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"Axial?"
"Pit," Rhyme snorted. "Armpit. My first aide never said armpit. He'd say, 'I'm going to elevate you by your axials, Lincoln.' Oh, and: 'If you feel like regurgitating go right ahead, Lincoln.' He called himself a 'caregiver.' The word was actually on his resume. I have no idea why I hired him. We're very superstitious, Sachs. We think calling something by a different name is going to change it. Unsub. Perpetrator. But that aide, he was just a nurse who was up to his own armpits in piss 'n' puke. Right, Thom? Nothing to be ashamed of. It's an honorable profession. Messy but honorable."
"I thrive on mess. That's why I work for you."
"What're you, Thom? An aide or a caregiver?"
"I'm a saint."
"Ha, fast with the comebacks. And fast with the needle too. He brought me back from the dead. Done it more than once."
Rhyme was suddenly pierced with a fear that Sachs had seen him naked. Eyes fixed firmly on the unsub profile, he asked, "Say, do I owe you some thanks too, Sachs? Did you play Clara Barton here?" He uneasily waited for her answer, didn't know how he could look at her again if she had.
"Nup," Thom answered. "Saved you all by my lonesome. Didn't want any of these sensitive souls repulsed by the sight of your baggy rear end."
Thank you, Thom, he thought. Then barked, "Now go away. We have to talk about the case. Sachs and me."
"You need some sleep."
"Of course I do. But we stil
l need to talk about the case. Good night, good night."
After Thom left, Sachs poured some Macallan in a glass. She lowered her head and inhaled the smoky vapors.
"Who snitched?" Rhyme asked. "Pete?"
"Who?" she asked.
"Dr. Taylor, the SCI man."
She hesitated long enough for him to know that Taylor was the one. She said finally, "He cares about you."
"Of course he does. That's the problem--I want him to care a little less. Does he know about Berger?"
"He suspects."
Rhyme grimaced. "Look, tell him that Berger's just an old friend. He . . . what?"
Sachs exhaled slowly, as if shooting cigarette smoke through her pursed lips. "You not only want me to let you kill yourself you want me to lie to the one person who could talk you out of it."
"He couldn't talk me out of it," Rhyme responded.
"Then why do you want me to lie?"
He laughed. "Let's just keep Dr. Taylor in the dark for a few more days."
"All right," she said. "Jesus, you're a tough person to deal with."
He examined her closely. "Why don't you tell me about it."
"About what?"
"Who's the dead? That you haven't given up?"
"There's plenty of them."
"Such as?"
