“There was another characteristic of living creatures I wanted to mention.”

“Which is?” he asked.

“All living creatures strive to continue the species.”

Rhyme grumbled, “Do I sense another plea bargain here? A deal of some kind?”

She said, “Maybe we can talk about some things when we get back to New York.”

A nurse appeared in the doorway. “I need to take you to pre-op, Mr. Rhyme. You ready for a ride?”

“Oh, you bet I am. …” He turned back to Sachs. “Sure, we’ll talk.”

She kissed him again and squeezed his left hand, where he could, just faintly, feel the pressure in his ring finger.

The two women sat side by side in a thick shaft of sunlight.

Two paper cups of very bad vending-machine coffee were in front of them, perched on an orange table covered with brown burn marks from in the days when smoking had been permitted in hospitals.

Amelia Sachs glanced at Lucy Kerr, who sat forward, hands together, subdued.

“What’s up?” Sachs asked her. “You all right?”

The deputy hesitated then finally said, “Oncology’s on the next wing over. I spent months there. Before and after the operation.” She shook her head. “I never told anybody this but the Thanksgiving Day after Buddy left me I came here. Just hung out. Had coffee and tuna sandwiches with the nurses. Isn’t that a kick? I could’ve gone to see my parents and cousins in Raleigh for turkey and dressing. Or my sister in Martinsville and her husband—Ben’s parents. But I wanted to be where I felt at home. Which sure wasn’t in my house.”

Sachs said, “When my father was dying my mom and I spent three holidays in the hospital. Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s. Pop made a joke. He said we had to make our Easter reservations early. He didn’t live that long, though.”

“Your mom’s still alive?”

“Oh, yeah. She gets around better than I do. I got Pop’s arthritis. Only in spades.” Sachs nearly made a joke about that being why she was such a good shot—so she wouldn’t have to run down the perps. But then she thought of Jesse Corn, flashed back to the dot of the bullet on his forehead, and she remained silent.

Lucy said, “He’ll be all right, you know. Lincoln.”

“No, I don’t know,” Sachs responded.

“I’ve got a feeling. When you’ve been through as much as I have—in hospitals, I mean—you get a feeling.”

“Appreciate that,” Sachs said.

“How long do you think it’ll be?” Lucy asked.

Forever…

“Four hours, Dr. Weaver was saying.”

In the distance they could just hear the tinny, forced dialogue of a soap opera. A distant page for a doctor. A chime. A laugh.

Someone walked past then paused.

“Hey, ladies.”

“Lydia,” Lucy said, smiling. “How you doing?”