There was a grim-faced woman with him, pretty, with long red hair. Her clothes, like Garrett's, were filthy. The woman was silent, her eyes dull. She didn't seem the least bit startled by the girl's sudden appearance. She looked drugged.
"Goddamn," the Missionary's voice called. "You fucking bitch!" He turned the corner and found Garrett aiming the pistol at his face. The boy screamed, "Who're you? What'd you do to my house? What'd you do to Mary Beth?"
"She attacked us! Look at my friend. Look at--"
"Throw that away," Garrett raged. Nodding at the man's pistol. "Throw it away or I'll kill you! I will. I'll blow your fucking head off!"
The Missionary looked at the boy's face and the gun. Garrett cocked his pistol. "Jesus ..." The man pitched the revolver into the grass.
"Now get outa here! Move."
The Missionary backed away then helped Tom to his feet and they staggered off toward the trees.
Garrett walked toward the front door of the cabin, pulling Mary Beth after him. "Into the house! We have to get in. They're after us. We can't let them see us. We'll hide in the cellar. Look what they did to the locks! They broke my door!"
"No, Garrett!" Mary Beth said in a rasping voice. "I'm not going back in there."
But he said nothing and pulled her into the cabin. The silent redhead walked unsteadily inside. Garrett shoved the door closed, looking at the shattered wood, the broken locks, dismay on his face. "No!" he cried, seeing shards of glass on the floor--from the jar that had held the dinosaur beetle.
Mary Beth, appalled that the boy seemed the most upset that one of his bugs had escaped, strode up to Garrett and slapped him hard on the face. He blinked in surprise and staggered backward. "You prick!" she screamed. "They could've killed me."
The boy was flustered. "I'm sorry!" His voice cracked. "I didn't know about them. I thought there was nobody around here. I didn't mean to leave you this long. I got arrested."
He shoved splinters under the door to wedge it shut.
"Arrested?" Mary Beth asked. "Then what're you doing here?"
Finally the redhead spoke. In a mumbling voice she said, "I got him out of jail. So we could find you and bring you back. And you could back up his story about the man in the overalls."
"What man?" Mary Beth asked, confused.
"At Blackwater Landing. The man in the tan overalls, the one who killed Billy Stail."
"But..." She shook her head. "Garrett killed Billy. He hit him with a shovel. I saw him. It happened right in front of me. Then he kidnapped me."
Mary Beth had never seen such an expression on another human being. Complete shock and dismay. The redhead started to turn toward Garrett but then something caught her eye: the rows of Farmer John canned fruits and vegetables. She walked slowly toward the table, as if she were sleepwalking, and picked one up. Stared at the picture on the label--a cheerful blond farmer wearing tan overalls and a white shirt.
"You made it up?" she whispered to Garrett, holding the can up. "There was no man. You lied to me."
Garrett stepped forward, fast as a grasshopper, and pulled a pair of handcuffs off the redhead's belt. He ratcheted them onto her wrists.
"I'm sorry, Amelia," he said. "But if I'd told you the truth you never would've got me out. It was the only way. I had to get back here. I had to get back to Mary Beth."
... chapter thirty-six
FOUND AT THE SECONDARY CRIME SCENE--MILL
Brown Paint on Pants
Sundew Plant
Clay
Peat Moss
Fruit Juice
Paper Fibers
Stinkball Bait
Sugar
Camphene
Alcohol
Kerosene
Yeast
Obsessively Lincoln Rhyme's eyes scanned the evidence chart. Top to bottom, bottom to top.
Then again.
Why the hell was the damn chromatograph taking so long? he wondered.
Jim Bell and Mason Germain sat nearby, both silent. Lucy had called in a few minutes before to say that they'd lost the trail and were waiting north of the trailer--at Location C-5.
The chromatograph rumbled and everyone in the room remained still, waiting for the results.
Silence for long minutes, finally broken by Ben Kerr's voice. He spoke to Rhyme in a soft voice. "They used to call me it, you know. What you're probably thinking."
Rhyme looked over at him.
"'Big Ben.' Like the clock in England. You were probably wondering."
"I wasn't. In school, you mean?"
A nod. "High school. I hit six-three and two-fifty when I was sixteen. I got made fun of a lot. 'Big Ben.' Other names too. So I never felt real comfortable with the way I looked. Think maybe that was why I acted kinda funny seeing you at first."
