Thom looked toward her from where he was standing over Lincoln Rhyme in his wheelchair, eyes closed, face pale and damp. Between them was one of Rhyme's doctors, a solidly built African American, a former football star in college.
"Dr. Ralston," she said, breathing hard.
He nodded. "Amelia."
Finally Rhyme's eyes opened. "Ah, Sachs." The voice was weak.
"How are you?"
"No, no, how are you?"
"I'm fine."
"And the rookie?"
"He nearly had a problem, but it worked out okay."
Rhyme said in a stiff voice, "It was a generator, right?"
"Yes, how did you know? Did Crime Scene call?"
"No, I figured it out. Diesel fuel and herbs from Chinatown. The fact that there didn't seem to be any juice in the school. I figured out it was a trap. But had a little problem before I could call."
"Didn't matter, Rhyme," she said. "I figured it out too."
And didn't tell him how close Pulaski had come to getting electrocuted.
"Well, good. I . . . Good."
She understood that he was thinking how he'd failed. How he'd nearly gotten one or both of them injured or killed. Normally he'd have been furious; a tantrum might have ensued. He'd want a drink, he'd insult people, he'd revel in sarcasm, all of which was directed toward himself, of course, as she and Thom knew very well.
But this was different. There was something about his eyes, something she didn't like one bit. Oddly, for someone with such a severe disability, there was rarely anything vulnerable about Lincoln Rhyme. Now, with this failure, he radiated weakness.
She found she had to look away and turned to the doctor, who said, "He's out of danger. Blood pressure's down." He then turned to Rhyme; even more than most patients, spinal cord injury victims hate being discussed in the third person. Which happens a lot. "Stay in the chair and out of bed as much as you can, and make sure bladder and bowel are taken care of. Loose clothes and socks."
Rhyme nodded. "Why did it happen now?"
"Stress probably, combined with pressure somewhere. Internally, shoes, garments. You know how dysreflexia works. Mostly it's a mystery."
"How long was I out?"
Thom said, "Forty minutes, off and on."
He rocked his head back in the chair. "Forty," he whispered. Sachs understood he'd be replaying his failure. Which had nearly cost her and Pulaski their lives.
Now he was staring toward the lab. "Where's the evidence?"
"I came here first. Ron's on his way. We needed some people from Queens to get the generator. It weighs a couple of hundred pounds."
"Ron's coming?"
"That's right," she confirmed, noting that she'd just told him this and wondering if the episode had made him disoriented. Maybe the doctor had given him a painkiller. Dysreflexia is accompanied by excruciating headaches.
"Good. He'll be here soon? Ron?"
A hesitant glance at Thom.
"Any minute now," she said.