The Steel Kiss

“So,” Archer said, a coy lilt to her voice, “I can’t hold two pieces behind my back for you to pick black or white. But I won’t cheat: I’m thinking of a number one through ten. Even or odd?”

Rhyme looked her over, not understanding at first. “Oh, I haven’t played for years. Anyway I don’t have a board.”

“Who needs a board? Can’t you picture one?”

“You play in your head?”

“Of course.”

Well…  He was silent for a moment.

She persisted. “Even or odd?”

“Odd.”

“It’s seven. You win the virtual toss.”

Rhyme said, “I’ll take white.”

“Good. I prefer defense…  I like to learn as much about my opponent as I can. Before I trounce them.”

The gold Celtic bracelet clinked against the controller as her fingers maneuvered her chair close to his and faced him, about three feet away.

He asked, “No time limit, you said.”

“No. But the game has to result in a mate or draw—in which case black wins—in twenty-five moves or fewer. Otherwise… ”

“We both lose.”

“We both lose. Now”—she closed her eyes—“I’m seeing the board. Are you?”

Rhyme continued to gaze at her face for a moment, the freckles, the narrow brows, the faint smile.

She opened her eyes. He looked away quickly and closed his, nestled his head back in the rest. The chessboard, fully loaded, was as clear as Central Park on a crisp spring afternoon, as today’s had been. He thought for a moment. “E2 pawn to e4.”

Archer said, “Black pawn e2 to e5.”

Rhyme imagined:

He shot back with, “White king’s knight to f3.”

Archer: “Black queen’s knight to c6. You’re seeing it clearly?”

“Yes.”

Well, she was certainly aggressive. Rhyme was pleased. No uncertainty. No hemming or hawing. He said, “White king’s bishop to c4.”

Archer snapped, “Black queen’s knight to d4.”

Her knight was now nestling between Rhyme’s bishop and pawn.

How many moves were they up to? he wondered.

“Six moves,” Archer said, unknowingly responding to his question.

He said, “White king’s knight takes black pawn on e5.”

“Ah, yes, yes.” Archer then said, “Black queen to g5.” Bringing her most powerful piece into the middle of the field. Vulnerable. Rhyme was tempted to open his eyes and see her expression. He opted for concentration.

Rhyme saw an opportunity. “White king’s knight takes black pawn on f7.” In position to take her rook. And safe from her king, because the piece was guarded by his bishop.

“Black queen takes white pawn on g2.”

Rhyme frowned. He’d have to abandon his tactics in the upper right-hand corner of the board. Her brash moves were bringing the assault to his home territory—with most of his pieces not even in play.

He said, “White king’s rook to f1.”

Archer’s buoyant voice said, “Black queen takes white pawn on e4. Check.”

Eyes still closed, Rhyme could clearly see where this was going. He chuckled. And said what he had to: “White king’s bishop to e2 to block the check.”

And there was no surprise when Juliette Archer said, “Black queen’s knight to f3. Checkmate.”

Rhyme studied the board tucked into his mind. “Fourteen moves, I think.”

“That’s right,” Archer confirmed.

“Is that a record?”

“Oh, no. I’ve won in nine. My ex in eight.”

“The game, it was elegant.” Lincoln Rhyme was a loser gracious on the surface but filled with knobby resolve not to be one again. “A rematch soon?”

After he’d practiced.

“Love to.”

“But now—the bar’s open! Thom!”

She laughed. “You’re teaching me forensics. You’re teaching me how to be a productive gimp. But I think you’re also teaching me some bad habits. I’ll pass.”

“You’re not driving,” Rhyme said. “Well, not exactly.” A nod at the Storm Arrow motor, which could propel her along the pavement at a zippy seven mph.

“Better keep a clear head anyway. I’m seeing my son tonight.”

Thom poured Rhyme’s Glenmorangie. The doorbell hummed. It was Archer’s brother, who, when Thom escorted him into the parlor, greeted them cheerfully. He seemed like a nice guy. “Fellow” was the word that fit. Rhyme wouldn’t want to spend much time with him, but he seemed the rock that his sister would need facing her life as a quad.

She wheeled toward the archway. “I’ll be back early tomorrow,” she said, echoing Sachs’s farewell.

He nodded.

She wheeled out the door, her brother behind her.

The door closed. Thom returned to the kitchen. And Rhyme was suddenly aware of the immense silence of the room. He had a curious feeling. “Hollowness” was the word that came to him.

Thom was in the kitchen. The sound of metal against metal, wood against ceramic, water filling pots, emanated from there into the parlor. But no sound of human voices. Unusual for him, he didn’t care for this manifestation of solitude.

A sip of the scotch. Rhyme was aware of the scent of garlic, meat and the perfume of vermouth, heated.

Something else too. A fragrant smell. Appealing, comforting. Ah, Sachs’s perfume.

But then he recalled that she didn’t wear any—why give the perp a clue as to your position in a potential firefight? No, the scent would have to be that, of course, of whatever Juliette Archer had worn that day.

“Dinner is served,” Thom said.