The Empty Chair (12 page)

Nitrates

Camphene

Rhyme stared at the charts. Finally he said, "Thom, make a call. Mel Cooper."

The aide picked up the phone, dialed from memory.

Cooper, who worked with NYPD forensics, weighed in at probably half Ben's weight. He looked like a timid actuary and he was one of the top forensic lab men in the country.

"Can you speaker me, Thom?"

A button was pushed and a moment later the soft tenor of Cooper's voice said, "Hello, Lincoln. Something tells me you're not in the hospital."

"How'd you figure that one out, Mel?"

"Didn't take much deductive reasoning. Caller ID says Paquenoke County Government Building. Delaying your operation?"

"No. Just helping out on a case here. Listen, Mel, I don't have much time and I need some information about a substance called camphene. Ever hear of it?"

"No. But hold on. I'll go into the database."

Rhyme heard frantic clicking. Cooper was also the fastest keyboarder Rhyme had ever met.

"Okay, here we go . . . Interesting . . ."

"I don't need
interesting
, Mel. I need facts."

"It's a terpene – carbon and hydrogen. Derived from plants. It used to be an ingredient in pesticides but it was banned in the early eighties. Its main use was in the late 1800s. It was used for fuel in lamps. It was state-of-the-art at the time – replaced whale oil. Common as natural gas back then. You're trying to track down an unsub?"

"He's not an unknown subject, Mel. He's
extremely
known. We just can't find him. Old lamps? So trace camphene probably means that he's been hiding out someplace built in the nineteenth century."

"Likely. But there's another possibility. Says here that camphene's only present use is in fragrances."

"What sort?"

"Perfumes, aftershave and cosmetics mostly."

Rhyme considered this. "What percentage of a finished fragrance product is camphene?" he asked.

"Trace only. Parts per thousand."

Rhyme had always told his forensic teams never to be afraid to make bold deductions in analyzing the evidence. Still, he was painfully aware of the short time the two women might have to live and he felt they had only enough resources now to pursue one of these potential leads.

"We'll have to play the odds on this one," he announced. "We'll assume the camphene's from old lanterns, not fragrances, and act accordingly. Now, listen, Mel, I'm also going to be sending you a photocopy of a key. I need you to trace it."

"Easy. From a car?"

"I don't know."

"House?"

"Don't know."

"Recent?"

"No clue."

Cooper said dubiously, "May be less easy than I thought. But get it to me and I'll do what I can."

When they disconnected, Rhyme ordered Ben to photocopy both sides of the key and fax it to Cooper. Then he tried Sachs on the radio. It wasn't working. He called her on her cell phone.

"'Lo?"

"Sachs, it's me."

"What's wrong with the radio?" she asked.

"There's no reception."

"Which way should we go, Rhyme? We're across the river but we lost the trail. And, frankly" – her voice fell to a whisper – "the natives're restless. Lucy wants to boil me for dinner."

"I've got the basic analysis done but I don't know what to do with all the data – I'm waiting for that man from the factory in Blackwater Landing. Henry Davett. He should be here any minute. But listen, Sachs, there's something else I have to tell you. I found significant trace of ammonia and nitrates on Garrett's clothes and in the shoe he lost."

"A bomb?" she asked, her hollow voice revealing her dismay.

"Looks that way. And that fishing line you found's too light to do any serious fishing. I think he's using it for trip wires to set off the device. Go slow. Look for traps. If you see something that looks like a clue just remember that it might be rigged."

"Will do, Rhyme."

"Sit tight. I hope to have some directions for you soon."

• • •

Garrett and Lydia had covered another three or four miles.

The sun was high now. It was noon maybe, or close to it, and the day was hot as a tailpipe. The bottled water that Lydia had drunk at the quarry had quickly leached from her system and she was faint from the heat and thirst.

As if he sensed this Garrett said, "We'll be there soon. It's cooler. And I got more water."

The ground was open here. Broken forests, marshes. No houses, no roads. There were many old paths branching in different directions. It would be almost impossible for anyone searching for them to figure out which way they'd gone – the paths were like a maze.

