"I figured."
Fifteen minutes earlier, as Sachs had waited at the door, she'd decided to use Sommers's current detector once more to double-check that there was no electricity in the school.
To her horror she saw the metal door she was inches away from contained 220 volts. And the concrete she was standing on was soaking wet. She realized that whether or not Galt was inside, he'd rigged wires to the metal infrastructure of the school. Probably from a diesel-powered generator; that was the racket they'd heard.
If Galt had rigged the door he would have rigged the fire escape as well. She'd leapt to her feet then and charged after Pulaski as he approached the ladder. She didn't dare call his name, even in a whisper, because if Galt was in the school, he'd hear and start shooting.
So she'd used Taser on Pulaski.
She carried an X26 model, which fired probes that delivered both high-and low-voltage charges. The X26 had a range of about thirty-five feet, and when she saw that she couldn't tackle the officer in time, she'd hit him with the double probes. The neuromuscular incapacitation dropped him where he stood. He'd fallen hard on his shoulder, but, thank God, hadn't struck his head again. Sachs dragged him, gasping and quivering, to cover. She'd found and shut the generator off just as the ESU officers arrived, blowing open the chain on the front gate and storming the school.
"You look a little woozy."
"Was quite a rush," Pulaski said, breathing deeply.
She said, "Take it easy."
"I'm okay. I'm helping the scene." He blinked like a drunk. "I mean helping you search the scene."
"You're up for it?"
"Long as I don't move too fast. But, listen, keep that thing of yours, that box that Charlie Sommers gave you? Keep it handy, okay? I'm not touching anything until you go over it."
The first thing they did was walk the grid around the generator behind the school. Pulaski collected and bagged the wires that had carried the charge to the door and fire escapes. Sachs herself searched around the generator. It was a big unit several feet high and about three long. A placard on the side reported that its maximum output was 5,000 watts, producing 41 amps.
About four hundred times what was needed to kill you.
Nodding at the unit. "Could you pack it up and get it to Rhyme's?" she asked the crime scene team from Queens, who'd just joined them. It weighed about two hundred pounds.
"You bet, Amelia. We'll get it there ASAP."
She said to Pulaski, "Let's walk the grid inside."
They were heading into the school when Sachs's phone rang. "Rhyme" popped up on caller ID.
"About time," she said good-naturedly as she answered. "I've got some--"
"Amelia." It was Thom's voice, but the tone was one she'd never heard before. "You better come back here. You better come now."
Chapter 64
BREATHING HARD, SACHS hurried up the ramp and pushed open the door to Rhyme's town house.
Jogging across the foyer, boots slapping hard, she ran into the den, to the right, opposite the lab.
Thom looked toward her from where he was standing over Lincoln Rhyme in his wheelchair, eyes closed, face pale and damp. Between them was one of Rhyme's doctors, a solidly built African American, a former football star in college.
"Dr. Ralston," she said, breathing hard.
He nodded. "Amelia."
Finally Rhyme's eyes opened. "Ah, Sachs." The voice was weak.
"How are you?"
"No, no, how are you?"
"I'm fine."
"And the rookie?"
"He nearly had a problem, but it worked out okay."
Rhyme said in a stiff voice, "It was a generator, right?"
"Yes, how did you know? Did Crime Scene call?"
"No, I figured it out. Diesel fuel and herbs from Chinatown. The fact that there didn't seem to be any juice in the school. I figured out it was a trap. But had a little problem before I could call."
"Didn't matter, Rhyme," she said. "I figured it out too."
And didn't tell him how close Pulaski had come to getting electrocuted.
"Well, good. I . . . Good."
She understood that he was thinking how he'd failed. How he'd nearly gotten one or both of them injured or killed. Normally he'd have been furious; a tantrum might have ensued. He'd want a drink, he'd insult people, he'd revel in sarcasm, all of which was directed toward himself, of course, as she and Thom knew very well.
But this was different. There was something about his eyes, something she didn't like one bit. Oddly, for someone with such a severe disability, there was rarely anything vulnerable about Lincoln Rhyme. Now, with this failure, he radiated weakness.
