Page 145 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“Because,” I tell him, “brass is the metal of keys.” I scoff. “And, don’t put it down, Lincoln. Brassdoesdefine a whole section of the orchestra.”

Lincoln is shaking his head. “We found dried blood at theLocksmith’s scenes. We dated it to about the time your father was stabbed to death. Never made the connection.”

As if he’s speaking to himself.

I move on.

“You’ve been banned from working for the NYPD. You’re in your condition.” I glance at the chair. “I’d think you’d welcome death. You’ve taught your wife and your protégés your skill. Passing on the torch. Do you have nerves in your neck?”

Lincoln says sourly, “I have nerves everywhere.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I havesensationin my neck. Nowhere below my shoulders.”

“I don’t want you to be in pain. So the jugular’s out. But if I were to slice through the veins in your arms, you’d feel nothing?”

“Not true. I’d feel pretty pissed off.”

How can I not smile? “You’re a puzzle, Lincoln. Just like the best locks. Riddles and pin tumblers have a lot in common. You know Richard Feynman?”

“Of course. Physicist. One of the creators of the atom bomb.”

“He loved locks. There wasn’t much to do in Alamogordo when he was off the clock. He’d amuse himself by cracking the combination locks of the filing cabinets that held the nuclear weapons’ secrets. Locks, puzzles …”

This has gone on for too long and now it’s time to leave. I’m eager for my Visit with Taylor Soames and, perhaps, Roonie.

Stretch your hamstrings slowly and be sure to wear leg warmers …

I start toward him.

He tilts his head. “Before you do this. Please. Answer a question.”

I pause.

“What would your idea of hell be?”

There’s only one: being trapped forever in a place where I can’tpeer into private lives, can’t slip into their bedrooms and bend close enough to feel their sleep heat radiate from their bodies. Can’t cut open their secrets.

Can’t cut open their bodies …

I do not answer him, of course.

But it seems I don’t need to. I see in Lincoln Rhyme’s face what might be a cast of perfect understanding. This is followed by the narrowest of narrowing eyes, which connote sorrow and regret.

And I realize to my utter shock, this look is conveying sympathy not for himself, but forme.

Oh, Christ, no!

The door to the second parlor, across the entryway, flies open and a half-dozen men and women, some in uniform, all with guns drawn, charge out. I’m not surprised to see Amelia in the front and I now understand what she said over the phone were lines that had been scripted to make me believe that she was downtown.

They are shouting, so loud I can feel the words in my chest, “Drop it, drop the weapon!” I’m so shocked that I’m frozen and incapable of moving, incapable of relaxing my grip on the knife.

Being trapped forever in a place where I can’t peer into private lives …

I consider taking a step toward them.

And letting that be the end.

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