The burning wire lr-9

by Jeffery Deaver

  The elevator car came and the two businessmen let her precede them inside, and she reflected that at least some semblance of chivalry remained in the twenty-first century. The workman entered too and hit the button for the floor two down. But, unlike the others, he rudely pushed past her to get to the back of the car.

  They started to descend. A moment later Larry glanced down and said, "Hey, mister, watch it. You're leaking there."

  Susan looked back. The workman had accidentally tilted the can and a stream of water was pouring onto the stainless-steel floor of the car.

  "Oh, sorry," the man mumbled unapologetically. The whole floor was soaked, Susan noted.

  The door opened and the worker got out. Another man entered.

  Larry's friend said in a loud voice, "Careful, that guy just spilled some water in here. Didn't even bother to clean it up."

  But whether the culprit had heard or not, Susan couldn't say. Even if he had she doubted he cared.

  The door closed and they continued their journey downward.

  Chapter 49

  RHYME WAS STARING at the clock. Ten minutes until the next deadline.

  The last hour or so had involved coordinated searches throughout the city by the police and FBI, and, in the townhouse here, a frantic analysis of the evidence once more. Frantic… and futile. They were no closer to finding Galt or his next target location than they'd been just after the first attack. Rhyme's eyes swung to the evidence charts, which remained an elusive jumble of puzzle pieces.

  He was aware of McDaniel's taking a call. The agent listened, nodding broadly. He shot a look to his protege. He then thanked the caller and hung up.

  "One of my T and C teams had another hit about the terror group. A small one but it's gold. Another word in the name is 'Earth.' "

  "Justice For the Earth," Sachs said.

  "Could be more to it but we know those words for certain. 'Justice.' 'For.' And 'Earth.' "

  "At least we know it's ecoterror," Sellitto muttered.

  "No hits on any database?" Rhyme wondered aloud.

  "No, but remember, this is all cloud zone. And there was another hit. Rahman's second in command seems to be somebody named Johnston."

  "Anglo."

  But how does this help? Rhyme wondered angrily to himself. How does any of this help us find the site of the attack, which's going to happen in just a few minutes?

  And what the hell kind of weapon has he devised this time? Another arc flash? Another deadly circuit in a public place?

  Rhyme's eyes were riveted on the evidence whiteboards.

  McDaniel said to the Kid, "Get me Dellray."

  A moment later the agent's voice came through the speaker. "Yes, who's this? Who's there?"

  "Fred. It's Tucker. I'm here with Lincoln Rhyme and some other people from the NYPD."

  "At Rhyme's?"

  "Yes."

  "How you doing, Lincoln?"

  "Been better."

  "Yeah. True about all of us."

  McDaniel said, "Fred, you heard about the new demand and deadline."

  "Your assistant called me. She told me about the motive too. Galt's cancer."

  "We've got a confirmation that it's probably a terror group. Ecoterror."

  "How does that play with Galt?"

  "Symbiosis."

  "What?"

  "A symbiotic construct. It was in my memo… They're working together. The group's called Justice For the Earth. And Rahman's second in command is named Johnston."

  Dellray asked, "Sounds like they have different agendas. How'd they hook up? Galt and Rahman?"

  "I don't know, Fred. That's not the point. Maybe they contacted him, read his postings about the cancer. It was all over the Internet."

  "Oh."

  "Now, the deadline's coming up at any minute. Has your CI found anything?"

  A pause. "No, Tucker. Nothing."

  "The debriefing. You said it was at three."

  Another hesitation. "That's right. But he doesn't have anything concrete yet. He's going a little farther underground."

  "The whole fucking world's underground," the FBI agent snapped, surprising Rhyme; he couldn't imagine an expletive issuing from the man's smooth lips. "So, call your guy up and get him the information about Justice For the Earth. And the new player, Johnston."

  "I'll do it."

  "Fred?"

  "Yes?"

  "He's the only one has any leads, this CI of yours?"

