Lincoln Rhyme Series - The Bone Collector Part 2

She guessed the building was a church. Carole Ganz lay in the bas.e.m.e.nt, on the floor. A single shaft of cold, oblique light fell on the wall, illuminating a shabby picture of Jesus and a stack of mildewy Golden Book Bible stories. A half-dozen tiny chairs-for Sunday-school students, she guessed-were nested in the middle of the room. The cuffs were still on and so was the gag. He'd also tied her to a pipe near the wall with a four-foot-long piece of clothesline. On a tall table nearby she could see the top of a large gla.s.s jug. If she could knock it off she might use a piece of gla.s.s to cut the clothesline. The table seemed out of reach but she rolled over onto her side and started to squirm, like a caterpillar, toward it. This reminded her of Pammy when she was an infant, rolling on the bed between herself and Ron; she thought of her baby, alone in that horrible bas.e.m.e.nt, and started to cry. Pammy, Pooh, purse. For a moment, for a brief moment, she weakened. Wished she'd never left Chicago. No, stop thinking that way! Quit feeling sorry for yourself! This was the absolute right thing to do. You did it for Ron. And for yourself too. He'd be proud of you. Kate had told her that a thousand times, and she believed it. Struggling once more. She moved a foot closer to the table. Groggy, couldn't think straight. Her throat stung from the terrible thirst. And the mold and mildew in the air. She crawled a little farther then lay on her side, catching her breath, staring up at the table. It seemed hopeless. What's the use? she thought. Wondering what was going through Pammy's mind. You f.u.c.ker! thought Carole. I'll kill you for this! She squirmed, trying to move farther along the floor. But instead, she lost her balance and rolled onto her back. She gasped, knowing what was coming. No! With a loud pop, her wrist snapped. She screamed through the gag. Blacked out. When she came to a moment later she was overwhelmed with nausea. No, no, no ... If she vomited she'd die. With the gag on, that would be it. Fight it down! Fight it. Come on. You can do it. Here I go. ... She retched once. Then again. No! Control it. Rising in her throat. Control ... Control it. ... And she did. Breathing through her nose, concentrating on Kate and Eddie and Pammy, on the yellow knapsack containing all her precious possessions. Seeing it, picturing it from every angle. Her whole life was in there. Her new life. Ron, I don't want to blow it. I came here for you, honey ... She closed her eyes. Thought: Breathe deep. In, out. Finally, the nausea subsided. And a moment later she was feeling better and, though she was crying in pain from the snapped wrist, she managed to continue to caterpillar her way toward the table, one foot. Two. She felt a thump as her head collided with the table leg. She'd just managed to connect with it and couldn't move any farther. She swung her head back and forth and jostled the table hard. She heard the bottle slosh as it s.h.i.+fted on the tabletop. She looked up. A bit of the jug was showing beyond the edge of the table. Carole drew back her head and hit the table leg one last time. No! She'd knocked the leg out of reach. The jug teetered for a moment but stayed upright. Carole strained to get more slack from the clothesline but couldn't. d.a.m.n. Oh, d.a.m.n! As she gazed hopelessly up at the filthy bottle she realized it was filled with a liquid and something floated inside. What is that? She scrunched her way back toward the wall a foot or two and looked up. It seemed like a lightbulb inside. No, not a whole bulb, just the filament and the base, screwed into a socket. A wire ran from the socket out of the jug to one of those timers that turn the lights on and off when you're away on vacation. It looked like- A bomb! Now she recognized the faintest whiff of gasoline. No, no ... Carole began to squirm away from the table as fast as she could, sobbing in desperation. There was a filing cabinet by the wall. It'd give her some protection. She drew her legs up then felt a chill of panic and unwound them furiously. The motion knocked her off balance. She realized, to her horror, that she was rolling onto her back once more. Oh, stop. Don't ... She stayed poised, perfectly still, for a long moment, quivering as she tried to s.h.i.+ft her weight forward. But then she continued to roll, collapsing onto her cuffed hand, her shattered wrist taking the weight of her body. There was a moment of incredible pain and, mercifully, she fainted once more.

TWENTY-FIVE.

"No 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, n.o.body 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 cla.s.sic 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 tracheostomy 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 n.o.body'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 f.u.c.king 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 k.n.o.b. "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 pus.h.i.+ng 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. Was.h.i.+ng, eating, c.r.a.pping, making phone calls, b.u.t.toning s.h.i.+rts, 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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sed. 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 gla.s.s 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 resume. I have no idea why I hired him. We're very superst.i.tious, 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 p.i.s.s '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 gla.s.s. 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, h.e.l.l." 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.

TWENTY-SIX.

