The burning wire lr-9

by Jeffery Deaver

  Lincoln Rhyme whispered, "Mel, you have to call-"

  And then passed out.

  Chapter 60

  THEY MADE IT to the back of the school without being seen. Sachs and Pulaski were crouching, looking for entrances and exits, when they heard the first whimpers.

  Pulaski turned an alarmed face toward the detective. She held up a finger and listened.

  A woman's voice, it seemed. She was in pain, maybe held hostage, being tortured? The woman who'd spotted Galt? Someone else?

  The sound faded. Then returned. They listened for a long ten seconds. Amelia Sachs gestured Ron Pulaski closer. They were in the back of the school, smelling urine, rotting plasterboard, mold.

  The whimpering grew louder. What the hell was Galt doing? Maybe the victim had information he needed for his next attack. "No, no, no." Sachs was sure that's what the voice was saying.

  Or maybe Galt had slipped farther from reality. Maybe he'd kidnapped an Algonquin worker and was torturing her, satisfying his lust for revenge. Maybe she was in charge of the long-distance transmission lines. Oh, no, Sachs thought. Could it be Andi Jessen herself? She sensed Pulaski staring at her with wide eyes.

  "No… please," the woman cried.

  Sachs hit TRANSMIT and radioed Emergency Service. "Bo… it's Amelia, K?"

  "Go ahead, K."

  "He's got a hostage here. Where are you?"

  "Hostage? Who?"

  "Female. Unknown."

  "Roger that. We'll be five minutes. K."

  "He's hurting her. I'm not going to wait. Ron and I're going in."

  "You have logistics?"

  "Just what I told you before. Galt's in the middle of the building. Ground floor. Armed with a forty-five ACP. Nothing's electrified here. The power's off."

  "Well, that's the good news, I guess. Out."

  She disconnected and whispered to Pulaski, pointing, "Now, move! We'll stage at the back door."

  The young officer said, "Sure. Okay." An uneasy glance into the shadows of the building, from which another moan floated out on the foul air.

  Sachs surveyed their route to the back door and loading dock. The crumbling asphalt was littered with broken bottles and papers and cans. Noisy to traverse, but they didn't have a choice.

  She gestured Pulaski forward. They began to pick their way over the ground, trying to be quiet, though they couldn't avoid crunching glass beneath their shoes.

  But as they approached, they had some luck, which Sachs believed in, even if Lincoln Rhyme did not. Somewhere nearby a noisy diesel engine rattled to life, providing good covering sound.

  Sometimes you do catch a break, Sachs thought. Lord knows we could use one now.

  Chapter 61

  HE WASN'T GOING to lose Rhyme.

  Thom Reston had his boss out of the Storm Arrow chair and into a near standing position, pinned against the wall. In autonomic dysreflexia attacks, the patient should be kept upright-the books say sitting, but Rhyme had been in his chair when the vessels tightened en masse and the aide wanted to get him even more elevated, to force the blood back toward the ground.

  He'd planned for occurrences like this-even rehearsing when Rhyme wasn't around, since he knew his boss wouldn't have the patience for running mock emergencies. Now, without even looking, he grabbed a small vial of vasodilator medication, popped the cap with one thumb and slipped the delicate pill under Rhyme's tongue.

  "Mel, help me here," Thom said.

  The rehearsals didn't include a real patient; Thom's unconscious boss was presently 180 pounds of dead weight.

  Don't think about it that way, he thought.

  Mel Cooper leapt forward, supporting Rhyme while Thom hit speed-dial button one on the phone he always made sure was charged and that had the best signal of any he'd tested. After two brief rings he was connected, and in five long seconds he was speaking to a doctor in a private hospital. An SCI team was dispatched immediately. The hospital Rhyme went to regularly for specialized therapy and regular checkups had a large spinal cord injury department and two emergency response teams, for situations where it would take too long to get a disabled patient to the hospital.