"Kids gave you a tough time, did they?" Rhyme asked, both acknowledging and deflecting the apology.
"They sure did. Until I took up junior varsity wrestling and pinned Darryl Tennison in three-point-two seconds and it took him a lot longer than that to get his wind back."
"I skipped RE. class a lot," Rhyme told him. "I forged excuses from my doctor, my parents--pretty good ones, I will say--and snuck into the science lab."
"You did that?"
"Twice a week at least."
"And you did experiments?"
"Read a lot, played around with the equipment. ... A few times, I played around with Sonja Metzger."
Thom and Ben laughed.
But Sonja, his first girlfriend, put him in mind of Amelia Sachs and he didn't like where those thoughts were headed.
"Okay," Ben said. "Here we go." The computer screen had burst to life with the results of the control sample Rhyme had asked Jim Bell to procure. The big man nodded. "Here's what we've got: Solution of fifty-five percent alcohol. Water, lot of minerals."
"Well water," Rhyme said.
"Most likely." The zoologist continued, "Then there're traces of formaldehyde, phenol, fructose, dextrose, cellulose."
"That's good enough for me," Rhyme announced. Thinking: The fish may still be out of water but it's just grown lungs. He announced to Bell and Mason, "I made a mistake. A big one. I saw the yeast and I assumed it'd come from the mill, not the place where Garrett really has Mary Beth. But why would a mill have supplies of yeast? You'd only find those in a bakery ... Or"--he lifted his eyebrow to Bell--"someplace they're brewing that." He nodded at the bottle that sat on the table. The liquid inside was what Rhyme had just asked Bell to collect from the basement of the Sheriff's Department. It was 110-proof moonshine--from one of the juice bottles that Rhyme had seen a deputy clear away when he'd taken over the evidence room and turned it into a lab. This is what Ben had just sampled in the chromatograph.
"Sugar and yeast," the criminalist continued. "Those're ingredients in liquor. And the cellulose in that batch of moonshine," Rhyme continued, looking at the computer screen, "is probably from the paper fibers--I assume when you make moonshine, you have to filter it."
"Yep," Bell confirmed. "And most 'shiners use off-the-shelf coffee filters."
"Just like the fiber we found on Garrett's clothes. And the dextrose and fructose--complex sugars found in fruit. That's from the fruit juice left over in the jar. Ben said it was tart--like cranberry juice. And you told me, Jim, that's the most popular container for moonshine. Right?"
"Ocean Spray."
"So," Rhyme summarized, "Garrett's holding Mary Beth in a moonshiner's cabin--presumably one that's been abandoned since the raid."
"What raid?" Mason asked.
"Well, it's like the trailer," Rhyme replied shortly, hating as always to have to explain the obvious. "If Garrett's using the place to hide Mary Beth then it has to be abandoned. And what's the only reason anybody'd abandon a working still?"
"Department of revenue busted it," Bell said.
"Right," Rhyme said. "Get on the phone and find out the location of any stills that've been raided in the past couple of years. It'll be a nineteenth-
century building in a stand of trees and painted brown--though it may not have been when it got raided. It's four or five miles from where Frank Heller lives and it'll be on a Carolina bay or you'll have to go around a bay to get there from the Paquo."
Bell left to call the revenue department.
"That's pretty good, Lincoln," Ben said. Even Mason Germain seemed impressed.
A moment later Bell hurried back into the room. "Got it!" He examined the sheet of paper in his hand then began tracing directions on the map, ending at Location B-4. He circled a spot. "Right here. Head of investigations at revenue said it was a big operation. They raided it a year ago and busted up the still. One of his agents checked out the place a couple, three months ago and saw that somebody'd painted it brown so he looked it over good to see if it was being used again. But he said it was empty so he didn't pay any more mind. Oh, and it's about twenty yards from a good-sized Carolina bay."
"Is there any way to get a car in there?" Rhyme asked.
"Has to be," Bell said. "All stills're near roads--to bring the supplies in and get the finished 'shine out."
Rhyme nodded and said firmly, "I need an hour alone with her--to talk her out. I know I can do it."
"It's risky, Lincoln."
"I want that hour," Rhyme said, holding Bell's eye.