"I can't believe I'm telling you this." She sat huddled in the deep chair, legs drawn up, issue shoes kicked off. The tears were gone though her face was as ruddy as her hair. "Go on," he encouraged. "That guy I told you about? We were going to get an apartment together." "Oh, with the collie. You didn't say it was a guy. Your boyfriend?" The secret lover? Rhyme wondered. "He was my boyfriend." "I was thinking maybe it was your father you'd lost." "Naw. Pop did pa.s.s away-three years ago. Cancer. But we knew it was coming. If that prepares you for it I guess we were prepared. But Nick ..." "He was killed?" Rhyme asked softly. But she didn't answer. "Nick Carelli. One of us. A cop. Detective, third. Worked Street Crimes." The name was familiar. Rhyme said nothing and let her continue. "We lived together for a while. Talked about getting married." She paused, seemed to be lining up her thoughts like targets at a shooting range. "He worked undercover. So we were pretty secret about our relations.h.i.+p. He couldn't let word get around on the street that his gal was a cop." She cleared her throat. "It's hard to explain. See, we had this ... thing between us. It was ... it hasn't happened for me very often. h.e.l.l, it never happened before Nick. We clicked in some really deep way. He knew I had to be a cop and that wasn't a problem for him. Same with me and his working undercover. That kind of ... wavelength. You knew, where you just completely understand someone? You ever felt what I'm talking about? With your wife?" Rhyme smiled faintly. "I did. Yes. But not with Blaine, my wife." And that was all he wanted to say on the subject. "How'd you meet?" he asked. "The a.s.signments lectures at the academy. Where somebody gets up and they tell you a little about what their division does. Nick was lecturing on undercover work. He asked me out on the spot. Our first date was at Rodman's Neck." "The gun range?" She nodded, sniffing. "Afterwards, we went to his mom's in Brooklyn and had pasta and a bottle of Chianti. She pinched me hard and said I was too skinny to have babies. Made me eat two cannoli. We went back to my place and he stayed over that night. Quite a first date, huh? From then on we saw each other all the time. It was gonna work, Rhyme. I felt it. It was gonna work just fine." Rhyme said, "What happened?" "He was ..." Another bolstering hit of old liquor. "He was on the take is what happened. The whole time I knew him." "He was?" "Crooked. Oh, way crooked. I never had a clue. Not a single G.o.dd.a.m.n clue. He socked it away in banks around the city. He dusted close to two hundred thousand." Lincoln was silent a moment. "I'm sorry, Sachs. Drugs?" "No. Merch, mostly. Appliances, TVs. 'Jackings. They called it the Brooklyn Connection. The papers did." Rhyme was nodding. "That's why I remember it. There were a dozen of them in the ring, right? All cops?" "Mostly. A few ICC people too." "What happened to him? Nick?" "You know what happens when cops bust cops. They beat the c.r.a.p out of him. Said he resisted but I know he didn't. Broke three ribs, a couple fingers, smashed his face all up. Pleaded guilty but he still got twenty to thirty." "For hijacking?" Rhyme was astonished. "He worked a couple of the jobs himself. Pistol-whipped one driver, took a shot at another one. Just to scare him. I know it was just to scare him. But the judge threw him away." She closed her eyes, pressed her lips together hard. "When he got collared, Internal Affairs went after him like they were in heat. They checked pen registers. We were real careful about calling each other. He said perps sometimes tapped his line. But there were some calls to my place. IA came after me too. So Nick just cut me off. I mean, he had to. Otherwise I would've gone down with him. You know IA-it's always a G.o.dd.a.m.n witch-hunt." "What happened?" "To convince them that I wasn't anything to him ... Well, he said some things about me." She swallowed, her eyes fixed on the floor. "At the IA inquest they wanted to know about me. Nick said, 'Oh, P.D. Sachs? I just f.u.c.ked her a few times. Turned out she was lousy. So I dumped her.' " She tilted her head back and mopped tears with her sleeve. "The nickname? P.D." "Lon told me." She frowned. "Did he tell you what it means?" "The Portable's Daughter. After your father." She smiled wanly. "That's how it started. But that's not how it ended up. At the inquest Nick said I was such a lousy f.u.c.k it really stood for 'p.u.s.s.y Diver' 'cause I probably liked girls better. Guess how fast that went through the department." "It's a low common denominator out there, Sachs." She took a deep breath. "I saw him in court toward the end of the inquest. He looked at me once and ... I can't even describe what was in his eyes. Just pure heartbreak. Oh, he did it to protect me. But still ... You were right, you know. About the lonely stuff." "I didn't mean-" "No," she said, unsmiling. "I hit you, you hit me. That was fair. And you were right. I hate being alone. I want to go out, I want to meet somebody. But after Nick I lost my taste for s.e.x." Sachs gave a sour laugh. "Everybody thinks looking like me's wonderful. I could have my pick of guys, right? Bulls.h.i.+t. The only ones with the b.a.l.l.s to ask me out're the ones who want to screw all the time. So I just gave up. It's easier by myself. I hate it, but it's easier." At last Rhyme understood her reaction at seeing him for the first time. She was at ease with him because here was a man who was no threat to her. No s.e.xual come-ons. Someone she wouldn't have to fend off. And perhaps a certain camaraderie too-as if they were both missing the same, crucial gene. "You know," he joked, "you and me, we ought to get together and not have an affair." She laughed. "So tell me about your wife. How long were you married?" "Seven years. Six before the accident, one after." "And she left you?" "Nope. I left her. I didn't want her to feel guilty about it." "Good of you." "I'd have driven her out eventually. I'm a p.r.i.c.k. You've only seen my good side." After a moment he asked, "This thing with Nick ... it have anything to do with why you're leaving Patrol?" "No. Well, yes." "Gunshy?" Finally she nodded. "Life on the street's different now. That's what did it to Nick, you know. What turned him. It's not like it was when Pop was walking his beat. Things were better then." "You mean it's not like the stories your dad told you." "Maybe," she conceded. Sachs slumped the chair. "The arthritis? That's true but it's not as serious as I pretend it is." "I know," Rhyme said. "You know? How?" "I just looked at the evidence and drew some conclusions." "Is that why you've been on my case all day? You knew I was faking?" "I've been on your case," he said, "because you're better than you think you are." She gave him a screwy look. "Ah, Sachs, you remind me of me." "I do?" "Let me tell you a story. I'd been on crime scene detail maybe a year when we got a call from Homicide there was a guy found dead in an alley in Greenwich Village. All the sergeants were out and so I got elected to run the scene. I was twenty-six years old, remember. I go up there and check it out and it turns out the dead guy's the head of the City Health and Human Services. Now, what's he got all around him but a load of Polaroids? You should've seen some of those snaps-he'd been to one of those S&M clubs off Was.h.i.+ngton Street. Oh, and I forgot to mention, when they found him he was dressed in a stunning little black minidress and fishnet stockings. "So, I secure the scene. All of a sudden a captain shows up and starts to cross the tape. I know he's planning to have those pictures disappear on the way to the evidence room but I was so naive I didn't care much about the pictures-I was just worried about somebody walking through the scene." "P is for Protect the crime scene." Rhyme chuckled. "So I didn't let him in. While he was standing at the tape screaming at me a dep com tried an end run. I told him no. He started screaming at me. The scene stays virgin till IRD's through with it, I told them. Guess who finally showed up?" "The mayor?" "Well, deputy mayor." "And you held 'em all off?" "n.o.body got into that scene except Latents and Photography. Of course my payback was spending six months printing floaters. But we nailed the perp with some trace and a print off one of those Polaroids-happened to be the same snap the Post used on page one, as a matter of fact. Just like what you did yesterday morning, Sachs. Closing off the tracks and Eleventh Avenue." "I didn't think about it," she said. "I just did it. Why're you looking at me that way?" "Come on, Sachs. You know where you ought to be. On the street. Patrol, Major Crimes, IRD, doesn't matter ... But Public Affairs? You'll rot there. It's a good job for some people but not you. Don't give up so fast." "Oh, and you're not giving up? What about Berger?" "Things're a little different with me." Her glance questioned, They are? And she went prowling for a Kleenex. When she returned to the chair she asked, "You don't carry any corpses around with you?" "I have in my day. They're all buried now." "Tell me." "Really, there's nothing-" "Not true. I can tell. Come on-I showed you mine." He felt an odd chill. He knew it wasn't dysreflexia. His smile faded. "Rhyme, go on," she persisted. "I'd like to hear." "Well, there was a case a few years ago," he said, "I made a mistake. A bad mistake." "Tell me." She poured them each another finger of the Scotch. "It was a domestic murder-suicide call. Husband and wife in a Chinatown apartment. He shot her, killed himself. I didn't have much time for the scene; I worked it fast. And I committed a cla.s.sic error-I'd made up my mind about what I was going to find before I started looking. I found some fibers that I couldn't place but I a.s.sumed that the husband and wife'd tracked them in. I found the bullet fragments but didn't check them against the gun we found at the scene. I noticed the blowback pattern but didn't grid it to double-check the exact position of the gun. I did the search, signed off and went back to the office." "What happened?" "The scene had been staged. It was really a burglary-murder. And the perp had never left the apartment." "What? He was still there?" "After I left he crawled out from under the bed and started shooting. He killed one forensic tech and wounded an a.s.sistant ME. He got out on the street and there was a shootout with a couple of portables who'd heard the 10-13. The perp was shot up-he died later-but he killed one of the cops and wounded the other. He also shot up a family that'd just come out of a Chinese restaurant across the street. Used one of the kids as a s.h.i.