The Empty Chair

by Jeffery Deaver

  Noises...

  On the roof, on the porch, in the woods.

  She didn't know what time it was. She was afraid to even push the light button on her wristwatch to glimpse the face--out of the crazy fear that the flash would somehow beckon to her attackers.

  Exhausted. Too tired even to wonder again why this had happened to her, what she might have done to prevent it.

  No good deed goes unpunished...

  She stared out at the field in front of the cabin, now completely black. The window was like a frame around her fate: Whom would it show approaching through the field? Her killers or her rescuers?

  She listened.

  What was that noise: A branch on bark? Or the rasp of a match?

  What was that dot of light in the woods: A firefly, or a campfire?

  That motion: A deer goaded to run by the scent of bobcat or the Missionary and his friend settling in around the fire to drink beer and eat food then prowl through the woods to come for her and satisfy their bodies in other ways?

  Mary Beth McConnell couldn't tell. Tonight, as in so much of life, she sensed only ambiguity.

  You find relics of long-dead settlers but you wonder if maybe your theory is completely wrong.

  Your father dies of cancer--a long, wasting death that the doctors say is inevitable but you think: Maybe it wasn't.

  Two men are out there in the woods, planning to rape and kill you.

  But maybe not.

  Maybe they've given up. Maybe they're passed out on moonshine. Or were scared off at the thought of the consequences, deciding that their fat wives or callused hands are safer, or easier, than what they had planned with her.

  Spread-eagle at your place...

  A sharp crack filled the night. She jumped at the sound. A gunshot. It seemed to come from where she'd seen the firelight. A moment later there was a second shot. Closer.

  Breathing heavily in fear, gripping the coup stick. Unable to look out the black window, unable not to. Terrified that she'd see Tom's pasty face appearing slowly in the frame, grinning. We'll be back.

  The wind was up, bending the trees, the brush, the grass.

  She thought she heard a man laughing, the sound soon lost in the hollow wind like the call of one of the Manitou spirits of the Weapemeocs.

  She thought she heard a man calling, "Get yourself ready, get yourself ready...."

  But maybe not.

  "You hear shots?" Rich Culbeau asked Harris Tomel.

  They sat around a dying campfire. They were uneasy and not nearly as drunk as if this'd been a normal hunting trip, not nearly as drunk as they wanted to be. The 'shine just wasn't taking.

  "Pistol," Tomel said. "Large caliber. Ten millimeter or a .44, .45. Automatic."

  "Bullshit," Culbeau said. "You can't tell it's an automatic or not."

  "Can," Tomel lectured. "A revolver's louder--because of the gap between the cylinder and the barrel. Logical."

  "Bullshit," Culbeau repeated. Then asked, "How far?"

  "Humid air. It's night ... I make it four, five miles." Tomel sighed. "I want this thing to be over with. I'm sick of it."

  "I hear that," Culbeau said. "Was easier in Tanner's Corner. Getting complicated now."

  "Damn bugs," Tomel said, swatting a mosquito.

  "Whatta you think somebody's shooting for this time of night? It's almost one."

  "Raccoon in the garbage, black bear in a tent, man humping somebody else's wife."

  Culbeau nodded. "Look--Sean's asleep. That man sleeps anytime, anyplace." He kicked through the embers to cool them.

  "He's on fucking medication."

  "He is? I didn't know that."

  "That's why he sleeps anytime, anyplace. He's acting funny, don'tcha think?" Tomel asked, glancing at the skinny man as if he were a snoozing snake.

  "Liked him better when you couldn't figure him out. Now he's all serious, it scares the shit outa me. Holding that gun like it's his dick and all."

  "You're right 'bout that," Tomel muttered then stared into the murky forest for several minutes. He sighed then said, "Hey, you got the Six-Twelve? I'm getting eaten alive here. And hand me that bottle of 'shine while you're at it."

  Amelia Sachs opened her eyes at the sound of the pistol shot.

  She looked into the bedroom of the trailer, where Garrett was asleep on the mattress. He hadn't heard the noise.

  Another shot.

  Why was somebody shooting this late? she wondered.

  The shots reminded her of the incident on the river-- Lucy and the others firing at the boat they thought Sachs and Garrett were under. She pictured the geysers of water flying into the air from the stunning shotgun blasts.