Finally Bell said, "Okay. But if Garrett gets away this time it's gonna be a full-out manhunt."
"Understood. You think my van can make it there?"
Bell said, "Roads aren't great but--"
"I'll get you there," Thom said firmly. "Whatever it takes, I'll get you there."
Five minutes after Rhyme had wheeled out of the County Building, Mason Germain watched Jim Bell return to his office. He waited a moment and, making sure no one saw him, he stepped into the corridor and headed toward the front door of the building.
There were dozens of phones in the County Building Mason could have used to make his call but instead he pushed outside into the heat and walked quickly across the quadrangle to a bank of pay phones on the sidewalk. He fished into his pockets and dug out some coins. He looked around and when he saw he was alone he dropped them in, looked at a number on a slip of paper and punched in the digits.
Farmer John, Farmer John. Enjoy it fresh from Farmer John.... Farmer John, Farmer John. Enjoy it fresh from Farmer John....
Staring at the row of cans in front of her, a dozen overall-clad farmers staring back with mocking smiles, Amelia Sachs's mind was clogged with this inane jingle, the anthem for her foolishness.
Which had cost Jesse Corn his life. And had ruined hers as well.
She was only vaguely aware of the cabin where she now sat, a prisoner of the boy she'd risked her life to save. And of the angry exchange now going on between Garrett and Mary Beth.
No, all she could see was that tiny black dot appearing in Jesse's forehead.
All she could hear was the singsong jingle. Farmer John ... Farmer John ...
Then suddenly Sachs understood something: Occasionally Lincoln Rhyme would, mentally, go away. He might converse but his words were superficial, he might smile but it was false, he might appear to listen but he wasn't hearing a word. At moments like that, she knew, he was considering dying. He'd be thinking about finding someone from an assisted-suicide group like the Lethe Society to help him. Or even, as some severely disabled people had done, actually hiring a hit man. (Rhyme, who'd contributed to the jailing of a number of OC--organized crime--mobsters, obviously had some connections there. In fact, there were probably a few who'd gladly do the job for free.)
But until this moment--with her own life now as shattered as Rhyme's, no, more shattered--she'd always thought he was wrong in that thinking. Now, though, she understood how he felt.
"No!" Garrett called, leaping up and cocking his ear toward the window.
You have to listen all the time. Otherwise they can sneak up on you.
Then Sachs heard it too. A car was slowly approaching.
"They've found us!" the boy cried, gripping the pistol. He ran to the window, stared out. He seemed confused. "What's that?" he whispered.
A door slammed. Then there was a long pause.
And she heard, "Sachs. It's me."
A faint smile crossed her face. No one else in the universe could have found this place except Lincoln Rhyme.
"Sachs, are you there?"
"No!" Garrett whispered. "Don't say anything!"
Ignoring him, Sachs rose and walked to a broken window. There, in front of the cabin, resting unevenly on a dirt driveway, was the black Rollx van. Rhyme, in the Storm Arrow, had maneuvered close to the cabin--as far as he could get until a hillock of dirt near the porch stopped him. Thom stood beside him.
"Hello, Rhyme," she said.
"Quiet!" the boy whispered harshly.
"Can I talk to you?" the criminalist called.
What was the point? she wondered. Still, she said, "Yes."
She walked to the door and said to Garrett, "Open it. I'm going outside."
"No, it's a trick," the boy said. "They'll attack--"
"Open the door, Garrett," she said firmly, her eyes boring into his. He looked around the room. Then bent down and pulled the wedges out from the doorjamb. Sachs opened the door, the cuffs on her stiff wrists jingling like sleigh bells.
"He did it, Rhyme," she said, sitting down on the porch steps in front of him. "He killed Billy.... I got it wrong. Dead wrong."
The criminalist closed his eyes. What horror she must be feeling, he thought. He looked at her carefully, her pale face, her stony eyes. He asked, "Is Mary Beth okay?"
"She's fine. Scared but fine."
"She saw him do it?"
Sachs nodded.
"There wasn't any man in overalls?" he asked.
"No. Garrett made that up. So I'd break him out. He had it all planned from the beginning. Leading us off to the Outer Banks. He had a boat hidden, supplies. He'd planned what to do if the deputies got close. Even had a safe house--that trailer you found. The key, right? That I found in the wasp jar? That's how you tracked us down."