She found she had to look away and turned to the doctor, who said, "He's out of danger. Blood pressure's down." He then turned to Rhyme; even more than most patients, spinal cord injury victims hate being discussed in the third person. Which happens a lot. "Stay in the chair and out of bed as much as you can, and make sure bladder and bowel are taken care of. Loose clothes and socks."
Rhyme nodded. "Why did it happen now?"
"Stress probably, combined with pressure somewhere. Internally, shoes, garments. You know how dysreflexia works. Mostly it's a mystery."
"How long was I out?"
Thom said, "Forty minutes, off and on."
He rocked his head back in the chair. "Forty," he whispered. Sachs understood he'd be replaying his failure. Which had nearly cost her and Pulaski their lives.
Now he was staring toward the lab. "Where's the evidence?"
"I came here first. Ron's on his way. We needed some people from Queens to get the generator. It weighs a couple of hundred pounds."
"Ron's coming?"
"That's right," she confirmed, noting that she'd just told him this and wondering if the episode had made him disoriented. Maybe the doctor had given him a painkiller. Dysreflexia is accompanied by excruciating headaches.
"Good. He'll be here soon? Ron?"
A hesitant glance at Thom.
"Any minute now," she said.
Dr. Ralston said, "Lincoln, I'd rather you took it easy for the rest of the day."
Rhyme was hesitating, looking down. Was he actually going to give in to a request like this?
But he said in a soft voice, "I'm sorry, Doctor. I really can't. There's a case . . . it's important."
"The grid thing? The terrorists?"
"Yes. I hope you don't mind." His eyes were downcast. "I'm sorry. I really have to work it."
Sachs and Thom exchanged glances. Rhyme's apologetic mien was atypical, to put it mildly.
And, again, the vulnerability in his eyes.
"I know it's important, Lincoln. I can't force you to do anything. Just remember what I said: Stay upright and avoid any kinds of pressure on your body, inside and out. I guess it won't do any good to say avoid stress. Not with this madman on the loose."
"Thank you. And thank you, Thom."
The aide blinked and nodded uneasily.
Again, though, Rhyme was hesitating, staring down. Not driving into the parlor lab with all the speed the Storm Arrow could muster, which he'd be doing under other circumstances. And even when the front door to the town house opened and they could hear Pulaski and the other crime scene technicians hurrying in with the evidence, Rhyme remained where he was, staring down.
"Li--" Sachs found herself saying and braking her words to a halt--their superstition again. "Rhyme? You want to go into the lab?"
"Yes, sure."
But still staring down. Not moving.
Alarmed, she wondered if he was having another attack.
Then he swallowed and moved the controller of the wheelchair. His face melted with relief and she understood what had been happening: Rhyme was worried--terrified--that the attack had caused yet more damage, that perhaps even the rudimentary mobility he'd achieved in his right hand and fingers had been erased.
That's what he'd been staring at: his hand. But apparently there'd been no damage.
"Come on, Sachs," he said, though softly. "We've got work to do."
Chapter 65
THE POOL PARLOR was looking like a crack house, R.C. decided.
He'd talk to his father about it.
The thirty-year-old pressed his pale hands around his beer bottle, watching the games at the pool tables. Snuck a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the exhaust vent. That smoking law was fucking stupid. His father said the socialists in Washington were to blame. They didn't mind sending kids to get killed in places with names you couldn't pronounce but they had to say, fuck you, no smoking.
Eyes on the pool tables. The fast one on the end might be trouble--there was serious money on it--but Stipp had the baseball bat behind the bar. And he liked to swing.
Speaking of which. Goddamn Mets. He grabbed the remote.
Boston didn't make him feel any better.
Then he put on the news about the crazy man screwing around with electricity. R.C.'s brother was handy and did a fair amount of electrical work, but wiring always scared him.
And now people around town were getting fried.
"You hear about that shit?" he asked Stipp.
"Yeah, which shit is that?" He had a cast eye, or one that didn't look right at you, if that's what a cast eye was.
"About the electricity thing? Some dude hooking up wires at that hotel? You touched the door handle and, zzzzzzz, you're dead."
