The Empty Chair

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Whose house was this?"

  "Deputy Jesse Corn's."

  This drew some loud murmurs from the courtroom pews. The prosecutor remained unfazed but sat up slightly, his shoes scuffling on the tile floor, and whispered to his colleagues as they considered the implications of the revelation. In the gallery Jesse's parents turned to each other, shock in their eyes; his mother shook her head and started to cry.

  "Where exactly are you going, Mr. Rhyme?" the judge asked.

  Rhyme resisted telling the judge that the destination was obvious. He said, "Your Honor, Jesse Corn was one of the individuals who had conspired with Jim Bell and Steve Farr to kill Garrett Hanlon's family five years ago and then to kill Mary Beth McConnell the other day."

  Oh, yeah. This town's got itself a few hornets.

  The judge leaned back in his chair. "This has nothing to do with me. You two duke it out." Nodding from Geberth to the prosecutor. "You got five minutes then she accepts the plea bargain or I'll set bail and schedule trial."

  The prosecutor said to Geberth, "Doesn't mean she didn't kill Jesse. Even if Corn was a co-conspirator he was still the victim of a homicide."

  Now the Northerner got to roll his eyes. "Oh, come on," Geberth snapped, as if the D.A. were a slow student. "What it means is that Corn was operating outside his jurisdiction as a law enforcer and that when he confronted Garrett he was a felon and armed and dangerous. Jim Bell admitted they were planning on torturing the boy to find Mary Beth's whereabouts. Once they found her, Corn would've been right there with Culbeau and the others to kill Lucy Kerr and the other deputies."

  The judge's eyes swept from left to right slowly as he watched this unprecedented tennis match.

  The prosecutor: "I can only focus on the crime at hand. Whether Jesse Corn was going to kill anybody or not doesn't matter."

  Geberth shook his head slowly. The lawyer said to the court reporter, "We're suspending the deposition. This is off the record." Then, to the prosecutor: "What's the point of proceeding? Corn was a killer."

  Rhyme joined in, speaking to the prosecutor. "You take this to trial and what do you think the jury's going to feel when we show the victim was a crooked cop planning to torture an innocent boy to find a young woman and then murder her?"

  Geberth continued, "You don't want this notch on your grip. You've got Bell, you've got his brother-in-law, the coroner...."

  Before the prosecutor could protest again Rhyme looked up at him and said in a soft voice, "I'll help you."

  "What?" the prosecutor asked.

  "You know who's behind all this, don't you? You know who's killing half the residents of Tanner's Corner?"

  "Henry Davett," the prosecutor said. "I've read the filings and depos."

  Rhyme asked, "And how's the case against him?"

  "Not good. There's no evidence. There's no link between him and Bell or anybody else in town. He used middlemen and they're all stonewalling or out of the jurisdiction."

  "But," Rhyme said, "don't you want to nail him--before any more people die of cancer? Before more children get sick and kill themselves? Before more babies are born with birth defects?"

  "Of course I want to."

  "Then you need me. You won't find a criminalist anywhere in the state who can bring Davett down. I can." Rhyme glanced at Sachs. He could see tears in her eyes. He knew that the only thought in her mind now was that, whether they sent her to jail or not, she hadn't killed an innocent man.

  The prosecutor sighed deeply. Then nodded. Quickly, as if he might change his mind, he said, "Deal." He looked at the bench. "Your Honor, in the case of the People versus Sachs, the state is withdrawing all charges."

  "So ordered," said the bored judge. "Defendant is free to go. Next case." He didn't even bother to bang down his gavel.

  ... chapter forty-five

  "I didn't know whether you'd show up," Lincoln Rhyme said.

  He was, in fact, surprised.

  "Wasn't sure I was going to either," Sachs replied. They were in his hospital room at the medical center in Avery.

  He said, "I just got back from visiting Thom on the fifth floor. That's pretty odd--I'm more mobile than he is."

  "How is he?"

  "He'll be fine. He should be out in a day or two. I told him he was about to see physical therapy from a whole new angle. He didn't laugh."

  A pleasant Guatemalan woman--the temporary caregiver--sat in the corner, knitting a yellow-and-red shawl. She seemed to be weathering Rhyme's moods though he believed that this was because she didn't understand English well enough to appreciate his sarcasm and insults.

