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"No. It's too early," Thom said matter-of-factly.
"It's afternoon."
"By a few minutes."
"Goddamn it." Rhyme sounded gruff, but in fact he was losing himself in Sachs's massage. A few strings of red hair had escaped from her ponytail and hung tickling against his cheek. He didn't move away. Since he'd apparently lost the single-malt battle, he was ignoring Thom, but the aide brought his attention around quickly by saying, "When you were on the phone, Lon called."
"He did? Why didn't you tell me?"
"You said you didn't want to be disturbed while you were talking with Kathryn."
"Well, tell me now."
"He'll call back. Something about a case. A problem."
"Really?" The Watchmaker receded somewhat at this news. Rhyme understood that there was another source of his bad mood: boredom. He'd just finished analyzing the evidence for a complicated organized crime case and was facing several weeks with nothing to do. So he was buoyed by the thought of another job. Like Sachs's craving speed, Rhyme needed problems, challenges, input. One of the difficulties with a severe disability that few people focus on is the absence of anything new. The same settings, the same people, the same activities . . . and the same platitudes, the same empty reassurances, the same reports from unemotional doctors.
What had saved his life after his injury--literally, since he'd been considering assisted suicide--was his tentative steps back into his prior passion: using science to solve crimes.
You could never be bored when you confronted mystery.
Thom persisted, "Are you sure you're up for it? You're looking a little pale."
"Haven't been to the beach lately, you know."
"All right. Just checking."
Then Rhyme's phone blared and Detective Lieutenant Lon Sellitto's number showed up on caller ID.
Rhyme used a working finger on his right hand to answer.
"Lon."
"Linc, listen, here's the thing." He was harried and, to judge from the surround-sound acoustics piping through the speaker, apparently driving somewhere quickly. "We may have a terrorist situation going on."
"Situation? That's not very specific."
"Okay, how's this? Somebody fucked with the power company, shot a five-thousand-degree spark at a Metro bus and shut down the electric grid for six square blocks south of Lincoln Center. That specific enough for you?"
