The cage had been placed there by a local tourist commission. Inside was an Abaco Bahamian parrot, according to the sign. The noisy bird, gray with a flourish of green on the tail, was saying, “Hello! Hi! ¡Hola!” Rhyme recorded some of the greeting for Sachs.

Another breath of the dank, salty air, tinged with a sour aroma, what he realized was smoke. What was burning? No one else seemed alarmed.

“Got the bags,” came a voice from behind them.

NYPD patrolman Ron Pulaski—young, blond, thin—was wheeling the suitcases on a cart. The trio didn’t expect to be here long but the nature of Rhyme’s condition was such that he required accessories. A lot of them. Medicines, catheters, tubes, disinfectants, air pillows to prevent the sores that could lead to infections.

“What’s that?” Rhyme asked as Thom retrieved a small backpack from one bag and slung it on the back of the wheelchair.

“It’s a portable respirator,” Pulaski answered.

Thom added, “Battery-powered. Double oxygen tank. It’ll last for a couple of hours.”

“What the hell did you bring that for?”

“Flying with cabin pressure at seven thousand feet,” the aide replied as if the answer were obvious. “Stress. There’re a dozen reasons it can’t hurt to have one with us.”

“Do I look stressed?” Rhyme asked petulantly. He had weaned himself off the ventilator years ago, to breathe on his own, one of the proudest achievements possible for a quad. But Thom had apparently forgotten—or disregarded—that accomplishment. “I don’t need it.”

“Let’s hope you don’t. But what can it hurt?”

Rhyme had no answer to that. He glanced at Pulaski. “And it’s not a respirator, by the way. Respiration is the exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide. Ventilation is the introduction of gas into the lungs. Hence, it’s a ventilator.”

Pulaski sighed. “Got it, Lincoln.”

At least the rookie had stopped his irritating habit of calling Rhyme “sir” or “captain.”

The young officer then asked, “Does it matter?”

“Of course, it matters,” he snapped. “Precision is the key to everything. Where’s the van?”

Another of Thom’s tasks was getting a disabled-accessible vehicle in the Bahamas.

Still on the phone, he glanced at Rhyme, grimacing. “I’m on hold again.”

The aide finally made contact with somebody and several minutes later the van was pulling up to the curb near the resort mini bus waiting area. The white Ford was battered and stank of old cigarette smoke. The windows greasy. Pulaski loaded the luggage into the back while Thom signed forms and handed them to the lean, dark-skinned man who’d delivered the vehicle. Credit cards and a certain amount of cash were exchanged and the driver disappeared on foot. Rhyme wondered if the van had been stolen. Then decided that this was unfair.

You’re in a different world, not Manhattan anymore. Keep an open mind.