+eld." "Oh, my G.o.d." "Colin Stanton was the father's name. He wasn't hurt at all and he'd been an army medic-EMS said he probably could've saved his wife or one or both of the kids if he'd tried to stop the bleeding but he panicked and froze. He just stood there, watching them all die in front of him." "Jesus, Rhyme. But it wasn't your fault. You-" "Let me finish. That wasn't the end of it." "No?" "The husband went back home-upstate New York. Had a breakdown and went into a mental hospital for a while. He tried to kill himself. They put him under a suicide watch. First he tried to cut his wrist with a piece of paper-a magazine cover. Then he sneaked into the library and found a water gla.s.s in the librarian's bathroom, shattered it and slashed his wrists. They st.i.tched him up okay and kept him in the mental hospital for another year or so. Finally they released him. A month or so after he was out he tried again. Used a knife." Rhyme added coolly, "That time it worked." He'd learned about Stanton's death in an obituary faxed from the Albany County coroner to NYPD Public Affairs. Someone there had sent it to Rhyme via interoffice mail with a Post-It attached: FYI-thought you'd be interested, the officer had written. "There was an IA investigation. Professional incompetence. They slapped my wrist. I think they should've fired me." She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. "And you're telling me you don't feel guilty about that?" "Not anymore." "I don't believe you." "I served my time, Sachs. I lived with those bodies for a while. But I gave 'em up. If I hadn't, how could I have kept on working?" After a long moment she said, "When I was eighteen I got a ticket. Speeding. I was doing ninety in a forty zone." "Well." "Dad said he'd front me the money for the fine but I'd have to pay him back. With interest. But you know what else he told me? He said he would've tanned my hide for running a red light or reckless driving. But going fast he understood. He told me, 'I know how you feel, honey. When you move they can't getcha.' " Sachs said to Rhyme, "If I couldn't drive, if I couldn't move, then maybe I'd do it too. Kill myself." "I used to walk everywhere," Rhyme said. "I never did drive much. Haven't owned a car in twenty years. What kind do you have?" "Nothing a snooty Manhattanite like you'd drive. A Chevy. Camaro. It was my father's." "Who gave you the drill press? For working on cars, I a.s.sume?" She nodded. "And a torque wrench. And spark-gap set. And my first set of ratcheting sockets-my thirteenth-birthday present." Laughing softly. "That Chevy, it's a wobbly-k.n.o.b car. You know what that is? An American car. The radio and vents and light switches are all loose and cheesy. But the suspension's like a rock, it's light as an egg crate and I'll take on a BMW any day." "And I'll bet you have." "Once or twice." "Cars are status in the crip world," Rhyme explained. "We'd sit-or lie-around the ward in rehab and talk about what we could get out of our insurance companies. Wheelchair vans were the top of the heap. Next are hand-control cars. Which wouldn't do me any good of course." He squinted, testing his supple memory. "I haven't been in a car in years. I can't remember the last time." "Got an idea," Sachs said suddenly. "Before your friend-Dr. Berger-comes back, let me take you for a ride. Or is that a problem? Sitting up? You were saying that wheelchairs don't work for you." "Well, no, wheelchairs're a problem. But a car? I think that'd be okay." He laughed. "A hundred and sixty-eight? Miles per hour?" "That was a special day," Sachs said, nodding at the memory. "Good conditions. And no highway patrol." The phone buzzed and Rhyme answered it himself. It was Lon Sellitto. "We got S&S on all the target churches in Harlem. Dellray's in charge of that-man's become a true believer, Lincoln. You wouldn't recognize him. Oh, and I've got thirty portables and a ton of UN security cruising for any other churches we might've missed. If he doesn't show up, we're going to do a sweep of all of them at seven-thirty. Just in case he snuck in without us seeing him. I think we're going to nail him, Linc," the detective said, suspiciously enthusiastic for a New York City homicide cop. "Okay, Lon, I'll send Amelia up to your CP around eight." They hung up. Thom knocked on the door before coming into the room. As if he'd catch us in a compromising position, Rhyme laughed to himself. "No more excuses," he said testily. "Bed. Now." It was after 3:00 a.m. and Rhyme had left exhaustion far behind long ago. He was floating somewhere else. Above his body. He wondered if he'd start to hallucinate. "Yes, Mother," he said. "Officer Sachs's staying over, Thom. Could you get her a blanket, please?" "What did you say?" Thom turned to face him. "A blanket." "No, after that," the aide said. "That word?" "I don't know. 'Please'?" Thom's eyes went wide with alarm. "Are you all right? You want me to get Pete Taylor back here? The head of Columbia-Presbyterian? The surgeon general?" "See how this son of a b.i.t.c.h torments me?" Rhyme said to Sachs. "He never knows how close he comes to getting fired." "A wake-up call for when?" "Six-thirty should be fine," Rhyme said. When he was gone, Rhyme asked, "Hey, Sachs, you like music?" "Love it." "What kind?" "Oldies, doo-wop, Motown ... How 'bout you? You seem like a cla.s.sical kind of guy." "See that closet there?" "This one?" "No, no, the other one. To the right. Open it up." She did and gasped in amazement. The closet was a small room filled with close to a thousand CDs. "It's like Tower Records." "That stereo, see it on the shelf?" She ran her hand over the dusty black Harmon Kardon. "It cost more than my first car," Rhyme said. "I don't use it anymore." "Why not?" He didn't answer but said instead, "Put something on. Is it plugged in? It is? Good. Pick something." A moment later she stepped out of the closet and walked over to the couch as Levi Stubbs and the Four Tops started singing about love. It had been a year since there'd been a note of music in this room, Rhyme estimated. Silently he tried to answer Sachs's question about why he'd stopped listening. He couldn't. Sachs lifted files and books off the couch. Lay back on it and thumbed through a copy of Scenes of the Crime. "Can I have one?" she asked. "Take ten." "Will you ..." Her voice braked to a halt. "Sign it for you?" He laughed. She joined him. "How 'bout if I put my thumbprint on it? Graphoa.n.a.lysts'll never give you more than an eighty-five percent probability of a handwriting match. But a thumbprint? Any friction-ridge expert'll certify it's mine." He watched her read the first chapter. Her eyes drooped. She closed the book. "Will you do something for me?" she asked. "What?" "Read to me. Something from the book. When Nick and I were together ..." Her voice faded. "What?" "When we were together, a lot of times Nick'd read out loud before we went to sleep. Books, the paper, magazines ... It's one of the things I miss the most." "I'm a terrible reader," Rhyme confessed. "I sound like I'm reciting crime scene reports. But I've got this memory ... It's pretty good. How 'bout if I just tell you about some scenes?" "Would you?" She turned her back, pulled her navy blouse off and unstrapped the thin American Body Armor vest, tossed it aside. Beneath it she wore a mesh T-s.h.i.+rt and under that a sports bra. She pulled the blouse back on and lay on the couch, pulling the blanket over her, and curled up on her side, closed her eyes. With the environmental-control unit Rhyme dimmed the lights. "I always found the sites of death fascinating," he began. "They're like shrines. We're a lot more interested in where people bought the big one than where they were born. Take John Kennedy. A thousand people a day visit the Texas Book Depository in Dallas. How many you think make pilgrimages to some obstetrics ward in Boston?" Rhyme nestled his head in the luxurious softness of the pillow. "Is this boring you?" "No," she said. "Please don't stop." "You know what I've always wondered about, Sachs?" "Tell me." "It's fascinated me for years-Calvary. Two thousand years ago. Now, there's a crime scene I'd like to've worked. I know what you're going to say: But we know the perps. Well, do we? All we really know is what the witnesses tell us. Remember what I say-never trust a wit. Maybe those Bible accounts aren't what happened at all. Where's the proof? The PE. The nails, blood, sweat, the spear, the cross, the vinegar. Sandal prints and friction ridges." Rhyme turned his head slightly to the left and he continued to talk about crime scenes and evidence until Sachs's chest rose and fell steadily and faint strands of her fiery red hair blew back and forth under her shallow breath. With his left index finger he flipped through the ECU control and shut off the light. He too was soon asleep.