  Rhyme had had a dozen or so attacks over the years, but this was the worst Thom had ever seen. He couldn't support Rhyme and take his blood pressure simultaneously, but he knew it was dangerously high. His face was flushed, he was sweating. Thom could only imagine the pain of the excruciating headache as the body, tricked by the quadriplegia into believing it needed more blood and quickly, pumped hard and constricted the vessels.

  The condition could cause death and, more troubling to Rhyme, a stroke, which could mean even more paralysis. In which case Rhyme might very well dust off his long-laid-to-rest idea of assisted suicide, which that damn Arlen Kopeski had brought up again.

  "What can I do?" Cooper whispered, the normally placid face dark with worry, slick with sweat.

  "We'll just keep him upright."

  Thom examined Rhyme's eyes. Blank.

  The aide snagged a second vial and administered another dose of clonidine.

  No response.

  Thom stood helpless, both he and Cooper silent. He thought of the past years with Rhyme. They'd fought, sometimes bitterly, but Thom had been a caregiver all his working life and knew not to take the anger personally. Knew not to take it at all. He gave as much as he got.

  He'd been fired by Rhyme and had quit in nearly equal measure.

  But he'd never believed the separation between the two of them would last more than a day. And it never had.

  Looking at Rhyme, wondering where the hell the medics were, he was considering: Was this my fault? Dysreflexia is frequently caused by the irritation that comes from a full bladder or bowel. Since Rhyme didn't know when he needed to relieve himself Thom noted the intake of food and liquid and judged the intervals. Had he gotten it wrong? He didn't think so, but maybe the stress of running the double case had exacerbated the irritation. He should have checked more often.

  I should've exercised better judgment. I should've been firmer…

  To lose Rhyme would be to lose the finest criminalist in the city, if not the world. And to lose countless victims because their killers would go undetected.

  To lose Rhyme would be to lose one of his closest friends.

  Yet he remained calm. Caregivers learn this early. Hard and fast decisions can't be made in panic.

  Then the color of Rhyme's face stabilized and they got him into the wheelchair again. They couldn't have kept him up much longer anyway.

  "Lincoln! Can you hear me?"

  No response.

  Then a moment later, the man's head lolled. And he whispered something.

  "Lincoln. You're going to be all right. Dr. Metz is sending a team."

  Another whisper.

  "It's all right, Lincoln. You'll be all right."

  In a faint voice Rhyme said, "You have to tell her…"

  "Lincoln, stay still."

  "Sachs."

  Cooper said, "She's at the scene. The school where you sent her. She's not back yet."

  "You have to tell Sachs…" The voice faded.

  "I will, Lincoln. I'll tell her. As soon as she calls in," Thom said.

  Cooper added, "You don't want to disturb her now. She's moving in on Galt."

  "Tell her…"

  Rhyme's eyes rolled back in his head and he went out again. Thom angrily looked out the window, as if that would speed the arrival of the ambulance. But all he saw were people strolling by on healthy legs, people jogging, people bicycling through the park, none of them with an apparent care in the world.

  Chapter 62

  RON PULASKI GLANCED at Sachs, who was peeking through a window at the back of the school.

  She held up a finger, squinting and jockeying for position to try to get a better look at where Galt was. The whimpering was hard to hear from this vantage point since that diesel truck or engine was close, just on the other side of a fence.

  Then came a l
ouder moan.

  Sachs turned back and nodded at the door, whispering, "We're going to get her. I want crossfire coverage. Somebody up, somebody down. You want to go through here or up the fire escape?"

  Pulaski glanced to their right, where a rusty metal ladder led up to a platform and an open window. He knew there was no chance they were electrified. Amelia had checked. But he really didn't want to go that way. Then he thought about his mistake at Galt's apartment. About Stanley Palmer, the man who might die. Who, even if he lived, might never be the same again.

  He said, "I'll go up."

  "You sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Remember, we want him alive if at all possible. If he's set another trap, it might have a timer on it and we'll need him to tell us where it is and when it's going to activate."

  Pulaski nodded. Crouching, he made his way over the filthy asphalt strewn with all sorts of garbage.

