O WAY, RHYME. YOU CAN'T DO IT."

Berger looked on uneasily. Rhyme supposed that in this line of work he'd seen all sorts of hysterical scenarios played out at moments like this. The biggest problem Berger'd have wasn't those wanting to die but those who wanted everyone else to live.

Thom pounded on the door.

"Thom," Rhyme called. "It's all right. You can leave us." Then to Sachs: "We've said our farewells. You and me. It's bad form to ruin a perfect exit."

"You can't do this."

Who'd blown the whistle? Pete Taylor maybe. The doctor must've guessed that he and Thom were lying.

Rhyme saw her eyes slip to the three items on the table. The gifts of the Magi: the brandy, the pills and the plastic bag. Also a rubber band, similar to the ones Sachs still wore on her shoes. (How many times had he come home from a crime scene to find Blaine staring at the bands on his shoes, horrified? "Everybody'll think my husband can't afford new shoes. He's keeping the soles on with rubber bands. Honestly, Lincoln!")

"Sachs, take the cuffs off the good doctor here. I'll have to ask you to leave one last time."

She barked a fast laugh. "Excuse me. This's a crime in New York. The DA could bootstrap it into murder, he wanted to."

Berger said, "I'm just having a conversation with a patient."

"That's why the charge's only attempt. So far. Maybe we should run your name and prints through NCIC. See what we come up with."

"Lincoln," Berger said quickly, alarmed. "I can't —"

"We'll get it worked out," Rhyme said. "Sachs, please."

Feet apart, hands on trim hips, her gorgeous face imperious. "Let's go," she barked to the doctor.

"Sachs, you have no idea how important this is."

"I won't let you kill yourself."

"Let me?" Rhyme snapped. "Let me? And why exactly do I need your permission?"

Berger said, "Miss... Officer Sachs, it's his decision and it's completely consensual. Lincoln's more informed than most of the patients I deal with."

"Patients? Victims, you mean."

"Sachs!" Rhyme blurted, trying to keep the desperation from his voice. "It's taken me a year to find someone to help me."

"Maybe because it's wrong. Ever consider that? Why now, Rhyme? Right in the middle of the case?"

"If I have another attack and a stroke, I might lose all ability to communicate. I could be conscious for forty years and completely unable to move. And if I'm not brain-dead, nobody in the universe is going to pull the plug. At least now I'm still able to communicate my decisions."

"But why?" she blurted.

"Why not?" Rhyme answered. "Tell me. Why not?"

"Well..." It seemed as if the arguments against suicide were so obvious she was having trouble articulating them. "Because..."

"Because why, Sachs?"

"For one thing, it's cowardly."

Rhyme laughed. "Do you want to debate it, Sachs? Do you? Fair enough. 'Cowardly,' you say. That leads us to Sir Thomas Browne: 'When life is more terrible than death, it's the truest valor to live.' Courage in the face of insurmountable adversity... A classic argument in favor of living. But if that's true then why anesthetize patients before surgery? Why sell aspirin? Why fix broken arms? Why is Prozac the most prescribed medicine in America? Sorry, but there's nothing intrinsically good about pain."

"But you're not in pain."

"And how do you define pain, Sachs? Maybe the absence of all feeling can be pain too."

"You can contribute so much. Look at all you know. All the forensics, all the history."

"The social-contribution argument. That's a popular one." He glanced at Berger but the medico remained silent. Rhyme saw his interest dip to the bone sitting on the table — the pale disk of spinal column. He picked it up, kneaded it in his cuffed hands. He was a former orthopedics man, Rhyme recalled.

He continued to Sachs, "But who says we should contribute anything to life? Besides, the corollary is I might contribute something bad. I might cause some harm too. To myself or someone else."

"That's what life is."

Rhyme smiled. "But I'm choosing death, not life."

Sachs looked uneasy as she thought hard. "It's just... death isn't natural. Life is."

"No? Freud'd disagree with you. He gave up on the pleasure principle and came to feel that there was another force — a non-erotic primary aggression, he called it. Working to unbind the connections we build in life. Our own destruction's a perfectly natural force. Everything dies; what's more natural than that?"

Again she worried a portion of her scalp.

"All right," she said. "Life's more of a challenge to you than most people. But I thought... everything I've seen about you tells me you're somebody who likes challenges."

"Challenges? Let me tell you about challenges. I was on a ventilator for a year. See the tracheotomy scar on my neck? Well, through positive-pressure breathing exercises — and the greatest willpower I could muster — I managed to get off the machine. In fact I've got lungs like nobody's business. They're as strong as yours. In a C4 quad that's one for the books, Sachs. It consumed my life for eight months. Do you understand what I'm saying? Eight months just to handle a basic animal function. I'm not talking about painting the Sistine Chapel or playing the violin. I'm talking about fucking breathing."