  "That's right."

  "And he didn't hear anything, not a name, nothing?"

  "Afraid not."

  McDaniel said distractedly, "Well, thanks, Fred. You did what you could." As if he hadn't expected to learn anything helpful anyway.

  A pause. "Sure."

  They disconnected. Rhyme and Sellitto both were aware of McDaniel's sour expression.

  "Fred's a good man," the detective said.

  "He is a good man," the ASAC replied quickly. Too quickly.

  But the subject of Fred Dellray and McDaniel's opinion of him vanished as everyone in the townhouse, except Thom, got a cell call, all within five seconds of each other.

  Different sources, but the news was the same.

  Although the deadline was still seven minutes away, Ray Galt had struck again, once more killing innocents in Manhattan.

  It was Sellitto's caller who gave them the details. Through speakerphone the NYPD patrolman, sounding young and distracted, started to give an account of the attack-a Midtown office building elevator car in which four passengers were riding. "It was… it was pretty bad." Then the officer choked, his voice dissolved in coughing-maybe from smoke created by the attack. Or maybe it was simply to cover up his emotion.

  The officer excused himself and said he'd call back in a few minutes.

  He never did.

  Chapter 50

  THAT SMELL AGAIN.

  Could Amelia Sachs ever escape it?

  And even if she scrubbed and scrubbed and threw her clothes out, could she ever forget it? Apparently the sleeve and hair of one of the victims had caught fire in the elevator car. The flames hadn't been bad but the smoke was thick and the smell was repulsive.

  Sachs and Ron Pulaski were suiting up in their overalls. She asked one of the Emergency Service officers, "DCDS?" Gesturing toward the hazy car.

  Deceased, confirmed dead at scene.

  "That's right."

  "Where're the bodies?"

  "Up the hall. I know we fucked up the scene in the elevator, Detective, but there was so much smoke, we didn't know what was going on. We had to clear it."

  She told him that was all right. Checking on the conditions of victims is the first priority. Besides, nothing contaminates a crime scene like fire. A few emergency worker footprints would make little difference.

  "How'd it work?" she asked the ESU officer.

  "We aren't sure. The building supervisor said the car stopped just above the ground floor. Then smoke started. And the screams. By the time they got the car down to the main floor and the door opened, it was all over."

  Sachs shivered at the thought. The molten metal disks were bad enough, but, being claustrophobic, she was even more troubled by the thought of those four people in a confined space filled with electricity… and one of them burning.

  The ESU officer looked over his notes. "The vics were an editor of an arts magazine, a lawyer and an accountant on the eighth floor. A computer parts salesman from the sixth. If you're interested."

  Sachs was always interested in anything that made the victims real. Partly this was to keep her heart about her, to make certain she didn't become callous because of what she encountered on the job. But partly it was because of what Rhyme had instilled in her. For a man who was pure scientist, a rationalist, Rhyme's talent as a forensic expert was also due to his uncanny ability to step into the mind of the perp.

  Years ago, at the very first scene they'd worked, a terrible crime also involving death by a utility system-steam, in that case-Rhyme had
whispered to her something that seated itself in her mind every time she walked the grid: "I want you to be him," he'd told her, speaking of the perp. "Just get into his head. You've been thinking the way we think. I want you to think the way he does."

  Rhyme had told her that while he believed forensic science could be taught, this empathy was an innate talent. And Sachs believed the best way to maintain this connection-this wire, she thought now, between your heart and your skill-was never to forget the victims.

  "Ready?" she asked Pulaski.

  "I guess."

  "We're going to do the grid, Rhyme," she said into the microphone.

  "Okay, but do it without me, Sachs."

  She was alarmed. Despite his protests to the contrary, Rhyme hadn't been well. She could tell easily. But it turned out that there was another reason he was signing off. "I want you to walk the grid with that guy from Algonquin."

  "Sommers?"

  "Right."

  "Why?"

