules it said. And that made me feel better. So I guess I felt close to them--insects, I mean."
A mosquito landed on her arm. She laughed. "But they also drink your blood." She slapped it. "Got him."
"Her," Garrett corrected. "It's just the females drink blood. The males drink nectar."
"Really?"
He nodded then grew quiet for a moment. Looked at the dot of blood on her arm. "Insects never go away."
"What do you mean?"
He found another passage in the book and read aloud, "'If any creature could be called immortal it is the insect, which inhabited the earth millions of years before the advent of mammals and which will be here on earth long after intelligent life has vanished.' "Garrett put the book down and looked up at her. "See, the thing is, if you kill one there're always more. If my mom and dad and sister were insects and they died there'd be others just like them and I wouldn't be alone."
"Don't you have any friends?"
Garrett shrugged. "Mary Beth. She's sort of the only one."
"You really like her, don't you?"
"Totally. She saved me from this kid who was going to do something shitty to me. And, I mean, she talks to me. ..." He thought for a moment. "I guess that's what I like about her. Talking. I was thinking, like, maybe in a few years, when I'm older, she might wanta go out with me. We could do things like other people do. You know, go to movies. Or go on picnics. I was watching her on a picnic once. She was with her mother and some friends. They were having fun. I watched for, like, hours. I just sat under a holly bush with some water and Doritos and pretended I was with them. You ever go on a picnic?"
"I have, sure."
"I went with my family a lot. I mean, my real family. I liked it. Mom and Kaye'd set the table and cook stuff on this little grill from Kmart. Dad and me'd take our shoes and socks off and stand in the water to fish. I remember what the mud felt like and the cold water."
Sachs wondered if that was why he liked water and water insects so much. "And you thought you and Mary Beth would go on picnics?"
"I don't know. Maybe." Then he shook his head and offered a sad smile. "I guess not. Mary Beth's pretty and smart and a bunch older than me. She'll end up with somebody who's handsome and smart. But maybe we could be friends, her and me. But even if not, all I really care about is she's okay. She'll stay with me till it's safe. Or you and your friend, that man in the wheelchair everybody was talking about, you can help her go someplace where she'd be safe." He looked out the window and fell silent.
"Safe from the man in the overalls?" she asked.
He didn't answer for a moment then nodded. "Yeah. That's right."
"I'm going to get some of that water," Sachs said.
"Wait," he said. He tore some dry leaves off a small branch resting on the kitchen counter, told her to rub her bare arms and neck and cheeks with it. It gave off a strong herbal smell. "Citronella plant," he explained. "Keeps the mosquitoes away. You won't have to swat 'em anymore."
Sachs picked up the cup. She went outside, looked at the rainwater barrel. It was covered with a fine screen. Lifted it, filled the cup and drank. The water seemed sweet. She listened to the creaks and zips of the insects.
Or you and your friend, that man in the wheelchair everybody was talking about, you can help her go someplace where she'd be safe.
The phrase echoed in her head: The man in the wheelchair, the man in the wheelchair.
She returned to the trailer. Set down the cup. Looked around the tiny living room. "Garrett, would you do me a favor?"
"I guess."
"You trust me?"
"I guess."
"Go sit over there."
He looked at her for a moment then stood and walked to the old armchair she was nodding at. Sachs walked across the tiny room and picked up one of the rattan chairs in the corner. She carried it to where the boy sat and placed it on the floor, facing him.
"Garrett, you remember what Dr. Penny was telling you to do in jail? About the empty chair?"
"Talk to the chair?" he asked, eyeing it uncertainly. He nodded. "That game."
"That's r
ight. I want you to do it again. Will you?"
He hesitated, wiped his hands on the legs of his pants. Stared at the chair for a moment. Finally he said, "I guess."
... chapter thirty-one
Amelia Sachs was thinking back to the interrogation room and the session with the psychologist.
From her vantage point Sachs had watched the boy closely through the one-way mirror. She remembered how the doctor had tried to get him to imagine that Mary Beth was in the chair but that, while Garrett hadn't wanted to say anything to her, he did want to talk to somebody. She'd seen a look in his face, a longing, disappointment--and anger too, she believed--when the doctor turned him away from where he wanted to go.
Oh, Rhyme, I understand that you like hard, cold evidence. That we can't depend on those "soft" things--on words and expressions and tears and the look in someone's eyes as we sit across from them and listen to their stories But that doesn't mean those stories are always false. I believe there's more to Garrett Hanlon than the evidence tells us.
"Look at the chair," she said. "Who do you want to imagine sitting there?"
He shook his head. "I don't know."
She pushed the chair closer. Smiled to encourage him. "Tell me. It's okay. A girl? Somebody at school?"
He shook his head once more.
"Tell me."
"Well, I don't know. Maybe ..." After a pause he blurted: "Maybe my father."
Sachs remembered, with irritation, the cold eyes and crude manners of Hal Babbage. She supposed that Garrett would have a lot to say to him.
"Just your father? Or both him and Mrs. Babbage?"
"No, no, not him. I mean, my real father."
"Your real father?"
Garrett nodded. He was agitated, nervous. Clicking his nails frequently.
Insects' antennas show their moods ...
Looking at his troubled face, Sachs realized with concern that she had no idea what she was doing. There were surely all sorts of things psychologists did to draw patients out, to guide them, to protect them when they practiced any type of therapy. Was there a chance that she would make Garrett worse? Push him over a line so that he actually would do something violent and hurt himself or someone else? Nonetheless, she was going to try it. Sachs's nickname in the New York City Police Department was P.D.--for "the portable's daughter," the child of a beat patrolman--and she definitely took after her old man: his love of cars, love of police work, impatience with bullshit and especially his talent for street-cop psychology. Lincoln Rhyme disparaged her being a "people cop" and warned that it would be her downfall. He extolled her talent as a criminalist and, though she was a talented forensic scientist, in her heart she was just like her father; for Amelia Sachs the best type of evidence was that found in the human heart.
The Empty Chair Page 28