"Oh, that shit." Stipp coughed a funky laugh. "Like the electric chair."
"Like that. Only it could be stairs or a puddle or those metal doors on the sidewalk. Elevators to the basements."
"You walk on them and get zapped?"
"I guess. Fuck. And you push those metal WALK buttons in the crosswalks. That's it. You're fucked."
"What's he doing it for?"
"Fuck knows. . . . The electric chair, you piss your pants and your hair catches fire. You know that? That's what kills you sometimes, the fire. Burns you to death."
"Most states got injection." Stipp frowned. "You probably still piss your pants."
R.C. was eyeing Janie in her tight blouse and trying to remember when his wife was coming by to pick up the grocery money, when the door opened and a couple of people came in. Two guys in delivery company uniforms, maybe early shifters, which was good, because they'd be spending money now that their day was over.
Then right behind them, a homeless guy pushed inside too.
Fuck.
The black guy, in filthy clothes, had abandoned a grocery cart of empties on the sidewalk and more or less run in here. He was now turning his back, staring out the window, scratching his leg. And then his head, under a disgusting cap.
R.C. caught the bartender's eye and shook his head no.
"Hey, mister," Stipp called. "Help you?"
"Something weird out there," the man muttered. He talked to himself for a moment. Then louder: "Something I saw. Something I don' like." And he gave a high-pitched laugh that R.C. thought was pretty weird in itself.
"Yeah, well, take it outside, okay?"
"You see that?" the bum asked no one.
"Come on, buddy."
But the man tottered to the bar, sat down. Spent a moment digging out some damp bills and a ton of change. He counted the coins carefully.
"Sorry, sir. I think you've had plenty."
"I ain't had no drink. You see that guy? The guy with the wire?"
Wire?
R.C. and Stipp eyed each other.
"Crazy shit going down in this town." He turned his mad eyes on R.C. "Fucker was right outside. By that, you know, lamppost. He was doing something. Playing with the wires. You hear what's going down around here? Peoples gettin' their asses fried."
R.C. wandered to the window past the guy, who stank so bad he felt like puking. But he looked out and saw the lamppost. Was that a wire attached? He couldn't tell. Was that terrorist around here? The Lower East Side?
Well, why not?
If he wanted to kill innocent citizens, this was as good a place as any.
R.C. said to the homeless guy, "Listen, man, get outa here."
"I wanna drink."
"Well, you're not getting a drink." Eyes outside again. R.C. was thinking he did see some cables or wires or shit. What was going on? Was somebody fucking with the bar itself? R.C. was thinking of all the metal in the place. The bar footrest, the sinks, the doorknobs, the register. Hell, the urinal was metal. If you peed, would the current run up the stream to your dick?
"You don't unnerstand, don't unnerstand!" the homeless guy was wailing, getting even weirder. "It ain't safe out there. Look outside. Ain't safe. That asshole with the wires . . . I'ma staying in here till it safe."
R.C., the bartender, Janie, the pool players and the delivery guys were all staring out the window now. The games had been suspended. R.C.'s interest in Janie had shriveled.
"Not safe, man. Gimme a vodka and Coke."
"Out. I'm not telling you again."
"You don't think I can pay you. I got fucking money here. What you call this?"
The man's odor had wafted throughout the bar. It was repulsive.
Sometimes you burn to death . . .
"The wire man, the wire man . . ."
"Get the fuck out. Somebody's going to steal your fucking grocery cart."
"I ain't going out there. You can't make me go. I ain't getting burnt up."
"Out."
"No!" The disgusting asshole slammed his fist down on the bar. "You ain't service . . . you ain't serving me," he corrected, " 'cause I'm black."
R.C. saw a flash on the street. He gasped. Then he relaxed. It was just a reflection off the windshield of a passing car. Getting spooked like that made him all the angrier. "We ain't servicing you 'cause you stink and you're a prick. Out."
The man had assembled all his wet bills and sticky coins. He must've had twenty dollars. He muttered, "You the prick. You throwing me out and I'll go out there and get burnt up."
"Just take your money and get out." Stipp picked up the bat and displayed it.