  "For one thing, I like his mind. He thinks broadly. Maybe it's his inventor's side. I don't know. But beyond that, something's not right, Sachs. I can't explain it. I feel we're missing something. Galt had to have planned this out for a month, at least. But now it looks like he's accelerating the attacks-two in one day. I can't figure that out."

  "Maybe," she suggested, "it's because we've gotten on to him faster than he hoped."

  "Could be. I don't know. But if that's the case it also means he'd love to take us out too."

  "True."

  "So I want a fresh perspective. I've already called Charlie, and he's willing to help… Does he always eat when he talks on the phone?"

  "He likes junk food."

  "Well, when you're on the grid, make sure he's got something that doesn't crunch. Communications will patch you in, whenever you're ready. Just get back here ASAP with whatever you find. For all we know Galt's rigging another attack right now."

  They disconnected. She glanced at Ron Pulaski, who was still clearly troubled.

  I need you with us, Rookie…

  She called him over. "Ron, the major scene's downstairs, where he probably rigged the wires and that device of his." She tapped her radio. "I'll be online with Charlie Sommers. I need you to run the elevator." Another pause. "And process the bodies too. There probably won't be much trace. His MO is he doesn't have any direct contact with the vics. But it needs to be done. Are you okay with that?"

  The young officer nodded. "Anything you need, Amelia." Sounding painfully sincere. He was making amends for the accident at Galt's apartment, she guessed.

  "Let's get to it. And Vicks."

  "What?"

  "In the kit. Vicks VapoRub. Put some underneath your nose. For the smell."

  In five minutes she was online with Charlie Sommers, grateful that he was helping her in running the scene-to give "technical support," which he defined, in his irreverent way, as helping to "save her ass."

  Sachs clicked on her helmet light and started down the stairs into the basement of the building, describing to Charlie Sommers exactly what she saw in the dank, filthy area at the base of the elevator shaft. She was linked to him only through audio, not video, as she usually was with Rhyme.

  The building had been cleared by ESU, but she was very aware of what Rhyme had told her earlier-that Galt could easily have decided to start targeting his pursuers. She looked around for a moment, taking only a few detours to shine the light on shadows that had a vaguely human form.

  They turned out to be only shadows that had a vaguely human form.

  He asked, "You see anything bolted to the railings the elevator rides on?"

  She focused again on her search. "No, nothing on the rails. But… there's a piece of that Bennington cable bolted to the wall. I'm-"

  "Test the voltage first!"

  "Was just going to say that."

  "Ah, a born electrician."

  "No way. After this, I'm not even going to change my car batteries." She swept with the detector. "It's zero."

  "Good. Where does the line go?"

  "On one end, to a bus bar that's dangling in the shaft. It's resting against the bottom of the elevator car. It's scorched where it's made contact. The other end goes to a thick cable that runs into a beige panel on the wall, like a big medicine cabinet. The Bennington wire is connected to a main line with one of those remote switches like at the last scene."

  "That's the incoming service line." He added that an office building like this didn't receive electricity the way a residence did. It took in a much larger amount, like a street transformer: 13,800 volts, which was then stepped down for distribution to the offices. It was a spot network. "So the car would descend and hit the hot bus bar… But there has to be another switch somewhere, one that controls the power to the elevator. He needed to stop the car just before it got to the lobby. So the victims inside would hit the call button. Then the passenger's hand on the panel and his feet on the floor completed the circuit and electrocuted him and anybody who touched him or he was brushing up against."

  Sachs looked around and found the other device. She told Sommers this.

  He explained exactly how to dismantle the cables and what to look for. Before she removed any evidence, though, Sachs laid the numbers and photographed the scene. Then she thanked Sommers and told him that was all she needed for now. They disconnected and she walked the grid, including the entrance and exit routes-which turned out to be in all likelihood a door nearby that led to the alley. It had a flimsy lock and had recently been jimmied open. She took pictures of this too.