Garrett nodded down one of these narrow paths, rocks to the left, a twenty-foot drop off to the right. They walked about a half-mile along this route and then he stopped. He looked back.

When he seemed satisfied that no one was nearby he stepped into the bushes and returned with a nylon string – like thin fishing line – that he ran across the path just above the ground. It was nearly impossible to see. He connected it to a stick, which in turn propped up a three- or four-gallon glass bottle, filled with a milky liquid. There was some residue on the side and she got a whiff of it – ammonia. She was horrified. Was it a bomb? she wondered. As a nurse on ER duty she'd treated several teenagers who'd been hurt making homemade explosives. She remembered how their blackened skin had actually been shattered by the detonation.

"You can't do that," she whispered.

"I don't want any shit from you." He snapped his fingernails. "I'm gonna finish up here and then we're going home."

Home?

Lydia stared, numb, at the large bottle as he covered it with boughs.

Garrett pulled her down the path once more. Despite the increasing heat of the day he was moving faster now and she struggled to keep up with Garrett, who seemed to get dirtier by the minute, covered with dust and flecks of dead leaves. It was as if he were slowly turning into an insect himself every step they got farther from civilization. It reminded her of some story she was supposed to read in school but never finished.

"Up there." Garrett nodded toward a hill. "There's a place we'll stay. Go on to the ocean in the morning."

Her uniform was soaked with sweat. The top two buttons of the white outfit were undone and the white of her bra was visible. The boy kept glancing at the rounded skin of her breasts. But she hardly cared; at the moment she wanted only to escape from the Outside, to get into some cooling shade, wherever he was taking her.

Fifteen minutes later they broke from the woods and into a clearing. In front of them was an old gristmill, surrounded by reeds, cattails, tall grass. It sat beside a stream that had largely been taken over by the swamp. One wing of the mill had burnt down. Amid the rubble stood a scorched chimney – what was called a "Sherman Monument," after the Union general who burned houses and buildings during his march to the sea, leaving a landscape of blackened chimneys behind him.

Garrett led her into the front part of the mill, the portion that had been untouched by the fire. He pushed her through the doorway and swung the heavy oak door shut, bolted it. For a long moment he stood listening. When he seemed satisfied that no one was following he handed her another bottle of water. She fought the urge to gulp down the whole container. She filled her mouth, let it sit, feeling the sting against her parched mouth, then swallowed slowly.

When she finished he took the bottle away from her, untaped her hands and retaped them behind her back. "You have to do that?" she asked angrily.

He rolled his eyes at the foolishness of the question. He eased her to the floor. "Sit there and keep your goddamn mouth shut." Garrett sat against the opposite wall and closed his eyes. Lydia cocked her head toward the window and listened for the sounds of helicopters or swamp boats or the baying of the search party's dogs. But she heard only Garrett's breathing, which she decided in her despair was really the sound of God Himself abandoning her.

10

A figure appeared in the doorway, accompanying Jim Bell.

He was a man in his fifties, thinning hair and a round, distinguished face. A blue blazer was over his arm and his white shirt was perfectly pressed and heavily starched though darkened with sweat stains under the arms. A striped tie was stuck in place with a bar.

Rhyme had thought this might be Henry Davett but the criminalist's eyes were one aspect of his physical body that had come through his accident unscathed – his vision was perfect – and he read the monogram on the man's tie bar from ten feet away: WWJD.

William? Walter? Wayne?

Rhyme didn't have a clue who he might be.

The man looked at Rhyme, squinted appraisingly and nodded. Then Jim Bell said, "Henry, I'd like you to meet Lincoln Rhyme."

So, not a monogram. This
was
Davett. Rhyme nodded back to the man, concluding that the tie bar had probably been his father's. William Ward Jonathan Davett.

He stepped into the room. His fast eyes took in the equipment. "Ah, you know chromatographs?" Rhyme asked, observing a flicker of recognition.

"My Research and Development Department has a couple of them. But this model . . ." He shook his head critically. "They don't even make it anymore. Why're you using it?"

"State budget, Henry," Bell said.

"I'll send one over."

"Not necessary."

