Dr. Ralston said, "Lincoln, I'd rather you took it easy for the rest of the day."
Rhyme was hesitating, looking down. Was he actually going to give in to a request like this?
But he said in a soft voice, "I'm sorry, Doctor. I really can't. There's a case . . . it's important."
"The grid thing? The terrorists?"
"Yes. I hope you don't mind." His eyes were downcast. "I'm sorry. I really have to work it."
Sachs and Thom exchanged glances. Rhyme's apologetic mien was atypical, to put it mildly.
And, again, the vulnerability in his eyes.
"I know it's important, Lincoln. I can't force you to do anything. Just remember what I said: Stay upright and avoid any kinds of pressure on your body, inside and out. I guess it won't do any good to say avoid stress. Not with this madman on the loose."
"Thank you. And thank you, Thom."
The aide blinked and nodded uneasily.
Again, though, Rhyme was hesitating, staring down. Not driving into the parlor lab with all the speed the Storm Arrow could muster, which he'd be doing under other circumstances. And even when the front door to the town house opened and they could hear Pulaski and the other crime scene technicians hurrying in with the evidence, Rhyme remained where he was, staring down.
"Li--" Sachs found herself saying and braking her words to a halt--their superstition again. "Rhyme? You want to go into the lab?"
"Yes, sure."
But still staring down. Not moving.
Alarmed, she wondered if he was having another attack.
Then he swallowed and moved the controller of the wheelchair. His face melted with relief and she understood what had been happening: Rhyme was worried--terrified--that the attack had caused yet more damage, that perhaps even the rudimentary mobility he'd achieved in his right hand and fingers had been erased.
That's what he'd been staring at: his hand. But apparently there'd been no damage.
"Come on, Sachs," he said, though softly. "We've got work to do."
Chapter 65
THE POOL PARLOR was looking like a crack house, R.C. decided.
He'd talk to his father about it.
The thirty-year-old pressed his pale hands around his beer bottle, watching the games at the pool tables. Snuck a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the exhaust vent. That smoking law was fucking stupid. His father said the socialists in Washington were to blame. They didn't mind sending kids to get killed in places with names you couldn't pronounce but they had to say, fuck you, no smoking.
Eyes on the pool tables. The fast one on the end might be trouble--there was serious money on it--but Stipp had the baseball bat behind the bar. And he liked to swing.
Speaking of which. Goddamn Mets. He grabbed the remote.
Boston didn't make him feel any better.
Then he put on the news about the crazy man screwing around with electricity. R.C.'s brother was handy and did a fair amount of electrical work, but wiring always scared him.
And now people around town were getting fried.
"You hear about that shit?" he asked Stipp.
"Yeah, which shit is that?" He had a cast eye, or one that didn't look right at you, if that's what a cast eye was.
"About the electricity thing? Some dude hooking up wires at that hotel? You touched the door handle and, zzzzzzz, you're dead."