  "You know, Sachs," Rhyme said, "when I heard you'd busted Garrett out of detention it half occurred to me you'd done it to give me a chance to rethink the operation."

  A smile curved her Julia Roberts lips. "Maybe there was a bit of that."

  "So you're here now to talk me out of it?"

  She rose from the chair and walked to the window. "Pretty view."

  "Peaceful, isn't it. Fountain and garden. Plants. Don't know what kind."

  "Lucy could tell you. She knows plants the way Garrett knows bugs. Excuse me, insects. A bug is only one type of insect.... No, Rhyme, I'm not here to talk you out of it. I'm here to be with you now and to be in the recovery room when you wake up."

  "Change of heart?"

  She turned to him. "When Garrett and I were on the run he was telling me about something he read in that book of his. The Miniature World."

  "I have a new respect for dung beetles after reading it," Rhyme said.

  "There was something he showed me, a passage. It was a list of the characteristics of living creatures. One of them was that healthy creatures strive to grow and to adapt to the environment. I realized that's something you have to do, Rhyme--have this surgery. I can't interfere with it."

  After a moment he said, "I know it's not going to cure me, Sachs. But what's the nature of our business? It's little victories. We find a fiber here, a partial latent friction ridge there, a few grains of sand that might lead to the killer's house. That's all I'm after here--a little improvement. I'm not climbing out of this chair, I know that. But I need a little victory."

  Maybe the chance to hold your hand for real.

  She bent down, kissed him hard, then sat on the bed.

  "What's that look, Sachs? You seem a bit coy."

  "That passage in Garrett's book?"

  "Right."

  "There was another characteristic of living creatures I wanted to mention."

  "Which is?" he asked.

  "All living creatures strive to continue the species."

  Rhyme grumbled, "Do I sense another plea bargain here? A deal of some kind?"

  She said, "Maybe we can talk about some things when we get back to New York."

  A nurse appeared in the doorway. "I need to take you to pre-op, Mr. Rhyme. You ready for a ride?"

  "Oh, you bet I am. ..." He turned back to Sachs. "Sure, we'll talk."

  She kissed him again and squeezed his left hand, where he could, just faintly, feel the pressure in his ring finger.

  The two women sat side by side in a thick shaft of sunlight.

  Two paper cups of very bad vending-machine coffee were in front of them, perched on an orange table covered with brown burn marks from in the days when smoking had been permitted in hospitals.

  Amelia Sachs glanced at Lucy Kerr, who sat forward, hands together, subdued.

  "What's up?" Sachs asked her. "You all right?"

  The deputy hesitated then finally said, "Oncology's on the next wing over. I spent months there. Before and after the operation." She shook her head. "I never told anybody this but the Thanksgiving Day after Buddy left me I came here. Just hung out. Had coffee and tuna sandwiches with the nurses. Isn't that a kick? I could've gone to see my parents and cousins in Raleigh for turkey and dressing. Or my sister in Martinsville and her husband--Ben's parents. But I wanted to be where I felt at home. Which sure wasn't in my house."


  Sachs said, "When my father was dying my mom and I spent three holidays in the hospital. Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's. Pop made a joke. He said we had to make our Easter reservations early. He didn't live that long, though."

  "Your mom's still alive?"

  "Oh, yeah. She gets around better than I do. I got Pop's arthritis. Only in spades." Sachs nearly made a joke about that being why she was such a good shot--so she wouldn't have to run down the perps. But then she thought of Jesse Corn, flashed back to the dot of the bullet on his forehead, and she remained silent.

  Lucy said, "He'll be all right, you know. Lincoln."

  "No, I don't know," Sachs responded.

  "I've got a feeling. When you've been through as much as I have--in hospitals, I mean--you get a feeling."

  "Appreciate that," Sachs said.

  "How long do you think it'll be?" Lucy asked.

  Forever...

  "Four hours, Dr. Weaver was saying."

  In the distance they could just hear the tinny, forced dialogue of a soap opera. A distant page for a doctor. A chime. A laugh.

  Someone walked past then paused.

