“Let’s hope. We could use some goddamn luck.”

He closed his eyes, rested his head in the pillow. A moment later he heard Thom saying, “It’s nearly eleven. Time for bed.”

At times it’s easy to neglect the body, to forget we even have bodies—times like these, when lives are at stake and we have to step out of our physical beings and keep working, working, working. We have to go far beyond our normal limitations. But Lincoln Rhyme had a body that wouldn’t tolerate neglect. Bedsores could lead to sepsis and blood poisoning. Fluid in the lungs, to pneumonia. Didn’t catheterize the bladder? Didn’t massage the bowels to encourage a movement? Spenco boots too tight? Dysreflexia was the consequence and that could mean a stroke. Exhaustion alone could bring on an attack.

Too many ways to die . . .

“You’re going to bed,” Thom said.

“I have to—”

“Sleep. You have to sleep.”

Rhyme acquiesced. He was very tired.

“All right, Thom. All right.” He wheeled toward the elevator. “One thing.” He looked back. “Could you come up in a few minutes, Sachs?”

She nodded, watching the tiny elevator door swing shut.

She found him in the Clinitron.

Sachs had waited ten minutes to give him time to take care of bedtime functions—Thom had applied the catheter and brushed his boss’s teeth. She knew Rhyme talked tough—he had a crip’s disregard for modesty. But she knew too that there were certain personal routines he didn’t want her to witness.

She used the time to take a shower in the downstairs bathroom, dressed in clean clothes—hers—which Thom happened to have in the laundry room in the basement.

The lights were dim. Rhyme was rubbing his head against the pillow like a bear scratching his back on a tree. The Clinitron was the most comfortable bed in the world. Weighing a half ton, it was a massive slab containing glass beads through which flowed heated air.

“Ah, Sachs, you did good today. You out-thought him.”

Except thanks to me Jerry Banks lost his arm.

And I let the Dancer get away.

She walked to his bar and poured a glass of Macallan, lifted an eyebrow.

“Sure,” he said. “Mother’s milk, the dew of nepenthe . . . ”

She kicked her issue shoes off, pulled up her blouse to look at the bruise.

“Ouch,” Rhyme said.

The bruise was the shape of Missouri and dark as an eggplant.

“I don’t like bombs,” she said. “Never been that close to one. And I don’t like them.”

Sachs opened her purse, found and swallowed three aspirin dry (a trick arthritics learn early). She walked to the window. There were the peregrines. Beautiful birds. They weren’t large. Fourteen, sixteen inches. Tiny for a dog. But for a bird . . . utterly intimidating. Their beaks were like the claws on a creature from one of those Alien movies.

“You all right, Sachs? Tell me true?”