  She listened carefully but heard no more shots. Heard nothing other than the wind. And the cicadas, of course.

  They live this totally weird life.... The nymphs dig into the ground and stay there for, like, twenty years before they hatch. ... All those years in the ground, just hiding, before they come out and become adults.

  But soon her mind was occupied once again with what she'd been considering before the gunshots interrupted her thoughts.

  Amelia Sachs had been thinking of an empty chair.

  Not Dr. Penny's therapy technique. Or what Garrett had told her about his father and that terrible night five years ago. No, she was thinking of a different chair--Lincoln Rhyme's red Storm Arrow wheelchair.

  That's what they were doing down here in North Carolina, after all. Rhyme was risking everything, his life, what was left of his health, his and Sachs's life together, so that he could move closer to climbing out of that chair. Leaving it behind him, empty.

  And, lying here in this foul trailer, a felon, alone in her own knuckle time, Amelia Sachs finally admitted to herself what had troubled her so about Rhyme's insistence on the operation. Of course, she was worried that he'd die on the table. Or that the operation would make him worse. Or that it wouldn't work at all and he'd be plunged into depression.

  But those weren't her main fears. That wasn't why she'd done everything she could to stop him from having the operation. No, no--what scared her the most was that the operation would succeed.

  Oh, Rhyme, don't you understand? I don't want you to change. I love you the way you are. If you were like everyone else what would happen to us?

  You say, "It'll always be you and me, Sachs." But the you and me is based on who we are now. Me and my bloody nails and my itchy need to move, move, move... You and your damaged body and elegant mind that roams faster and further than I ever could in my stripped and rigged Camaro.

  That mind of yours that holds me tighter than the most passionate lover ever could.

  And if you become normal again? When you're your own arms and legs, Rhyme, then why would you want me? Why would you need me? I'd become just another portable, a beat cop with some talent for forensics. You'll meet another one of the treacherous women who've derailed your life in the past--another selfish wife, another married lover--and you'll fade away from me the way Lucy Kerr's husband left after her surgery.

  I want you the way you are...

  She actually shuddered at how appallingly selfish this thought was. Yet she couldn't deny it.

  Stay in your chair, Rhyme! I don't want it empty.... I want a life with you, a life the way it's always been. I want children with you, children who'll grow up to know you exactly the way you are.

  Amelia Sachs found she was staring at the black ceiling. She closed her eyes. But it was an hour later before the sound of the wind and the cicadas, their thoracic plates singing like monotonous violins, finally seduced her to sleep.

  ... chapter thirty-three

  Sachs woke just after dawn to the droning noise--which in her dream had been placid locusts but turned out to be her Casio wristwatch's alarm. She clicked it off.

  Her body was in agony, an arthritic's response to sleeping on a thin pad over a riveted, metal floor.

  But she felt oddly buoyant. Low sunlight streamed through the windows
of the trailer and she took this as a good omen. Today they were going to find Mary Beth McConnell and return to Tanner's Corner with her. She'd confirm Garrett's story and Jim Bell and Lucy Kerr could start the search for the real killer--the man in the tan overalls.

  She watched Garrett awaken in the bedroom and roll upright on the saggy mattress. With his lengthy fingers he combed his mussed hair into place. He looks just like any other teenager in the morning, she thought. Gangly and cute and sleepy. About to get dressed, about to take the bus to school and see his friends, to learn things in class, to flirt with girls, toss footballs. Watching him look around groggily for his shirt, she noticed his skinny frame and worried about getting him some good food--cereal, milk, fruit--and washing his clothes, making sure he took a shower. This, she thought, is what it would be like to have children of your own. Not to borrow youngsters from friends for a few hours--like her goddaughter, Amy's girl. But to be there every day when they wake up, with their messy rooms and difficult adolescent attitudes, to fix them meals, to buy them clothes, to argue with them, to take care of them. To be the hub of their lives.

  "Morning." She smiled.

  He smiled back. "We gotta go," he said. "Gotta get to Mary Beth. Been away from her for too long. She's got to be totally scared and thirsty."

  Sachs climbed unsteadily to her feet.