"This is garbage," the man said gruffly. "I'll get a new one here in twenty minutes."

Rhyme said, "
Getting
the evidence isn't the problem. Interpreting it is. That's why I can use your help. This is Ben Kerr, my forensic assistant."

They shook hands. Ben seemed relieved that another able-bodied person was in the room.

"Sit down, Henry," Bell said, rolling an office chair up to him. The man sat and, leaning forward somewhat, carefully smoothed his tie. The gesture, his posture, the tiny dots of his confident eyes coalesced in Rhyme's perception and he thought: charming, smart . . . and one hell of a tough businessman.

Rhyme wondered again about WWJD. He wasn't sure he'd solved the puzzle.

"This is about those women who got kidnapped, isn't it?"

Bell nodded. "Nobody's really coming right out and saying it but in the back of our minds . . ." He looked at Rhyme and Ben. ". . . We're thinking Garrett might've already raped and killed Mary Beth, dumped her body someplace."

Twenty-four hours . . .

The sheriff continued, "But we've still got a chance to save Lydia, we're hoping. And we have to stop Garrett before he goes after somebody else."

The businessman said angrily, "And Billy, that was such a shame. I heard he was just being a Good Samaritan, trying to save Mary Beth, and got himself killed."

"Garrett crushed his head in with a shovel. It was pretty bad."

"So time's at a premium. What can I do?" Davett turned to Rhyme. "You said interpreting something?"

"We have some clues as to where Garrett's been and where he might be headed with Lydia. I was hoping you might know something about the area around here and might be able to help us."

Davett nodded. "I know the lay of the land pretty well. I have geology and chemical engineering degrees. I've also lived in Tanner's Corner all my life so I'm pretty familiar with Paquenoke County."

Rhyme nodded toward the evidence charts. "Can you look at those and give us any thoughts? We're trying to link those clues to a specific location."

Bell added, "It'll probably be someplace they could get to by foot. Garrett doesn't like cars. He won't drive."

Davett put on eyeglasses and eased his head back, looking up at the wall.

FOUND AT PRIMARY CRIME SCENE –

BLACKWATER LANDING

Kleenex with Blood

Limestone Dust

Nitrates

Phosphate

Ammonia

Detergent

Camphene

FOUND AT SECONDARY CRIME SCENE –

GARETT'S ROOM

Skunk Musk

Cut Pine Needles

Drawings of Insects

Pictures of Mary Beth and Family

Insect Books

Fishing Line

Money

Unknown Key

Kerosene

Ammonia

Nitrates

Camphene

Davett scanned the list up and down, taking his time, eyes narrowing several times. A faint frown. "Nitrates and ammonia? You know what that could be?"

Rhyme nodded. "I think he left some explosive devices to stop the search party. I've told them about it."

Grimacing, Davett returned to the chart. "The camphene . . . I think that was used in old lanterns. Like coal-oil lamps."

"That's right. So we think the place he's got Mary Beth is old. Nineteenth century."

"There must be thousands of old houses and barns and shacks around here . . . What else? Limestone dust . . . That's not going to narrow things down much. There's a huge ridge of limestone that runs all the way through Paquenoke County. It used to be a big moneymaker here." He rose and moved his finger diagonally along the map from the southern edge of the Great Dismal Swamp to the southwest, from Location L-4 to C-14. "You could find limestone anywhere along that line. That won't do you much good. But" – he stepped back, crossed his arms – "the phosphate's helpful. North Carolina's a major producer of phosphate but it's not mined around here. That's farther south. So, combined with the detergent, I'd say he's been near polluted water."

"Hell," Jim Bell said, "that just means he's been in the Paquenoke."

"No," Davett said, "the Paquo's clean as well water. It's dark but it's fed by the Dismal Swamp and Lake Drummond."

"Oh, it's magic water," the sheriff said.

"What's that?" Rhyme asked.

Davett explained. "Some of us old-timers call the water from the Great Dismal magic water. It's full of tannic acid from decaying cypress and juniper trees. The acid kills bacteria so it stays fresh for a long time – before refrigeration they'd use it for drinking water on sailing ships. People used to think it had magic properties."