A faint light of dawn was in the sky. Awakening, Carole Ganz could see it through the chicken-wire-impregnated gla.s.s above her head. Pammy. Oh, baby ... Then she thought of Ron. And all her possessions sitting in that terrible bas.e.m.e.nt. The money, the yellow knapsack ... Mostly, though, she was thinking about Pammy. Something had wakened her from a light, troubled sleep. What was it? The pain from her wrist? It throbbed horribly. She adjusted herself slightly. She- The tubular howl of a pipe organ and a rising chorus of voices filled the room again. That's what had wakened her. Music. A cras.h.i.+ng wave of music. The church wasn't abandoned. There were people around! She laughed to herself. Somebody would- And that was when she remembered the bomb. Carole peered around the filing cabinet. It was still there, teetering on the edge of the table. It had the crude look of real bombs and murder weapons-not the slick, s.h.i.+ny gadgets you see in movies. Sloppy tape, badly stripped wires, dirty gasoline ... Maybe it's a dud, she thought. In the daylight it didn't look so dangerous. Another burst of music. It came from directly over her head. Accompanied by a shuffling of footsteps. A door closed. Creaks and groans as people moved around the old, dry wood floors. Plumes of dust fell from the joists. The soaring voices were cut off in mid-pa.s.sage. A moment later they started singing again. Carole banged with her feet but the floor was concrete, the walls brick. She tried to scream but the sound was swallowed by the gag. The rehearsal continued, the solemn, vigorous music rattling through the bas.e.m.e.nt. After ten minutes Carole collapsed on the floor in exhaustion. Her eyes were drawn back to the bomb again. Now the light was better and she could see the timer clearly. Carole squinted. The timer! It wasn't a dud at all. The arrow was set for 6:15 a.m. The dial showed the time was now 5:30. Squirming her way farther behind the filing cabinet, Carole began to kick the metal sides with her knee. But whatever faint noises the blows made immediately vanished in the booming, mournful rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" filling the church bas.e.m.e.nt from above.

