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"Ha. I'll be back soon."
The criminalist had been in such a good mood that Thom had agreed.
But then Rhyme simply hadn't returned.
Another hour had gone by after Sachs had arrived. And curiosity became concern. But at that very instant they'd both received an email, dinging on computers and BlackBerrys. It was as clipped and functional as one would expect from Lincoln Rhyme.
Thom, Sachs--
After a great deal of deliberation I've concluded that I don't want to continue to live in my current condition.
"No," Thom had gasped.
"Keep reading."
Recent events have made clear that certain inabilities are no longer acceptable to me. I've been motivated to act by two things. The visit by Kopeski, which told me that while I would never kill myself, nonetheless there are times when the risk of death should not deter one from making a decision.
The second was meeting Susan Stringer. She said there were no coincidences and that she felt she was fated to tell me about Pembroke Spinal Cord Center. (You know how much I believe in THAT--and if this is the point where I'm supposed to type LOL, it's not going to happen.)
I've been in regular discussions with the center and have made four appointments for various procedures over the next eight months. The first of these is about to begin.
Of course, there's the possibility that I might not make the other three appointments, but one can only wait and see. If things turn out as I hope I'll be giving you all the gory details of the surgery in a day or two. If not, Thom, you know where all the paperwork is kept. Oh, and one thing I forgot to put into the will, give all my scotch to my cousin Arthur. He'll appreciate it.
Sachs, there's another letter for you. Thom will hand it over.
Sorry I handled it this way, but you both have better things to do on this fine day than shepherd a bad patient like me to a hospital and waste time. Besides, you know me. Some things I'd just rather do on my own. Haven't had much of a chance to do that in the past few years.
Somebody will call with information late this afternoon or early evening.
As for our last case, Sachs, I expect to testify at the Watchmaker's trial in person. But if things don't go quite right, I've filed my depositions with the attorney general. You and Mel and Ron can take up the slack. Make sure Mr. Logan spends the rest of his life in jail.
This thought, from someone I've been close to, describes what I'm feeling perfectly: "Times change. We have to change too. Whatever the risks. Whatever we have to leave behind."
--LR
And now, in the abhorrent hospital, they waited.
Finally, an official. A tall man in green scrubs, with graying hair, slim, walked into the room.
"You're Amelia Sachs."
"That's right."
"And Thom?"
A nod.
The man turned out to be the chief surgeon of the Pembroke Spinal Cord Center. He said, "He's come through the surgery, but he's still unconscious."
He continued, explaining technical things to them. Sachs nodded, taking in the details. Some seemed good, some seemed less so. But mostly she noted that he wasn't answering the one question that mattered--not about the success of the surgery in technical terms, but when, or if, Lincoln Rhyme would swim back to consciousness.
When she bluntly posed that question, the best the doctor could say was: "We just don't know. We'll have to wait."
Chapter 87
THE 3D SWIRLS of fingerprints evolved not to help forensic scientists identify and convict criminals but simply to give our digits sure purchase, so that whatever we were holding that was precious or necessary or unrecognized wouldn't slip from our frail human grasp.
We are, after all, bereft of claws, and our muscle tone--sorry, ardent health club devotees--is truly pathetic compared with that of any wild animal of comparable weight.
