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This was the nemesis of severely disabled spinal cord patients; an attack of autonomic dysreflexia could spike the pressure in minutes and lead to a stroke and death if a doctor or caregiver didn't react instantly.
"Lung capacity gets better every time I see you and I swear you're stronger than I am."
Barrington was no-bullshit all the way and when Rhyme asked the next question, he knew he'd get an honest response. "What're my odds?"
"Of getting your left arm and hand working again? Close to one hundred percent. Tendon grafts and electrodes're pretty surefire--"
"No, that's not what I mean. I'm talking about surviving the operation or not having some kind of cataclysmic setback."
"Ah, that's a little different. I'll give you ninety percent on that one."
Rhyme considered this. Surgery couldn't do anything about his legs; nothing ever would fix that, at least not for the next five or ten years. But he'd come to believe that with disabilities hands and arms were the key to normal. Nobody pays much attention to people in wheelchairs if they can pick up a knife and fork or shake your hand. When someone has to feed you and wipe your chin, your very presence spreads discomfort like spattered mud.
And those who don't look away give you those fucking sympathetic glances. Poor you, poor you.
Ninety percent...reasonable for getting a major portion of your life back.
"Let's do it," Rhyme said.
"If there's anything that bothers me about the blood work I'll let you know but I don't anticipate that. We'll keep May twenty-sixth on the calendar. You can start rehab a week after that."
Rhyme shook the doctor's hand and then, as he turned toward the front door, the criminalist said, "Oh, one thing. Can I have a drink or two the night before?"
"Lincoln," Thom said. "You want to be in the best shape you can for the surgery."
"I want to be in a good mood too," he muttered.
The doctor appeared thoughtful. "Alcohol isn't recommended forty-eight hours before a procedure like this...But the hard-and-fast rule is nothing in the stomach after midnight the day of the operation. What goes in before that, I'm not too concerned about."
"Thank you, Doctor."
After the man had left, Rhyme wheeled into the lab, where he regarded the whiteboards. Sachs was just finishing writing what Mychal Poitier had told him last night. She was editing, using a thicker marker to present the most recent information.
Rhyme stared at the boards for some time. Then he shouted, "Thom!"
"I'm right here."
"I thought you were in the kitchen."
"Well, I'm not. I'm here. What do you want?"
"I need you to make some phone calls for me."
"I'm happy to," the aide r
eplied. "But I thought you liked making them on your own." He glanced at Rhyme's working arm.
"I like making the calls. I dislike being on hold. And I have a feeling that's what I'd be doing."
Thom added, "And so I'm going to be your surrogate hold-ee."
Rhyme thought for a moment. "That's a good way to put it, though hardly very articulate."
Robert Moreno Homicide
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Crime Scene 1. Suite 1200, South Cove Inn, New Providence Island, Bahamas (the "Kill Room").