IV. DOWN TO. THE BONE.

This only is denied the G.o.ds: the power to remake the past. -ARISTOTLE.

TWENTY-SEVEN.

Sunday, 5:45 a.m., to Monday, 7:00 p.m.

He awoke to a scent. As he often did. And-as on many mornings-he didn't at first open his eyes but just remained in his half-seated position, trying to figure out what the unfamiliar smell might be: The ga.s.sy scent of dawn air? The dew on the oil-slick streets? Damp plaster? He tried to detect the scent of Amelia Sachs but could not. His thoughts skipped over her and continued. What was it? Cleanser? No. A chemical from Cooper's impromptu lab? No, he recognized all of those. It was ... Ah, yes ... marking pen. Now he could open his eyes and-after a glance at sleeping Sachs to make certain she hadn't deserted him-found himself gazing at the Monet poster on the wall. That's where the smell was coming from. The hot, humid air of this August morning had wilted the paper and brought the scent out.

knows CS proc. possibly has record knows FR prints gun = .32 Colt Ties vics w/unusual knots "Old" appeals to him Called one vic "Hanna" Knows basic German Underground appeals to him UNSUB 823. Appearance Residence Vehicle Other * Caucasian male, slight build * Dark clothing * Old gloves, reddish kidskin * Aftershave; to cover up other scent? * Ski mask? Navy blue? * Gloves are dark * Aftershave = Brut * Hair color not brown * Deep scar, index finger * Casual clothes * Gloves faded? Stained?

* Prob. has safe house * Located near: B'way &82nd, ShopRite Greenwich & Bank, ShopRite 8th Ave. & 24th, ShopRite Houston & Lafayette, ShopRite * Old building, pink marble * At least 100 years old, prob. mansion or inst.i.tutional * Yellow Cab * Recent model sedan * Lt. gray, silver, beige * Rental car: prob. stolen * Hertz, silver Taurus, this year's model * knows CS proc. * possibly has record * knows FR prints * gun = .32 Colt * Ties vics w/ unusual knots * "Old" appeals to him * Called one vic "Hanna" * Knows basic German * Underground appeals to him * Dual personalities * Maybe priest, soc. worker, counselor * Unusual wear on shoes, reads a lot? * Listened as he broke vic's finger * Left snake as slap at investigators The wall clock's pale numbers glowed: 5:45 a.m. His eyes returned to the poster. He couldn't see it clearly, just a ghostly pattern of pure white against a lesser white. But there was enough light from the dawn sky to make out most of the words.

Dual personalities Maybe priest, soc. worker, counselor Unusual wear on shoes, reads a lot? Listened as he broke vic's finger Left snake as slap at investigators The falcons were waking. He was aware of a flutter at the window. Rhyme's eyes skipped over the chart again. In his office at IRD he'd nailed up a dozen erasable marker boards and on them he'd keep a tally of the characteristics of the unsubs in major cases. He remembered: pacing, staring at them, wondering about the people they described. Molecules of paint, mud, pollen, leaf ...

Old building, pink marble Thinking about a clever jewel thief he and Lon had collared ten years ago. At Central Booking the perp had coyly said they'd never find the loot from the prior jobs but if they'd consider a plea he'd tell them where he'd hidden it. Rhyme had responded, "Well, we have been having some trouble figuring out where it is." "I'm sure you have," the snide crook said. "See," Rhyme continued, "we've narrowed it down to the stone wall in the coal bin of a Colonial farmhouse on the Connecticut River. About five miles north of Long Island Sound. I just can't tell whether the house is on the east bank or the west bank of the river." When the story made the rounds the phrase everybody used to describe the expression on the perp's face was: You had to f.u.c.king be there. Maybe it is magic, Sachs, he thought.

At least 100 years" old, prob. mansion or inst.i.tutional He scanned the poster once again and closed his eyes, leaning back into his glorious pillow. It was then that he felt the jolt. Almost like a slap on his face. The shock rose to his scalp like spreading fire. Eyes wide, locked onto the poster.