  Concentrate, he told himself. You've got a job to do. You're not going to get spooked again. You're not going to make a mistake.

  As he moved silently, he found he was, in fact, a lot less spooked than before. And then he wasn't spooked at all.

  Ron Pulaski was angry.

  Galt had gotten sick. Well, sorry. Well, too goddamn bad. Hell, Pulaski had had his head trauma, and he didn't blame anybody for it. Just like Lincoln Rhyme didn't sit around and mope. And Galt might very well be fine, all the new cancer treatments and techniques and everything. But here this whiny little shit was taking out his unhappiness on the innocent. And, Jesus Lord, what was he doing to that woman inside? She must've had information Galt needed. Or maybe she was a doctor who'd missed a diagnosis or something and he was getting revenge on her too.

  At this thought he moved a little more quickly. He glanced back and saw Sachs waiting beside a half-open door, Glock drawn and pointed down, extended in a combat grip.

  The anger growing, Pulaski came to a solid brick wall, where he couldn't be seen. He sped up further, heading toward the fire escape ladder. It was old and most of the paint had worn off, replaced by rust. He paused at the puddle of standing water surrounding the concrete around the base of the ladder. Water… electricity. But there was no electricity. And, anyway, there was no way to avoid the water. He sloshed through it.

  Ten feet away.

  Looking up, picking the best window to go through. Hoping the stairs and platform wouldn't clank. Galt couldn't be more than forty feet from them.

  Still, the sound of the diesel engine would cover up most squeaks.

  Five feet.

  Pulaski examined his heart and found its beat steady. He was going to make Lincoln Rhyme proud of him again.

  Hell, he was going to collar this sick bastard himself.

  He reached for the ladder.

  And the next thing he knew he heard a snap and every muscle in his body contracted at once. In his mind he was looking at all the light of heaven, before his vision dissolved to yellow then black.

  Chapter 63

  STANDING TOGETHER BEHIND the school, Amelia Sachs and Lon Sellitto watched the place being swept by ESU.

  "A trap," the lieutenant said.

  "Right," she replied grimly. "Galt hooked up a big generator in a shed behind the school. He started it and then left. It was connected to the metal doors and the fire escape."

  "The fire escape. That's the way Pulaski was going."

  She nodded. "Poor kid. He-"

  An ESU officer, a tall African American, interrupted them. "We've finished the sweep, Detective, Lieutenant. It's clean. The whole place. We didn't touch anything inside, like you asked."

  "A digital recorder?" she asked. "That's what I'm betting he used."

  "That's right, Detective. Sounded like a scene from a TV show or something. And a flashlight hanging by a cord. So it looked like somebody was holding it."

  No hostage. No Galt. Nobody at all.

  "I'll run the scenes in a minute."

  The officer asked, "There was no portable called it in?"

  "Right," Sellitto muttered. "Was Galt. Probably on a prepaid mobile, I'd bet. I'll check it."

  "And he just did this"-a wave at the school-"to kill some of us."

  "That's right," Sachs said somberly.

  The ESU officer grimaced and headed off to gather his team. Sachs had immediately called Rhyme to give him the news about the school. And about Ron Pulaski.

  But, curiously, the phone went right to voice mail.

  Maybe something had heated up in the case, or in the Watchmaker situation in Mexico.

  A medic was walking toward her, head down, picking his way through the trash; the yard behind the school looked like a beach after a garbage spill. Sachs walked forward to meet him.

  "You free now, Detective?" he asked her.

  "Sure."

  She followed him around to the side of the building, where the ambulances waited.

  There, sitting on a concrete stoop, was Ron Pulaski, head in his hands. She paused. Took a deep breath and walked up to him.

  "I'm sorry, Ron."

  He was massaging his arm, flexing his fingers. "No, ma'am." He blinked at his own formality. Grinned. "I should say, thank you."

  "If there'd been any other way, I would've done it. But I couldn't shout. I assumed Galt was still inside. And had his weapon."

  "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 townhouse.

  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.