  "Hey, ladies."

  "Lydia," Lucy said, smiling. "How you doing?"

  Lydia Johansson. Sachs hadn't recognized her at first because she was wearing a green robe and cap. She recalled that the woman was a nurse here.

  "You heard?" Lucy asked. "About Jim and Steve getting arrested? Who would've thought?"

  "Never in a million years," Lydia said. "The whole town's talking." Then the nurse asked Lucy, "You have an onco appointment?"

  "No. Mr. Rhyme's having his operation today. On his spine. We're his cheerleaders."

  "Well, I wish him all the best," Lydia said to Sachs.

  "Thank you."

  The big girl continued down the corridor, waved, then pushed through a doorway. "Sweet girl," Sachs said.

  "You imagine that job, being an oncology nurse? When I was having my surgery she was on the ward every day. Being just as cheerful as could be. More guts than I have."

  But Lydia was far from Sachs's thoughts. She looked at the clock. It was eleven A.M. The operation would start any minute now.

  He tried to be on good behavior.

  The prep nurse was explaining things to him and Lincoln Rhyme was nodding but they'd already given him a Valium and he wasn't paying attention.

  He wanted to tell the woman to be quiet and just get on with it yet he supposed that you should be extremely civil to the people who're about to slice your neck open.

  "Really?" he said when she paused. "That's interesting." Not having a clue what she'd just told him.

  Then an orderly arrived and wheeled him from pre-op into the operating room itself.

  Two nurses made the transfer from the gurney to the operating table. One went to the far end of the room and began removing instruments from the autoclave.

  The operating room was more informal than he'd thought. The cliched green tile, stainless-steel equipment, instruments, tubes. But also lots of cardboard boxes. And a boom box. He was going to ask what kind of music they'd be listening to but then he remembered he'd be out cold and wouldn't care about the sound track.

  "It's pretty funny," he muttered drunkenly to a nurse who was standing next to him. She turned. He could see only her eyes over the face mask.

  "What's that?" she asked.

  "They're operating on the one place where I need anesthetic. If I had my appendix out they could cut without gas."

  "That's pretty funny, Mr. Rhyme."

  He laughed briefly, thinking: So, she knows me.

  He stared at the ceiling, in a hazy, reflective mood. Lincoln Rhyme divided people into two categories: traveling people and arrival people. Some enjoyed the journey more than the destination. He, by his nature, was an arrival person--finding the answers to forensic questions was his goal and he enjoyed getting the solutions more than the process of seeking them. Yet now, lying on his back, staring into the chromium hood of the surgical lamp, he felt just the opposite. He preferred to exist in this state of hope--enjoying the buoyant sensation of anticipation.

  The anesthesiologist, an Indian woman, came in and ran a needle into his arm, prepared an injection, fitted it into the tube connected to the needle. She had very skillful hands.

  "You ready to take a nap?" she asked with a faint, lilting accent.

  "As I'll ever be," he mumbled.

  "When I inject this I'm going to ask you to count down from one hundred. You'll be out before you know it."

  "What's the record?" Rhyme joked. "Counting down? One man, he was much bigger than you, got to seventy-nine before he went under."

  "I'll go for seventy-five."

  "You'll get this operating suite named after you if you do that," she replied, deadpan.

  He watched her slip a tube of clear liquid into the IV. She turned away to look at a monitor. Rhyme began counting. "One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven..."

  The other nurse, the one who'd mentioned him by name, crouched down. In a low voice she said, "Hi, there."

  An odd tone in the voice.

  He glanced at her.

  She continued, "I'm Lydia Johansson. Remember me?" Before he could say of course he did, she added in a dark whisper, "Jim Bell asked me to say good-bye."

  "No!" he muttered.

  The anesthesiologist, eyes on a monitor, said, "It's okay. Just relax. Everything's fine."

  Her mouth inches from his ear, Lydia whispered, "Didn't you wonder how Jim and Steve Farr found out about the cancer patients?"

  "No! Stop!"