"Old" appeals to him "Sachs!" he cried. "Wake up!" She stirred and sat up. "What? What's ... ?" Old, old, old ... "I made a mistake," he said tersely. "There's a problem." She thought at first it was something medical and she leapt from the couch, reaching for Thom's medical bag. "No, the clues, Sachs, the clues ... I got it wrong." His breathing was rapid and he ground his teeth together as he thought. She pulled her clothes on, sat back, her fingers disappearing automatically into her scalp, scratching. "What, Rhyme? What is it?" "The church. It might not be in Harlem." He repeated, "I made a mistake." Just like with the perp who killed Colin Stanton's family. In criminalistics you can nail down a hundred clues perfectly and it's the one you miss that gets people killed. "What time is it?" she asked. "Quarter to six, a little after. Get the newspaper. The church-services schedule." Sachs found the paper, thumbed through it. Then looked up. "What're you thinking?" "Eight twenty-three's obsessed with what's old. If he's after an old black church then he might not mean uptown. Philip Payton started the Afro-American Realty Company in Harlem in 1900. There were two other black settlements in the city. Downtown where the courthouses are now and San Juan Hill. They're mostly white now but ... Oh, what the h.e.l.l was I thinking of?" "Where's San Juan Hill?" "Just north of h.e.l.l's Kitchen. On the West Side. It was named in honor of all the black soldiers who fought in the Spanish-American War." She read through the paper. "Downtown churches," she said. "Well, in Battery Park there's the Seamen's Inst.i.tute. A chapel there. They have services. Trinity. Saint Paul's." "That wasn't the black area. Farther north and east." "A Presbyterian church in Chinatown." "Any Baptist. Evangelical?" "No, nothing in that area at all. There's-Oh, h.e.l.l." With resignation in her eyes she sighed. "Oh, no." Rhyme understood. "Sunrise service!" She was nodding. "Holy Tabernacle Baptist ... Oh, Rhyme, there's a gospel service starting at six. Fifty-ninth and Eleventh Avenue." "That's San Juan Hill! Call them!" She grabbed the phone and dialed the number. She stood, head down, fiercely plucking an eyebrow and shaking her head. "Answer, answer ... h.e.l.l. It's a recording. The minister must be out of his office." She said into the receiver, "This is the New York Police Department. We have reason to believe there's a firebomb in your church. Evacuate as fast as possible." She hung up, pulled her shoes on. "Go, Sachs. You've got to get there. Now!" "Me?" "We're closer than the nearest precinct. You can be there in ten minutes." She jogged toward the door, slinging her utility belt around her waist. "I'll call the precinct," he yelled as she leapt down the stairs, hair a red cloud around her head. "And Sachs, if you ever wanted to drive fast, do it now."

The RRV wagon skidded into 81st Street, speeding west. Sachs burst into the intersection at Broadway, skidded hard and whacked a New York Post vending machine, sending it through Zabar's window before she brought the wagon under control. She remembered all the crime scene equipment in the back. Rear-heavy vehicle, she thought; don't corner at fifty. Then down Broadway. Brake at the intersections. Check left. Check right. Clear. Punch it! She peeled off on Ninth Avenue at Lincoln Center and headed south. I'm only- Oh, h.e.l.l! A mad stop on screaming tires. The street was closed. A row of blue sawhorses blocked Ninth for a street fair later that morning. A banner proclaimed, Crafts and Delicacies of all Nations. Hand in hand, we are all one. Gaw ... d.a.m.n UN! She backed up a half block and got the wagon up to fifty before she slammed into the first sawhorse. Spreading portable aluminum tables and wooden display racks in her wake, she tore a swath through the deserted fair. Two blocks later the wagon broke through the southern barricade and she skidded west on Fifty-ninth, using far more of the sidewalk than she meant to. There was the church, a hundred yards away. Paris.h.i.+oners on the steps-parents, little girls in frilly white and pink dresses, young boys in dark suits and white s.h.i.+rts, their hair in gangsta k.n.o.bs or fades. And from a bas.e.m.e.nt window, a small puff of gray smoke. Sachs slammed the accelerator to the floor, the engine roaring. Grabbing the radio. "RRV Two to Central, K?" And in the instant it took her to glance down at the Motorola to make sure the volume was up, a big Mercedes slipped out of the alley directly into her path. A fast glimpse of the family inside, eyes wide in horror, as the father slammed on the brakes. Sachs instinctively spun the wheel hard to the left, putting the wagon into controlled skid. Come on, she was begging the tires, grip, grip, grip! But the oily asphalt was loose from the heat of the past few days and covered with dew. The wagon danced over the road like a hydrofoil. The rear end met the Merc's front flat-on at fifty miles an hour. With an explosive boom the 560 sheared off the rear right side of the wagon. The black CS suitcases flew into the air, breaking open and strewing their contents along the street. Church-goers dove for cover from the splinters of gla.s.s and plastic and sheet metal. The air bag popped and deflated, stunning Sachs. She covered her face as the wagon tumbled over a row of cars and through a newsstand then skidded to a stop upside down. Newspapers and plastic evidence bags floated to the ground like tiny paratroopers. Held upside down by the harness, blinded by her hair, Sachs wiped blood from her torn forehead and lip and tried to pop the belt release. It held tight. Hot gasoline flowed into the car and trickled along her arm. She pulled a switchblade from her back pocket, flicked the knife open and cut the seat belt. Falling, she nearly skewered herself on the knife and lay, gasping, choking on the gas fumes. Come on, girl, get out. Out! The doors were jammed closed and there was no escape through the crushed rear end of the wagon. Sachs began kicking the windows. The gla.s.s wouldn't break. She drew her foot back and slammed it hard into the cracked winds.h.i.+eld. No effect, except that she nearly sprained her ankle. Her gun! She slapped her hip; the gun had been torn from the holster and tossed somewhere inside the car. Feeling the hot drizzle of gasoline on her arm and shoulder, she searched frantically through the papers and CS equipment littering the ceiling of the station wagon. Then she saw the clunky Glock near the dome light. She swept it up and aimed at the side window. Go ahead. Backdrop's clear, no spectators yet. Then she hesitated. Would the muzzle flash ignite the gas? She held the gun as far away from her soaked uniform blouse as she could, debating. Then squeezed the trigger.

TWENTY-EIGHT.