The man didn't care. "You throw me out I'ma tell ever'body what goes on here. I know what goes on here, you think I don't? I seen you looking at Miss Titty over there. An', shame on you, you got a wedding ring on. Whatta Mrs. Prick think 'bout--"
R.C. grabbed the guy's disgusting jacket with both hands.
When the black guy winced in panic and cried, "Don' hit me! I'm a, you know, a cop! I'm a agent!"
"You're no fucking law." R.C. drew back for a head butt.
In a fraction of a second the FBI ID appeared in his face, and the Glock wasn't far behind.
"Oh, fuck me," R.C. muttered.
One of the two white guys who'd come in just before him said, "Duly witnessed, Fred. He attempted to cause bodily harm after you identified yourself as a law enforcement officer. We get back to work now?"
"Thanks, gentlemen. I'll take it from here."
Chapter 66
IN THE CORNER of the pool parlor, Fred Dellray sat on a wobbly chair, the back turned around, facing the youngster. It was a little less intimidating--the back of the chair in between them--but that was okay because the agent didn't need R.C. to be so afraid he couldn't think straight.
Though he needed him to be a little afraid.
"You know what I am, R.C.?"
The sigh shook the skinny kid's entire body. "No, I mean, I know you're an FBI agent and you're undercover. But I don't know why you're hassling me."
Dellray kept right on going, "What I am is a walking lie detector. I been in the business so long I can look at a girl and hear her say, 'Let's go home and we can fuck,' and I know she's thinking, He'll be so drunk by the time we get there I can just get some sleep."
"I was just protecting myself. You were intimidating me."
"Fuck, yes, I was intimidating you. And you can just close your lips and not say a word and wait for a lawyer to come by and hold your hand. You can even call the federal building and complain about me. But, e
ither which way, word's going to get to your daddy in Sing-Sing that his kid hassled an FBI agent. And he's going to think that running this shithole bar, the one thing he left to you to keep an eye on while he's inside and hoped you didn't fuck up, you fucked up."
Dellray watched him squirm. "So, we all together on that?"
"Whatta you want?"
And just to make sure the back of the chair didn't make R.C. feel too much at ease, Dellray slapped his hand on the kid's thigh and squeezed hard.
"Ouch. Why'd you do that?"
"You ever been polygraphed, R.C.?"
"No, Dad's lawyer said never--"
"It's a rhe-tor-i-cal question," Dellray said, even though it wasn't. It was just a way to burst a little intimidation over R.C.'s head like a tear gas grenade at a protest.
The agent gave another squeeze for good measure. He couldn't help thinking: Hey, McDaniel, can't do this while you're eavesdropping in the cloud zone, can you?
Which's too bad. 'Cause this is a lot more fun.
Fred Dellray was here thanks to one person: Serena. The favor that she'd asked had nothing to do with cleaning the basement. It was about getting off his ass. She'd led him downstairs into the messy storeroom, where he kept his outfits from his days as an undercover agent. She found one in particular, sealed up in the same kind of plastic bag that you used for wedding dresses. It was the Homeless Drunk costume, suitably perfumed with mold and sufficient human odor--and a little cat pee--to get a confession just by sitting down next to a suspect.
Serena had said, "You lost your snitch. Quit feeling sorry for yourself and go pick up his trail. If you can't find him, then find out what he found."
Dellray had smiled, hugged her and gone to change. As he left, Serena said, "Whoa, you smell bad, son." And gave him a playful swat on the butt. A gesture very, very few people had ever bestowed on Fred Dellray.
And he hit the street.
William Brent was good at hiding tracks, but Dellray was good at finding them. One thing he'd learned, encouragingly, was that maybe Brent had been on the job after all. Dellray found by tracing his movements that the CI had come up with a lead to Galt or to Justice For the Earth or something relevant to the attacks. The man had been working hard, tracking deep undercover. Finally he'd learned Brent had come here, to this dark pool parlor, where apparently the CI had sought, and ideally gotten, important information from the young man whose knee Dellray had just vise-gripped.
Dellray now said, "So. My cards. On the table. Are we havin' fun yet?"