“That’s right, sir.”

“Read a lot, I’ll bet.”

“How I spend most of my time—if I’m not in the field.”

Rhyme was gazing at the spines of the books that Amelia had brought from Garrett’s room. He mused, “What do a person’s favorite books say about them? Other than the obvious—that they’re interested in the subject of the books, I mean.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, if a person has mostly self-help books, that says one thing about them. If he’s got mostly novels, that says something else. These books of Garrett’s are all nonfiction guidebooks. What do you make of that?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.” The big man glanced once at Rhyme’s legs—involuntarily, it seemed—then he turned his attention to the evidence chart. He mumbled, “I can’t really figure out people. Animals make a lot more sense to me. They’re a lot more social, more predictable, more consistent than people. Hell of a lot more clever too.” Then he realized he was rambling and, with a ruddy blush, stopped talking.

Rhyme glanced again at the books. “Thom, could you get me the turning frame?” Rigged to an ECU—an environmental-control unit—that Rhyme could manipulate with his one working finger, the device used a rubber armature to turn pages of books. “It’s in the van, isn’t it?”

“I think so.”

“I hope you packed it. I told you to pack it.”

“I said I think it is,” the aide said evenly. “I’ll go see if it’s there.” He left the room.

Hell of a lot more clever too …

Thom returned a moment later with the turning frame.

“Ben,” Rhyme called. “That book on top?”

“There?” the big man asked, staring at the books. It was the Field Guide to Insects of North Carolina.

“Put it in the frame.” He stepped on his urgency. “If you would be so kind.”

The aide showed Ben how to mount the book then plugged a different set of wires into the ECU underneath Rhyme’s left hand.

He read the first page, found nothing helpful. Then his mind ordered his ring finger to move. An impulse shot from the brain, spiraled down through a tiny surviving axon in his spinal cord, past a million of its dead kin, then streaked along Rhyme’s arm and into his hand.

The finger flicked a fraction of an inch.

The armature’s own finger slid sideways. The page turned.

… chapter eleven

They followed the path through the forest, surrounded by the oily scent of pine and the sweet fragrance from one of the plants they passed. Lucy Kerr recognized it as a chicken grape.