Berger did.
Rhyme said nothing and read carefully.
The paper scraps . . .
Three p.m. . . . page 823.
Rhyme's heart was pounding, sweat popped out on his head. He heard a frantic buzzing in his ears.
Here's a headline for the tabloids. MAN DIES DURING TALK WITH DEATH DOC. . . .
Berger blinked. "Lincoln? Are you all right?" The man's canny eyes examined Rhyme carefully.
As casually as he could, Rhyme said, "You know, doctor, I'm sorry. But there's something I've got to take care of."
Berger nodded slowly, uncertainly. "Affairs aren't in order after all?"
Smiling. Nonchalant. "I'm just wondering if I could ask you to come back in a few hours."
Careful here. If he senses purpose he'll mark you down non-suicidal, take his bottles and his plastic bag and fly back to Starbucks land.
Opening a date book, Berger said, "The rest of the day isn't good. Then tomorrow . . . No. I'm afraid Monday's the earliest. Day after tomorrow."
Rhyme hesitated. Lord . . . His soul's desire was finally within his grasp, what he'd dreamed of every day for the past year. Yes or no?
Decide.
Finally, Rhyme heard himself say, "All right. Monday." Plastering a hopeless smile on his face.
"What exactly's the problem?"
"A man I used to work with. He asked for some advice. I wasn't paying as much attention to it as I should have. I have to call him."
No, it wasn't dysreflexia at all--or an anxiety attack.
Lincoln Rhyme was feeling something he hadn't felt in years. He was in one big fucking hurry.
"Could I ask you to send Thom up here? I think he's downstairs in the kitchen."
"Yes, of course. I'd be happy to."
Rhyme could see something odd in Berger's eyes. What was it? Caution? Maybe. It almost seemed like disappointment. But there was no time to think about it now. As the doctor's footsteps receded down the stairs Rhyme shouted in a booming baritone, "Thom? Thom!"
"What?" the young man's voice called.
"Call Lon. Get him back here. Now!"
Rhyme glanced at the clock. It was after noon. They had less than three hours.
FOUR
The crime scene was staged," Lincoln Rhyme said.
Lon Sellitto had tossed his jacket off, revealing a savagely wrinkled shirt. He now leaned back, arms crossed, against a table strewn with papers and books.
Jerry Banks was back too and his pale-blue eyes were on Rhyme's; the bed and its control panel no longer interested him.
Sellitto frowned. "But what story's the unsub tryin' to sell us?"