  He glanced at his chest, at the poison oak splotches, and seemed embarrassed. He pulled his shin on quickly. "I'm going outside. Have to, you know, take care of business. And I'm gonna leave a couple of empty hornets' nests around. Might slow 'em up--if they come this way." Garrett stepped outside but returned just a moment later. He left a cup of water on the table beside her. Said shyly: "This's for you." He stepped out again.

  She drank it down. Longing for a toothbrush and time for a shower. Maybe when they got to--

  "It's him!" a man's voice called in a whisper.

  Sachs froze, looked out the window. She saw nothing. But from a tall stand of bushes near the trailer the forced whisper continued, "I've got him in my sights. I've got a clear shot."

  The voice was familiar and she decided it sounded like Culbeau's friend, Sean O'Sarian. The skinny one. The redneck trio had found them--they were going to kill the boy or torture him into telling where Mary Beth was so they could get the reward.

  Garrett hadn't heard the voice. Sachs could see him-- he was about thirty feet away, setting an empty hornets' nest on the trail. She heard footsteps in the bushes pushing forward toward the clearing where the boy was.

  She grabbed the Smith & Wesson and stepped quietly outside. She crouched, motioning desperately to Garrett. He didn't see her.

  The footsteps in the bushes grew closer.

  "Garrett," she whispered.

  He turned, saw Sachs motioning for him to join her. He frowned, seeing the urgency in her eyes. Then he glanced to his left, into the bushes, and she saw terror blossom in his face. He held his hands out, a defensive gesture. He cried, "Don't hurt me, don't hurt me, don't hurt me!"

  Sachs dropped into a crouch, curled her finger around the trigger, cocked the pistol and aimed toward the bushes.

  It happened so quickly ...

  Garrett falling to his belly in fear, crying out, "Don't, don't!"

  Amelia lifting her pistol, two-handed combat stance, pressure on the trigger, waiting for a target to present...

  The man bursting from the bushes into the clearing, gun raised toward Garrett.... Just as Deputy Ned Spoto turned the corner of the trailer right beside Sachs, blinked in surprise and leapt toward her, arms outstretched. Startled, Sachs stumbled away from him. Her weapon fired, bucking hard in her hand.

  And thirty feet away--beyond the faint cloud of smoke from the muzzle--she saw the bullet from her gun strike the forehead of the man who'd been in the bushes--not Sean O'Sarian at all but Jesse Corn. A black dot appeared above the young deputy's eye and, as his head jerked back, a horrible pink cloud puffed out behind him. Without a sound he dropped straight to the ground.

  Sachs gasped, staring at the body, which twitched once and then lay completely still. She was breathless. She dropped to her knees, the gun tumbling from her hand.

  "Oh, Jesus," Ned muttered, also staring in shock at the body. Before the deputy could recover and draw his gun, Garrett rushed him. The boy snagged Sachs's pistol from the ground and pointed it at Ned's head, then took the deputy's weapon and flung it into the bushes.

  "Lie down!" Garrett raged at him. "On your face!"

  "You killed him, you killed him," Ned muttered.

  "Now!"

  Ned did as he was told, tears running down his tanned cheeks.

  "Jesse!" Lucy Kerr's voice called from nearby. "Where are you? Who's shooting?"

  "No, no, no ..." Sachs moaned. Watching an astonishing amount of blood pour from the dead deputy's shattered skull.

  Garrett Hanlon glanced at Jesse's body. Then past it-- toward the sound of approaching feet. He put his arm around Sachs. "We have to go."

  When she didn't answer, when she simply stared, completely numb, at the scene in front of her--the end of the deputy's life, and the end of her own--Garrett her helped her to her feet then took her hand and pulled her after him. They vanished into the woods.

  IV

  Hornets' Nest

  ... chapter thirty-four

  What was happening now? a frantic Lincoln Rhyme wondered.

  An hour ago, at five-thirty A.M., he'd finally gotten a call from a very put-out drone in the Real Estate Division of the North Carolina Department of Taxation. The man had been awakened at one-thirty and given the assignment of tracking down delinquent taxes on any land on which a claimed residence was a McPherson trailer. Rhyme had first checked to see if Garrett's parents had owned one and--when he learned they hadn't--reasoned that if the boy was using the place as a hideout it was abandoned. And if it was abandoned the owner had defaulted on the taxes.

