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A hesitation. Then he said, "Yes. About ten minutes ago. They have a slot open at Manhattan Hospital next week. She's going to call back with the details."
"Ah," Sachs said.
The "she" was Dr. Cheryl Weaver, a renowned neurosurgeon who'd come up to the New York area from North Carolina to teach for a semester at Manhattan Hospital. And the "slot" referred to an opening for some experimental surgery that Rhyme was having--an operation that might improve his quadriplegic condition.
An operation Sachs was not in favor of.
"I'd get some extra ambulances in the area," Rhyme said. His tone was now curt--he didn't like personal subjects intruding in the midst of business.
"I'll take care of it."
"I'll call you back, Sachs."
The phone went silent.
She ran through the downpour to one of the Suffolk County troopers and arranged for more med techs. She then returned to her Chevy and sat down in the front bucket seat, listening to the rattle of the powerful rain on the windshield and cloth roof. The dampness made the interior smell of plastic, motor oil and old carpeting.
Thinking about Rhyme's operation put her in mind of a recent conversation with another doctor, one who had nothing to do with his spinal cord surgery. She didn't want her thoughts to go back to that meeting--but go there they did.
Two weeks ago Amelia Sachs had been standing by the coffee machine in a hospital waiting room, up the hall from Lincoln Rhyme's examining room. She remembered the July sun falling brutally on the green tile floor. The white-jacketed man had approached and then addressed her with a chilling solemnity. "Ah, Ms. Sachs. Here you are."
"Hello, Doctor."
"I've just been meeting with Lincoln Rhyme's physician."
"Yes?"
"I've got to talk to you about something."
Her heart pounding, she'd said, "You're looking like it's bad news, Doctor."
"Why don't we sit down over there in the corner?" he'd asked, sounding more like a funeral home director than an M.D.
"Here's fine," she'd said firmly. "Tell me. Let me have it straight."
A gust of wind now rocked her and she looked out over the harbor again, at the long pier, where the Fuzhou Dragon would dock.
Bad news . . .
Tell me. Let me have it straight. . . .
Sachs flicked her Motorola to the Coast Guard's secure frequency not only to learn what was happening with the Dragon but to keep her thoughts from returning to that scaldingly bright waiting room.
*
"How far from land?" the Ghost asked the two remaining crewmen on the bridge.
"A mile, maybe less." The slim man at the helm glanced quickly at the Ghost. "We'll turn just before the shallows and try for the harbor."
The Ghost gazed forward. From the vantage point of the crest of a wave he could just see the line of light gray land. He said, "Steer straight on course. I'll be back in a moment."
Bracing himself, he stepped outside. The wind and rain lashed his face as the Ghost made his way down to the container deck and then to the one below it. He came to the metal door that opened into the hold. He stepped inside and looked down at the piglets. Their faces turned toward him with fear and distress. The pathetic men, the frumpy women, the filthy children--even some pointless girls. Why had their foolish families bothered to bring them?
"What is it?" Captain Sen asked. "Is the cutter in sight?"
The Ghost didn't answer. He was scanning the piglets for his bangshou. But there was no sign of him. Angry, he turned away.
"Wait," the captain called.