Five shots, a star pattern, and even then the honest General Motors gla.s.s held firm. Three more blasts, deafening her in the confines of the wagon. But at least the gas didn't explode. She began to kick again. Finally the window burst outward in a cascade of blue-green ice. Just as she rolled out the interior of the wagon exploded with a breathless woosh. Stripping down to her T-s.h.i.+rt, she flung away her gas-soaked uniform blouse and bulletproof vest and tossed aside the headset mike. Felt her ankle wobble but sprinted to the front door of the church, past the fleeing churchgoers and choir. The ground floor was filled with bubbling smoke. Nearby, a section of the floor rippled and steamed and then burst into flames. The minister appeared suddenly, choking, tears streaming down his face. He was dragging an unconscious woman behind him. Sachs helped him get her to the door. "Where's the bas.e.m.e.nt?" she asked. He coughed hard, shook his head. "Where?" she cried, thinking of Carole Ganz and her little daughter. "The bas.e.m.e.nt?" "There. But ..." On the other side of the patch of burning floor. Sachs could barely see it, the smoke was so thick. A wall collapsed in front of them, the old joists and posts behind it snapping and firing sparks and jets of hot gas, which hissed into the cloudy room. She hesitated, then started for the bas.e.m.e.nt door. The minister took her arm. "Wait." He opened a closet and grabbed a fire extinguisher, yanked the arming pin. "Let's go." Sachs shook her head. "Not you. Keep checking up here. Tell the fire department there's a police officer and another victim in the bas.e.m.e.nt." Sachs was sprinting now. When you move ... She jumped over the fiery patch of floor. But because of the smoke she misjudged the distance to the wall; it was closer than she'd thought and she slammed into the wood paneling then fell backwards, rolling as her hair brushed the fire, some strands igniting. Gagging on the stink, she crushed the flames out and started to push herself to her feet. The floor, weakened by the flames beneath, broke under her weight and her face crashed into the oak. She felt the blaze in the bas.e.m.e.nt lick her hands and arms as she yanked her hands back. Rolling away from the edge she climbed to her feet and reached for the k.n.o.b to the bas.e.m.e.nt door. She stopped suddenly. Come on, girl, think better! Feel a door before opening it. If it's too hot and you let oxygen into a superheated room it'll ignite and the backdraft'll fry your a.s.s good. She touched the wood. It was scorching hot. Then thought: But what the h.e.l.l else can I do? Spitting on her hand, she gripped the k.n.o.b fast, twisting it open and releasing it just before the burn seared her palm. The door burst open and a cloud of smoke and sparks shot outward. "Anybody down there?" she called and started down. The lower stairs were burning. She blasted them with a short burst of carbon dioxide and leapt into the murky bas.e.m.e.nt. She broke through the second-to-last step, pitching forward. The extinguisher clattered to the floor as she grabbed the railing just in time to save her leg from snapping. Pulling herself out of the broken step, Sachs squinted through the haze. The smoke wasn't as bad down here-it was rising-but the flames were raging all around her. The extinguisher had rolled under a burning table. Forget it! She ran through the smoke. "h.e.l.lo?" she shouted. No answer. Then remembered that Unsub 823 used duct tape; he liked his vics silent. She kicked in a small doorway and looked inside the boiler room. There was a door leading outside but burning debris blocked it completely. Beside it stood the fuel tank, which was now surrounded by flames. It won't explode, Sachs remembered from the academy-the lecture on arson. Fuel oil doesn't explode. Kick aside the debris and push the door open. Clear your escape route. Then go look for the woman and the girl. She hesitated, watching the flames roll over the side of the oil tank. It won't explode, it won't explode. She started forward, edging toward the door. It won't- The tank suddenly puffed out like a heated soda can and split down the middle. The oil squirted into the air, igniting in a huge orange spume. A fiery pool formed on the floor and flowed toward Sachs. Won't explode. Okay. But it burns pretty f.u.c.king well. She leapt back through the door, slammed it shut. So much for her escape route. Backing toward the stairs, choking now, keeping low, looking for any signs of Carole and Pammy. Could 823 have changed the rules? Could he have given up on bas.e.m.e.nts and put these vics in the church attic? Crack. A fast look upward. She saw a large oak beam, rippling with flames, start to fall. With a scream Sachs leapt aside, but tripped and landed hard on her back, staring at the huge falling bar of wood streaking directly at her face and chest. Instinctively she held her hands up. A huge bang as the beam landed on a child's Sunday-school chair. It stopped inches from Sachs's head. She crawled out from underneath and rolled to her feet. Looking around the room, peering through the darkening smoke. h.e.l.l no, she thought suddenly. I'm not losing another one. Choking, Sachs turned back to the fire and staggered toward the one corner she hadn't checked. As she jogged forward a leg shot out from behind a file cabinet and tripped her. Hands flying outward, Sachs landed face down inches from a pool of burning oil. She rolled to her side, drawing her weapon and swinging it into the panicked face of a blond woman struggling to sit up. Sachs pulled the gag off her mouth and the woman spit black mucus. She gagged for a moment, a deep, dying sound. "Carole Ganz?" She nodded. "Your daughter?" Sachs cried. "Not ... here. My hands! The cuffs." "No time. Come on." Sachs cut Carole's ankles free with her switchblade. It was then that she saw, against the wall by the window, a melting plastic bag. The planted clues! The ones that told where the little girl would be. She stepped toward it. But with a deafening bang the door to the boiler room cracked in half, spewing a six-inch tidal wave of burning oil over the floor, surrounding the bag, which disintegrated instantly. Sachs stared for a moment and then heard the woman's scream. All the stairs were blazing now. Sachs knocked the fire extinguisher out from under the smoldering table. The handle and nozzle had melted away and the metal canister was too hot to grasp. With her knife she cut a patch off her uniform blouse and lifted the crackling extinguisher by its neck, flung it to the top of the burning stairs. It staggered for a moment, like an uncertain bowling pin, and then started down. Sachs drew her Glock and when the red cylinder was halfway down, fired one round. The extinguisher erupted in a huge booming explosion; pieces of red shrapnel from the casing hissed over their heads. The mushroom cloud of carbon dioxide and powder settled over the stair? and momentarily dampened most of the flames. "Now, move!" Sachs shouted. Together they took the steps two at a time, Sachs carrying her own weight and half the woman's, and pushed through the doorway into the inferno on the first floor. They hugged the wall as they stumbled toward the exit, while above them stained-gla.s.s windows burst and rained hot shards-the colorful bodies of Jesus and Matthew and Mary and G.o.d Himself-down upon the bent backs of the escaping women.