"But you could get better. Next year, they might find a cure."

"No. Not next year. Not in ten years."

"You don't know that. They must be doing research —"

"Sure they are. Want to know what? I'm an expert. Transplanting embryonic nerve tissue onto damaged tissue to promote axonal regeneration." These words tripped easily from his handsome lips. "No significant effect. Some doctors are chemically treating the affected areas to create an environment where cells can regenerate. No significant effect — not in advanced species. Lower forms of life show pretty good success. If I were a frog I'd be walking again. Well, hopping."

"So there are people working on it?" Sachs asked.

"Sure. But no one expects any breakthroughs for twenty, thirty years."

"If they were expected," she shot back, "then they wouldn't be breakthroughs, now would they?"

Rhyme laughed. She was good.

Sachs tossed the veil of red hair from her eyes and said, "Your career was law enforcement, remember. Suicide's illegal."

"It's a sin too," he responded. "The Dakota Indians believed that the ghosts of those who committed suicide had to drag around the tree they'd hanged themselves from for all eternity. Did that stop suicide? Nope. They just used small trees."

"Tell you what, Rhyme. Here's my last argument." She nodded at Berger, grabbed the cuff chain. "I'm taking him in and booking him. Refute that one."

"Lincoln," Berger said uneasily, panic in his eyes.

Sachs took the doctor by the shoulder and led him to the door. "No," he said. "Please. Don't do this."

As Sachs opened the door Rhyme called out, "Sachs, before you do that, answer me something."

She paused. One hand on the knob.

"One question."

She looked back.

"Have you ever wanted to? Kill yourself?"

She unlocked the door with a loud snap.

He said, "Answer me!"

Sachs didn't open the door. She stood with her back to him. "No. Never."

"Are you happy with your life?"

"As much as anybody."

"You're never depressed?"

"I didn't say that. I said I've never wanted to kill myself."

"You like to drive, you were telling me. People who like to drive like to drive fast. You do, don't you?"

"Yes. Sometimes."

"What's the fastest you've done?"

"I don't know."

"Over eighty?"

A dismissing smile. "Yes."

"Over a hundred?"

She gestured upward with her thumb.

"One ten? One twenty?" he asked, smiling in astonishment.

"Clocked at 168."

"My, Sachs, you are impressive. Well, driving that fast, didn't you think that maybe, just maybe, something might happen. A rod or axle or something would break, a tire would blow, a spot of oil on the road?"

"It was pretty safe. I'm not crazy."

"Pretty safe. But driving as fast as a small plane, well, that's not completely safe, now, is it?"

"You're leading the witness."

"No, I'm not. Stay with me. You drive that fast, you have to accept that you could have an accident and die, right?"

"Maybe," she conceded.

Berger, cuffed hands in front of him, looked on nervously, as he kneaded the pale yellow disk of spinal column.

"So you've moved close to that line, right? Ah, you know what I'm talking about. I know you do — the line between the risk of dying and the certainty of dying. See, Sachs, if you carry the dead around with you it's a very short step over that line. A short step to joining them."

She lowered her head and her face went completely still, as the curtain of hair obscured her eyes.

"Giving up the dead," he whispered, praying she wouldn't leave with Berger, knowing he was so very close to pushing her over the edge. "I touched a nerve there. How much of you wants to follow the dead? More than a little, Sachs. Oh, much more than a little."

She was hesitating. He knew he was near her heart.

She turned angrily to Berger, gripped him by the cuffs. "Come on." Pushed through the door.

Rhyme called, "You know what I'm saying, don't you?"

Again she stopped.

"Sometimes... things happen, Sachs. Sometimes you just can't be what you ought to be, you can't have what you ought to have. And life changes. Maybe just a little, maybe a lot. And at some point it just isn't worth the fight to try to fix what went wrong."

He watched them standing, motionless, in the doorway. The room was utterly silent. She turned and looked back at him.

"Death cures loneliness," Rhyme continued. "It cures tension. It cures the itch." Just like she'd glanced at his legs earlier he now gave a fast look at her torn fingers.

She released Berger's cuffs and walked to the window. Tears glistened on her cheeks in the yellow radiance from the streetlights outside.

"Sachs, I'm tired," he said earnestly. "I can't tell you how tired I am. You know how hard life is to start with. Pile on a whole mountainful of... burdens. Washing, eating, crapping, making phone calls, buttoning shirts, scratching your nose... Then pile on a thousand more. And more after that."

He fell silent. After a long moment she said, "I'll make a deal with you."

"What's that?"