  "I gave Jim their names so Culbeau could make sure they had accidents. Jim Bell's my boyfriend. We've been having an affair for years. He's the one sent me to Blackwater Landing after Mary Beth'd been kidnapped. That morning I went to put flowers down and just hang out in case Garrett showed up. I was going to talk to him and give Jesse and Ed Schaeffer a chance to get him--Ed was with us too. Then they were going to force him to tell us where Mary Beth was. But nobody thought he'd kidnap me."

  Oh, yeah, this town's got itself a few hornets....

  "Stop!" Rhyme cried. But his voice came out as a mumble.

  The anesthesiologist said, "Been fifteen seconds. Maybe you're going to break that record after all. Are you counting? I don't hear you counting."

  "I'll be right here," Lydia said, stroking Rhyme's forehead. "A lot can go wrong during surgery, you know. Kinks in the oxygen tube, administering the wrong drugs. Who knows? Might kill you, might put you in a coma. But you sure aren't going to be doing any testifying."

  "Wait," Rhyme gasped, "wait!"

  "Ha," the anesthesiologist said, laughing, her eyes still on the monitor. "Twenty seconds. I think you're going to win, Mr. Rhyme."

  "No, I don't think you are," Lydia whispered and slowly stood as Rhyme saw the operating room go gray and then black.

  ... chapter forty-six

  This really was one of the prettiest places in the world, Amelia Sachs thought.

  For a cemetery.

  Tanner's Corner Memorial Gardens, on a crest of a rolling hill, overlooked the Paquenoke River, some miles away. It was even nicer here, in the graveyard itself, than viewed from the road where she'd first seen it on the drive from Avery.

  Squinting against the sun, she noticed the glistening strip of Blackwater Canal joining the river. From here, even the dark, tainted water, which had brought so much sorrow to so many, looked benign and picturesque.

  She was in a small cluster of people standing over an open grave. A crematory urn was being lowered by one of the men from the mortuary. Amelia Sachs was next to Lucy Kerr. Garrett Hanlon stood by them. On the other side of the grave were Mason Germain and Thom, with a cane, dressed in his immaculate slacks and shirt. He wore a bold tie with a wild red pattern, which seemed appropriate despite this somber moment.

  Black-suited Fred Dellray was here too, standing by himself, off to the side, thoughtful--as if recalling a pa
ssage in one of the philosophy books he enjoyed reading. He would have resembled a Nation of Islam reverend if he'd been wearing a white shirt instead of the lime-green one with yellow polka dots on it.

  There was no minister to officiate, even though this was Bible-waving country and there'd probably be a dozen clerics on call for funerals. The mortuary director now glanced at the people assembled and asked if anybody wanted to say something to the assembly. And as everyone looked around, wondering if there'd be any volunteers, Garrett dug into his baggy slacks and produced his battered book, The Miniature World.

  In a halting voice the boy read, "'There are those who suggest that a divine force doesn't exist, but one's cynicism is truly put to the test when we look at the world of insects, which have been graced with so many amazing characteristics: wings so thin they seem hardly to be made of any living material, bodies without a single milligram of excess weight, wind-speed detectors accurate to a fraction of a mile per hour, a stride so efficient that mechanical engineers model robots after it, and, most important, insects' astonishing ability to survive in the face of overwhelming opposition by man, predators and the elements. In moments of despair, we can look to the ingenuity and persistence of these miraculous creatures and find solace and a restoration of lost faith.'"

  Garrett looked up, closed the book. Clicked his fingernails nervously. He looked at Sachs and asked, "Do you, like, want to say anything?"

  But she merely shook her head.

  No one else spoke and after a few minutes everyone around the grave turned away and meandered back up the hill along a winding path. Before they crested the ridge that led to a small picnic area the cemetery crews had already begun filling in the grave with a backhoe. Sachs was breathing hard as they walked to the crest of the tree-covered hill near the parking lot.

  She recalled Lincoln Rhyme's voice:

  That's not a bad cemetery. Wouldn't mind being buried in a place like that....

  She paused to wipe the sweat from her face and catch her breath; the North Carolina heat was still relentless. Garrett, though, didn't seem to notice the temperature. He ran past her and began pulling grocery bags from the back of Lucy's Bronco.

  This wasn't exactly the time or place for a picnic but, Sachs supposed, chicken salad and watermelon were as good a way as any to remember the dead.