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"I'm agreeing that we smuggle some food into--"
"Don't play around." Sachs was fumbling for the light, clicked it on. In her black silk boxers and gray T-shirt, hair askew and eyes wide, she looked like a college girl who'd just remembered she had an exam at eight tomorrow morning.
Rhyme squinted as he looked at the light. "That's awfully bright. Is it necessary?"
She was staring down at the bed.
"Your . . . your hand. You moved it!"
"I guess I did."
"Your right hand! You've never had any movement in your right hand."
"Funny, isn't it?"
"You've been putting off the test, but you've known all along you could do that?"
"I didn't know I could. Until now. I wasn't going to try--I was afraid it wouldn't work. So I was going to give up all the exercise, just stop worrying about it." He shrugged. "But I changed my mind. I wanted to give it a shot. But just us, no machines or doctors around."
Not by myself, he added, though silently.
"And you didn't tell me!" She slapped him on the arm.
"I didn't feel that."
They laughed.
"It's amazing, Rhyme," she whispered and hugged him hard. "You did it. You really did it."
"I'll try it again." Rhyme looked at Sachs, then at his hand.
He paused a moment, then sent a burst of energy from his mind streaking through the nerves to his right hand. Each finger twitched a little. And then, as ungainly as a newborn colt, his hand swiveled across a two-inch Grand Canyon of blanket and seated itself firmly against Sachs's wrist. He closed his thumb and index finger around it.
Tears in her eyes, she laughed with delight.
"How 'bout that," he said.
"So you'll keep up with the exercises?"
He nodded.
"We'll set up the test with Dr. Sherman?" she asked.
"I suppose we could. Unless something else comes up. Been a busy time lately."
"We'll set up the test," she said firmly.
She shut the light out and lay close to him. Which he could sense, though not feel.
In silence, Rhyme stared at the ceiling. Just as Sachs's breathing stilled, he frowned, aware of an odd sensation trickling through his chest, where there ought to be none. At first he thought it was phantom. Then, alarmed, he wondered if it was perhaps the start of an attack of dysreflexia, or worse. But he realized that, no, this was something else entirely, something not rooted in nerve or muscle or organ. A scientist always, he analyzed the sensation empirically and noted that it was similar to what he'd felt watching Geneva Settle face down the bank's attorney. Similar too to when he was reading about Charles Singleton's mission to find justice at the Potters' Field tavern that terrible night in July so many years ago, or about his passion for civil rights.
Then, suddenly, Rhyme understood what he was feeling: It was simple pride. Just like he'd been proud of Geneva and of her ancestor, he was proud of his own accomplishment. By tackling his exercises and then tonight testing himself, Lincoln Rhyme had confronted the terrifying, the impossible. Whether he'd regained any movement or not was irrelevant; the sensation came from what he had undeniably achieved: wholeness, the same wholeness that Charles had written of. He realized that nothing else--not politicians or fellow citizens or your haywire body--could make you a three-fifths man; it was solely your decision to view yourself as a complete or partial person and to live your life accordingly.
All things considered, he supposed, this understanding was as inconsequential as the slight movement he'd regained in his hand. But that didn't matter. He thought of his profession: How a tiny flake of paint leads to a car that leads to a parking lot where a faint footprint leads to a doorway that reveals a fiber from a discarded coat with a fingerprint on the sleeve button--the one surface that the perp forgot to wipe clean.
The next day a tactical team knocks on his door.
And justice is served, a victim saved, a family reunited. All thanks to a minuscule bit of paint.