She nodded toward the poster. "Eight twenty-three's got that mother and her little girl... Help us save them. Just them. If you do that I'll give him an hour alone with you." She glanced at Berger. "Provided he gets the hell out of town afterwards."

Rhyme shook his head. "Sachs, if I have a stroke, if I can't communicate..."

"If that happens," she said evenly, "even if you can't say a word, the deal still holds. I'll make sure you have one hour together." She crossed her arms, spread her feet again, in what was now Rhyme's favorite image of Amelia Sachs. He wished he could've seen her on the railroad tracks that morning, stopping the train. She said, "That's the best I'll do."

A moment passed. Rhyme nodded. "Okay. It's a deal." To Berger he said, "Monday?"

"Okay, Lincoln. Fair enough." Berger, still shaken, watched Sachs cautiously as she unlocked the cuffs. Afraid, it seemed, that she might change her mind. When he was free he walked quickly to the door. He realized he was still holding the vertebra and returned, set it — almost reverently — next to Rhyme on the crime scene report for the first murder that morning.

"Happier'n hogs in red Virginia mud," Sachs remarked, slouching in the squeaky rattan chair. Meaning Sellitto and Polling, after she'd told them that Rhyme had agreed to remain on the case for another day.

"Polling particularly," she said. "I thought the little guy was going to hug me. Don't tell him I called him that. How are you feeling? You look better." She sipped some Scotch and set the glass back on the bedside table, beside Rhyme's tumbler.

"Not bad."

Thom was changing the bedclothes. "You were sweating like a fountain," he said.

"But only above my neck," Rhyme pointed out. "Sweating, I mean."

"That right?" Sachs asked.

"Yep. That's how it works. Thermostat's busted below that. I never need any axial deodorant."

"Axial?"

"Pit," Rhyme snorted. "Armpit. My first aide never said armpit. He'd say, 'I'm going to elevate you by your axials, Lincoln.' Oh, and: 'If you feel like regurgitating go right ahead, Lincoln.' He called himself a 'caregiver.' The word was actually on his résumé. I have no idea why I hired him. We're very superstitious, Sachs. We think calling something by a different name is going to change it. Unsub. Perpetrator. But that aide, he was just a nurse who was up to his own armpits in piss 'n' puke. Right, Thom? Nothing to be ashamed of. It's an honorable profession. Messy but honorable."

"I thrive on mess. That's why I work for you."

"What're you, Thom? An aide or a caregiver?"

"I'm a saint."

"Ha, fast with the comebacks. And fast with the needle too. He brought me back from the dead. Done it more than once."

Rhyme was suddenly pierced with a fear that Sachs had seen him naked. Eyes fixed firmly on the unsub profile, he asked, "Say, do I owe you some thanks too, Sachs? Did you play Clara Barton here?" He uneasily waited for her answer, didn't know how he could look at her again if she had.

"Nup," Thom answered. "Saved you all by my lonesome. Didn't want any of these sensitive souls repulsed by the sight of your baggy rear end."

Thank you, Thom, he thought. Then barked, "Now go away. We have to talk about the case. Sachs and me."

"You need some sleep."

"Of course I do. But we still need to talk about the case. Good night, good night."

After Thom left, Sachs poured some Macallan in a glass. She lowered her head and inhaled the smoky vapors.

"Who snitched?" Rhyme asked. "Pete?"

"Who?" she asked.

"Dr. Taylor, the SCI man."

She hesitated long enough for him to know that Taylor was the one. She said finally, "He cares about you."

"Of course he does. That's the problem — I want him to care a little less. Does he know about Berger?"

"He suspects."

Rhyme grimaced. "Look, tell him that Berger's just an old friend. He... what?"

Sachs exhaled slowly, as if shooting cigarette smoke through her pursed lips. "You not only want me to let you kill yourself you want me to lie to the one person who could talk you out of it."

"He couldn't talk me out of it," Rhyme responded.

"Then why do you want me to lie?"

He laughed. "Let's just keep Dr. Taylor in the dark for a few more days."

"All right," she said. "Jesus, you're a tough person to deal with."

He examined her closely. "Why don't you tell me about it."

"About what?"

"Who's the dead? That you haven't given up?"

"There's plenty of them."

"Such as?"

"Read the newspaper."

"Come on, Sachs."

She shook her head, stared down at her Scotch with a faint smile on her lips. "No, I don't think so."

He put her silence down to reluctance about having an intimate conversation with someone she'd known only for one day. Which seemed ironic, considering she sat next to a dozen catheters, a tube of K-Y jelly and a box of Depends. Still he wasn't going to push it and said nothing more. So he was surprised when she suddenly looked up and blurted, "It's just... It's just... Oh, hell." And as the sobbing began she lifted her hands to her face, spilling a good two inches of Scotland's best all over the parquet.