TWENTY-NINE.

Forty minutes later, Sachs had been salved and bandaged and st.i.tched and had sucked so much pure oxygen she felt like she was tripping. She sat beside Carole Ganz. They stared at what was left of the church. Which was virtually nothing. Only two walls remained and, curiously, a portion of the third floor, jutting into s.p.a.ce above a lunar landscape of ash and debris piled in the bas.e.m.e.nt. "Pammy, Pammy ..." Carole moaned, then retched and spit. She took her own oxygen mask to her face, leaned back, weary and in pain. Sachs examined another alcohol-soaked rag with which she was wiping the blood from her face. The rags had started out brown and were now merely pink. The wounds weren't serious-a cut on her forehead, swatches of second-degree burns on her arm and hand. Her lips were no longer flawless, however; the lower one had been cut deeply in the crash, the tear requiring three st.i.tches. Carole was suffering from smoke inhalation and a broken wrist. An impromptu cast covered her left wrist and she cradled it, head down, speaking through clenched teeth. Every breath was an alarming wheeze. "That son of a b.i.t.c.h." Coughing. "Why ... Pammy? Why on earth? A three-year-old child!" She wiped angry tears with the back of her uninjured arm. "Maybe he doesn't want to hurt her. So he just brought you to the church." "No," she spat out angrily. "He doesn't care about her. He's sick! I saw the way he looked at her. I'm going to kill him. I'm going to f.u.c.king kill him." The harsh words dissolved into a harsher bout of coughing. Sachs winced in pain. "She'd unconsciously dug a nail into a burned fingertip. She pulled out her watchbook. "Can you tell me what happened?" Between bouts of sobbing and throaty coughs, Carole told her the story of the kidnapping. "You want me to call anybody?" Sachs asked. "Your husband?" Carole didn't answer. She drew her knees up to her chin, hugged herself, wheezing roughly. With her scalded right hand Sachs squeezed the woman's biceps and repeated the question. "My husband ..." She stared at Sachs with an eerie look. "My husband's dead." "Oh, I'm sorry." Carole was getting groggy from the sedative and a woman medic helped her into the ambulance to rest. Sachs looked up and saw Lon Sellitto and Jerry Banks running toward her from the burned-out church. "Jesus, officer." Sellitto was surveying the carnage in the street. "What about the girl?" Sachs nodded. "He's still got her." Banks said, "You okay?" "Nothing serious." Sachs glanced toward the ambulance. "The vic, Carole, she doesn't have any money, no place to stay. She's in town to work for the UN. Think you could make some calls, detective? See if they could set her up for a while?" "Sure," Sellitto said. "And the planted clues?" Banks asked. He winced as he touched a bandage over his right eyebrow. "Gone," Sachs said. "I saw them. In the bas.e.m.e.nt. Couldn't get to them in time. Burned up and buried." "Oh, man," Banks muttered. "What's going to happen to the little girl?" What does he think's going to happen to her? She walked back toward the wreck of the IRD wagon, found the headset. She pulled it on and was about to call in a patch request to Rhyme but hesitated then lifted off the mike. What could he tell her anyway? She looked at the church. How can you work a crime scene when there is no scene? She was standing with her hands on her hips, staring out onto the smoldering hulk of the building, when she heard a sound she couldn't place. A whining, mechanical sound. She paid no attention to it until she was aware of Lon Sellitto pausing as he dusted ash off his wrinkled s.h.i.+rt. He said, "I don't believe it." She turned toward the street. A large black van was parked a block away. A hydraulic ramp was protruding off the side and something sat on it. She squinted. One of those bomb squad robots, it seemed. The ramp lowered to the sidewalk and the robot rolled off. Then she laughed out loud. The contraption turned toward them and started to move. The wheelchair reminded her of a Pontiac Firebird, candy-apple red. It was one of those electric models, small rear wheels, a large battery and motor mounted underneath. Thom walked along beside it but Lincoln Rhyme himself was driving-in control, she observed wryly-via a straw that he held in his mouth. His movements were oddly graceful. Rhyme pulled up to her and stopped. "All right, I lied," he said abruptly. She exhaled a sigh. "About your back? When you said you couldn't use a wheelchair." "I'm confessing I lied. You're going to be mad, Amelia. So be mad and get it over with." "You ever notice when you're in a good mood you call me Sachs, when you're in a bad mood, you call me Amelia?" "I'm not in a bad mood," he snapped. "He really isn't," Thom agreed. "He just hates to get caught at anything." The aide nodded toward the impressive wheelchair. She glanced at the side. It was made by the Action Company, a Storm Arrow model. "He had this in the closet downstairs all the while he spun his pathetic little tale of woe. Oh, I let him have it for that." "No annotations, Thom, thank you. I'm apologizing, all right? I. Am. Sorry." "He's had it for years," Thom continued. "Learned the sip-'n'-puff cold. That's the straw control. He's really very good at it. By the way, he always calls me Thom. I never get preferential last-name treatment." "I got tired of being stared at," Rhyme said matter-of-factly. "So I stopped going for joyrides." Then glanced at her torn lip. "Hurt?" She touched her mouth, which was bent into a grin. "Stings like h.e.l.l." Rhyme glanced side