"It was the key," Rhyme confirmed.
"I should've thought of that. We should've stayed someplace else."
He saw she was cuffed and noticed Garrett in the window, peering out angrily, holding a pistol. This was now a hostage situation; Garrett wasn't going to come out willingly. It was time to call the FBI. Rhyme had a friend, Arthur Potter, now retired, but still the best hostage negotiator the bureau ever had. He lived in Washington, D.C., and could be here in a few hours.
He turned back to Sachs. "And Jesse Corn?"
She shook her head. "I didn't know it was him, Rhyme. I thought it was one of Culbeau's friends. A deputy jumped me and my weapon went off. But it was my fault--I acquired an unidentified target with an unsafetied weapon. I broke rule number one."
"I'll get you the best lawyer in the country."
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters, Sachs. It matters. We'll get something worked out."
She shook her head. "There's nothing to work out, Rhyme. It's felony murder. Open-and-shut case." Then she was looking up, past him. Frowning. She stood. "What's--?"
Suddenly a woman's voice called, "Hold it right there! Amelia, you're under arrest."
Rhyme tried to turn but couldn't rotate his head far enough. He puffed into the controller and backed up in a semicircle. He saw Lucy and two other deputies, crouching as they ran from the woods. Their weapons were in their hands and they kept their eyes on the windows of the cabin. The two men used trees for cover. But Lucy walked boldly toward Rhyme, Thom and Sachs, her pistol leveled at Sachs's chest.
How had the search party found the cabin? Had they heard the van? Had Lucy picked up Garrett's trail again?
Or had Bell reneged on his deal and told them?
Lucy walked right up to Sachs and without a moment's pause hit her hard in the face, her fist connecting with the policewoman's chin. Sachs gave a faint wheeze at the p
ain and stepped back. She said nothing.
"No!" Rhyme cried. Thom stepped forward but Lucy grabbed Sachs by the arm. "Is Mary Beth in there?"
"Yes." Blood trickled from her chin.
"Is she all right?"
A nod.
Eyes on the cabin window, Lucy asked, "Does he have your weapon?"
"Yes."
"Jesus." Lucy called to the other deputies, "Ned, Trey, he's inside. And he's armed." Then she snapped at Rhyme, "I'd suggest you get under cover." And she pulled Sachs roughly back behind the van on the side opposite the cabin.
Rhyme followed the women, Thom holding the chair for stability as it crossed the uneven ground.
Lucy turned to Sachs, grabbed her by the arms. "He did it, didn't he? Mary Beth told you, right? Garrett killed Billy."
Sachs looked down at the ground. Finally she said, "Yes.... I'm sorry. I--"
"Sorry doesn't mean a damn thing to me or anybody else. Least of all to Jesse Corn ...Does Garrett have any other weapons in there?"
"I don't know. I didn't see any."
Lucy turned back to the cabin, shouted, "Garrett, can you hear me? It's Lucy Kerr. I want you to put that gun down and walk outside with your hands on your head. You do that now, okay?"
The only response was the door slamming shut. A faint pounding filled the clearing as Garrett hammered or wedged the door shut. Lucy pulled out her cell phone and started to make a call.
"Hey, Deputy," a man's voice interrupted, "you need some help?"
Lucy turned. "Oh, no," she muttered.
Rhyme too glanced toward the voice. A tall, pony-tailed man, carrying a hunting rifle, was trooping through the grass toward them.
"Culbeau," she snapped, "I got a situation here and I can't deal with you too. Just go on, get out of here." Her eyes noticed something in the field. There was another man walking slowly toward the cabin. He carried a black army rifle and squinted thoughtfully as he surveyed the field and cabin. "Is that Sean?" Lucy asked.
Culbeau said, "Yeah, and Harris Tomel's over there."
Tomel was walking up to the tall African-American deputy. They were chatting casually, as if they knew each other.
Culbeau persisted, "If the boy's in the cabin you might need some help getting him out. What can we do?"
"This is police business, Rich. The three of you, clear on outa here. Now. Trey!" she called to the black deputy. "Get 'em out."
The third deputy, Ned, walked toward Lucy and Culbeau. "Rich," he called, "there's no reward anymore. Forget about it and--"
The Empty Chair Page 32
