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"It wasn't his fault," Rhyme snapped. "I've had a roomful of people here all day."
"I don't want to hear excuses," the doctor shot back. This was Pete Taylor, who never spoke through anyone when he talked to Rhyme and never let his bullying patient bully him.
"We better take care of things." He pulled on surgical gloves, leaned over Rhyme's torso. His fingers began manipulating the abdomen to trick the numb intestines into doing their work. Thom lifted the blankets and got the disposable diapers.
A moment later the job was done and Thom cleaned his boss.
Taylor said suddenly, "So you've given up that nonsense, I hope?" Studying Ryhme closely.
That nonsense . . .
He'd meant the suicide. With a glance at Thom, Rhyme said, "Haven't thought about that for a while."
"Good." Taylor looked over the instruments on the table. "This is what you ought to be doing. Maybe the department'll put you back on the payroll."
"Don't think I could pass the physical."
"How's the head?"
" 'A dozen sledgehammers' comes close to describing it. My neck too. Had two bad cramps so far today."
Taylor walked behind the Clinitron, pressed his fingers on either side of Rhyme's spine, where--Rhyme supposed, though he'd never seen the spot of course--there were prominent incision scars from the operations he'd had over the years. Taylor gave Rhyme an expert massage, digging deep into the taut straps of muscle in his shoulders and neck. The pain slowly vanished.
He felt the doctor's thumbs pause at what he guessed was the shattered vertebra.
The spaceship, the stingray . . .
"Someday they'll fix this," Taylor said. "Someday, it'll be no worse than breaking your leg. You listen to me. I predict it."
Fifteen minutes later Peter Taylor came down the stairs and joined the cops on the sidewalk.
"Is he all right?" Amelia Sachs asked anxiously.
"The pressure's down. He needs rest mostly."
The doctor, a plain-looking man, suddenly realized he was talking to a very beautiful woman. He smoothed his thinning gray hair and cast a discreet glance at her willowy figure. His eyes then went to the squad cars in front of the townhouse and he asked, "What's the case he's helping you with?"
Sellitto demurred, as all detectives will in the face of that question from civilians. But Sachs had guessed Taylor and Rhyme were close so she said, "The kidnappings? Have you heard about them?"
"The taxi-driver case? It's on all the news. Good for him. Work is the best thing that could happen to him. He needs friends and he needs purpose."
Thom appeared at the top of the stairs. "He said thanks, Pete. Well, he didn't actually say thanks. But he meant it. You know how he is."
"Level with me," Taylor asked, voice lower now, conspiratorial. "Is he still planning on talking to them?"
And when Thom said, "No, he's not," something in his tone told Sachs that he was lying. She didn't know about what or what significance it might have. But it rankled.
Planning on talking to them?
In any case Taylor seemed not to pick up on the aide's deceit. He said, "I'll come back tomorrow, see how he's doing."
Thom said he'd appreciate it and Taylor slung his bag over his shoulder and started up the sidewalk. The aide gestured to Sellitto. "He'd like to talk to you for a minute." The detective climbed the stairs quickly. He disappeared into the room and a few minutes later he and Thom walked outside. Sellitto, solemn himself now, glanced at her. "Your turn." And nodded toward the stairs.
Rhyme lay in the massive bed, hair mussed, face no longer red, hands no longer ivory. The room smelled ripe, visceral. There were clean sheets on the bed and his clothes had been changed again. This time the pajamas were as green as Dellray's suit.
"Those are the ugliest PJs I've ever seen," she said. "Your ex gave them to you, didn't she?"
"How'd you guess? An anniversary present . . . Sorry for the scare," he said, looking away from her. He seemed suddenly timid and that upset her. She thought of her father in the pre-op room at Sloan-Kettering before they took him down to the exploratory surgery he never awoke from.