  She was about to go upstairs and join Pulaski when she paused.

  Four victims here in the elevator.

  Sam Vetter and four others dead at the hotel, a number in the hospital. Luis Martin.

  And fear throughout the city, fear of this invisible killer.

  In her imagination she heard Rhyme say, "You have to become him."

  Sachs rested the evidence by the stairs and returned to the base of the elevator shaft.

  I'm him, I'm Raymond Galt…

  Sachs had trouble summoning the fanatic, the crusader, since that emotion didn't jibe, in her mind, with the extreme calculation that the man had shown so far. Anybody else would just have taken a shot at Andi Jessen or firebombed the Queens plant. But Galt was going to these precise, elaborate lengths to use a very complicated weapon to kill.

  What did it mean?

  I'm him…

  I'm Galt.

  Then her mind went still and up bubbled the answer: I don't care about motive. I don't care why I'm doing this. None of that matters. All that's important is to focus on technique, like focusing on making the most perfect splice or switch or connection I can to cause the most harm.

  That's the center of my universe.

  I've become addicted to the process, addicted to the juice…

  And with that thought came another: It's all about angles. He had to get… I have to get the bus bar in just the right position to kiss the floor of the elevator car when it's near the lobby but not yet there.

  Which means I have to watch the elevator in operation from all different perspectives down here to make sure the counterweight, the gears, the motor, the cables of the elevator don't knock aside the bus bar or otherwise interfere with the wire.

  I have to study the shaft from all angles. I have to.

  On her hands and knees Sachs made a circuit of the filthy basement all around the base of the shaft-anywhere that Galt could have seen the cable and bar and contacts. She found no footprints, no fingerprints. But she did find places where the ground had been recently disturbed, and it was not unreasonable to think that he'd crouched there to examine his deadly handiwork.

  She took samples from ten locations and deposited them into separate evidence bags, marking them according to positions of the compass: "10' away, northwest." "7' away, south." She then gathered all the other evidence and climbed painfully on her arthritic legs to the lobby.

  Joining
Pulaski, Sachs looked into the interior of the elevator. It wasn't badly damaged. There were some smoke marks-accompanied by that terrible smell. She simply couldn't imagine what it would have been like to be riding in that car and suddenly have thirteen thousand volts race through your body. At least, she supposed, the vics would have felt nothing after the first few seconds.

  She saw that he'd laid the numbers and taken pictures. "You find anything?"

  "No. I searched the car too. But the panel hadn't been opened recently."

  "He rigged everything from downstairs. And the bodies?"

  His face was solemn, troubled, and she could tell that it had been a difficult chore. Still, he said evenly, "No trace. But there was something interesting. All three of them had wet soles. All their shoes."

  "The fire department?"

  "No, the fire was out by the time they got here."

  Water. That was interesting. To improve the connection. But how did he get their shoes wet? Sachs then asked, "You said three bodies?"

  "That's right."

  "But that ESU guy said there were four vics."

  "There were, but only three of them died. Here." He handed her a piece of paper.

  "What's this?" On the slip was a name and phone number.

  "The survivor. I figured you'd want to talk to her. Her name's Susan Stringer. She's at St. Vincent's. Smoke inhalation, some burns. But she'll be okay. They'll be releasing her in an hour or so."

  Sachs was shaking her head. "I don't see how anybody could've survived. There were thirteen thousand volts in here."

  Ron Pulaski replied, "Oh, she's disabled. In a wheelchair. Rubber tires, you know. Guess that insulated her."

  Chapter 51

  "HOW'D HE DO?" Rhyme asked Sachs, who'd just returned to the lab.

  "Ron? Little distracted. But he did a good job. Processed the bodies. That was tough. But he found something interesting. Somehow the vics all had wet shoes."

  "How'd Galt manage that?"

  "I don't know."

  "You don't think Ron's too shaken up?"

  "Not too. But some. But he's young. Happens."

  "That's no excuse."