  The assistant director told him there'd been two such properties in the state. In one case, near the Blue Ridge, to the west, the land and trailer had been sold at a tax lien foreclosure to a couple who currently lived there. The other, on an acre in Paquenoke County, wasn't worth the time or money to foreclose on. He'd given Rhyme the address, an RFD route about a half mile from the Paquenoke River. Location C-6 on the map.

  Rhyme had called Lucy and the others and sent them there. They were going to approach at first light and, if Garrett and Amelia were inside, surround them and talk them into surrendering.

  The last Rhyme had heard they'd spotted the trailer and were moving in slowly.

  Unhappy that his boss had gotten virtually no sleep, Thom sent Ben out of the room and went through the morning ritual carefully. The four Bs: bladder, bowel, brushing teeth and blood pressure.

  "It's high, Lincoln," Thom muttered, putting away the sphygmomanometer. Excessive blood pressure in a quad could lead to an attack of dysreflexia, which in turn could result in a stroke. But Rhyme didn't pay any attention. He was riding on pure energy. He wanted desperately to find Amelia. He wanted--

  Rhyme looked up. Jim Bell, an alarmed expression on his face, walked through the doorway. Ben Kerr, equally upset, entered behind him.

  "What happened?" Rhyme asked. "Is she all right? Is Amelia--"

  "She killed Jesse," Bell said in a whisper. "Shot him in the head."

  Thom froze. Glanced at Rhyme. The sheriff continued, "He was about to arrest Garrett. She shot him. They took off."

  "No, it's impossible," Rhyme whispered. "There's a mistake. Somebody else did it."

  But Bell was shaking his head. "No. Ned Spoto was there. He saw the whole thing.... I'm not saying she did it on purpose--Ned went for her and her gun went off--but it's still felony murder."

  Oh, my God ...

  Amelia ... second-generation cop, the Portable's Daughter. And now she'd killed one of her own. The worst crime a police officer could commit.

  "This's way past us now, Lincoln. I've got to get the state involved." />
  "Wait, Jim," Rhyme said urgently. "Please.... She's desperate now, she's scared. So's Garrett. You call in troopers, a lot more people're going to get hurt. They'll be gunning for them both."

  "Well, apparently they oughta be gunning for them," Bell spat back. "And looks like they shoulda been from the git-go."

  "I'll find them for you. I'm close." Rhyme nodded toward the evidence chart and map.

  "I gave you one chance and look what happened."

  "I'll find them and I'll talk her into surrendering. I know I can. I'll--"

  Suddenly Bell was jostled aside and a man rushed into the room. It was Mason Germain. "You fucking son of a bitch!" he cried and made right for Rhyme. Thom stepped in the way but the deputy flung aside the thin man. He rolled to the floor. Mason grabbed Rhyme by the shirt. "You fucking freak! You come down here and play your little--"

  "Mason!" Bell started forward but the deputy shoved him aside again.

  "--play your little games with the evidence--your little puzzles. And now a good man's dead because of you!" Rhyme smelled the man's potent aftershave as the deputy drew his fist back. The criminalist cringed and turned his face away.

  "I'm going to kill you. I'm going to--" But Mason's voice was choked off as a huge arm wrapped around his chest and he was lifted clean off the floor.

  Ben Kerr carried the deputy away from Rhyme.

  "Kerr, goddamn it, let go of me!" Mason gasped. "You asshole! You're under arrest!"

  "Calm yourself down, Deputy," the big man said slowly.

  Mason was reaching for his pistol but with his other hand Ben clamped down hard on the man's wrist. Ben looked at Bell, who waited a moment then nodded. Ben released the deputy, who stood back, fury in his eyes. He said to Bell, "I'm going out there and I'm finding that woman and I'm--"

  "You are not, Mason," Bell said. "You want to keep working in this department you'll do what I tell you. We're going to handle it my way. You're staying in the office here. You understand?"

  "Son of a bitch, Jim. She--"

  "Do you understand me?"

  "Yeah, I fucking understand you." He stormed out of the lab.

  Bell asked Rhyme, "You all right?" Rhyme nodded.