“He did?” Sachs asked.

Percey smiled. “He throttled up, all the way to the fire wall, and pulled the yoke back. The nose went straight up in the air.” Tears were coming fast now to Percey Clay’s eyes. “For a moment, before he kicked rudder and we started down out of the stall, we were looking straight up into the night sky. He leaned over and said, ‘Take your pick. All the stars of evening—you can have any one you want.’ ” Percey lowered her head, caught her breath. “All the stars of evening . . . ”

After a moment she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, then turned back to the engine. “Believe me, you don’t have anything to worry about. Lincoln’s a fascinating man, but Ed was all I ever wanted.”

“There’s more to it than you know.” Sachs sighed. “You remind him of someone. Someone he was in love with. You show up and all of a sudden it’s like he’s with her again.”

Percey shrugged. “We have some things in common. We understand each other. But so what? That doesn’t mean anything. Take a look, Amelia. Rhyme loves you.”

Sachs laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

Percey gave her another look that said, Whatever . . . and began replacing the equipment in boxes as meticulously as she’d worked with the tools and computers.

Roland Bell ambled inside, checking windows and scanning the shadows.

“All quiet?” he asked.

“Not a peep.”

“Got a message to pass on. The folk from U.S. Medical just left Westchester Hospital. The shipment’ll be here in an hour. I’ve got a car of my people behind them just to be on the safe side. But don’t worry that it’ll spook ’em and be bad for business—my guys’re top-notch. The driver’ll never know he’s being followed.”

Percey looked at her watch. “Okay.” She glanced at Bell, who was looking uncertainly at the open engine compartment, like a snake at a mongoose. She asked, “We don’t need baby-sitters on the flight, do we?”

Bell’s sigh was loud. “After what happened at the safe house,” he said in a low, solemn voice, “I’m not letting you outa my sight.” He shook his head and, already looking airsick, he walked back to the front door and disappeared into the cool late afternoon air.

Her head in the engine compartment, studying her work carefully, Percey said in a reverberating voice, “Looking at Rhyme and looking at you, I wouldn’t give it much more than fifty-fifty, I’ve got to say.” She turned and looked down at Sachs. “But you know, I had this flight instructor a long time ago.”

“And?”

“When we’d fly multiengine he had this game of throttling back one engine to idle and feathering the prop, then telling us to land. Lot of instructors’ll cut power for a few minutes, with altitude, just to see how you can handle it. But they always throttled up again before landing. This instructor, though—uh-uh. He’d make us land on one engine. Students’d always be asking him, ‘Isn’t that risky?’ His answer was, ‘God don’t give out certain. Sometimes you just gotta play the odds.’ ”