diameter. It was covered with black insulation of some kind and was made of silver-colored strands, woven together. It wasn’t, she was surprised to see, copper. About fifteen feet long, in total. It was joined to the Algonquin main line by two wide brass or copper bolts with three-quarter-inch holes in them.
“So that’s our weapon?” Rhyme asked.
“This’s it.”
“Heavy?”
She hefted it, gripping the rubbery insulation. “No. It’s aluminum.” It was troubling to her that, like a bomb, something so small and light could cause such mayhem. Sachs looked over the hardware and judged what she’d need from her tool kit to dismantle it. She stepped outside to retrieve the bag from her car’s trunk. Her own tools, which she used on her car and for home repair, were more familiar to her than the ones in the Crime Scene Unit RRV; they were like old friends.
“How’s it going?” Pulaski asked.
“It’s going,” she muttered. “You find how he got in?”
“I checked the roof. No access. Whatever the Algonquin people said, I’m thinking it has to be underground. I’m going to check out nearby manholes and basements. There’re no obvious routes but that’s the good news, I guess. He might’ve been feeling pretty cocky. If we’re lucky we might find something good.”
Through Sachs’s microphone Rhyme had heard the comment and said, “Good call, Rookie. Only lose the ‘luck.’ ”
“Yessir.”
“And lose the smug grin too. I saw that.”
Pulaski’s face went still. He’d forgotten Rhyme was using Amelia Sachs for his eyes as well as ears and legs. He turned and walked off to continue his search for the perp’s access to the substation.
Returning inside with her tools, Sachs wiped them down with adhesive pads to remove any contaminating trace. She walked up to the circuit breaker, the spot where the attacker’s cable was mounted with the bolts. She started to reach for the metal portion of the wire. Involuntarily her gloved hand stopped before she touched it. She stared at the raw metal gleaming under the beam of her helmet light.
“Sachs?” Rhyme’s voice startled her.
She didn’t answer. Saw in her mind the hole in the pole, the deadly bits of molten steel, the holes in the young victim.
The lines are dead. . . .
But what if she got her hand on the metal and somebody two or three miles away in a comfy little control room decided to make it undead? Hit a switch, not knowing about the search?
And where the fuck are those damn batteries?
“We need the evidence back here,” Rhyme said.
“Right.” She slipped a nylon cover over the end of her wrench so that any distinctive marks on her tools wouldn’t transfer to the nuts or bolts and be confused with marks left by the perp’s. She leaned forward and with only a moment of hesitation fitted the wrench onto the first bolt. With some effort she loosened it, working as quickly as she could, expecting to feel a searing burn at any moment, though she supposed with that much voltage she wouldn’t feel anything at all as she was electrocuted.
The second fixture was undone a moment later and she pulled the cable free. Coiling it, she wrapped the wire in plastic sheeting. The bolts and nuts went into an evidence bag. She set these outside the substation door for Pulaski or the technicians to collect and returned to continue her search. Looking at the floor, she saw more footsteps that seemed to match what she thought were the UNSUB’s.
Cocking her head.
“You’re making me dizzy, Sachs.”
She asked herself as much as Rhyme, “What was that?”
“You hear something?”
“Yes, can’t you?”
“If I could hear it, I wouldn’t be asking.”
It seemed to be a tapping of some sort. She walked to the center of the substation and looked over the railing into darkness below.
Her imagination?
No, the sound was unmistakable.
“I do hear it,” Rhyme said.
“It’s coming from downstairs, the basement.”
A regular
“So that’s our weapon?” Rhyme asked.
“This’s it.”
“Heavy?”
She hefted it, gripping the rubbery insulation. “No. It’s aluminum.” It was troubling to her that, like a bomb, something so small and light could cause such mayhem. Sachs looked over the hardware and judged what she’d need from her tool kit to dismantle it. She stepped outside to retrieve the bag from her car’s trunk. Her own tools, which she used on her car and for home repair, were more familiar to her than the ones in the Crime Scene Unit RRV; they were like old friends.
“How’s it going?” Pulaski asked.
“It’s going,” she muttered. “You find how he got in?”
“I checked the roof. No access. Whatever the Algonquin people said, I’m thinking it has to be underground. I’m going to check out nearby manholes and basements. There’re no obvious routes but that’s the good news, I guess. He might’ve been feeling pretty cocky. If we’re lucky we might find something good.”
Through Sachs’s microphone Rhyme had heard the comment and said, “Good call, Rookie. Only lose the ‘luck.’ ”
“Yessir.”
“And lose the smug grin too. I saw that.”
Pulaski’s face went still. He’d forgotten Rhyme was using Amelia Sachs for his eyes as well as ears and legs. He turned and walked off to continue his search for the perp’s access to the substation.
Returning inside with her tools, Sachs wiped them down with adhesive pads to remove any contaminating trace. She walked up to the circuit breaker, the spot where the attacker’s cable was mounted with the bolts. She started to reach for the metal portion of the wire. Involuntarily her gloved hand stopped before she touched it. She stared at the raw metal gleaming under the beam of her helmet light.
“Sachs?” Rhyme’s voice startled her.
She didn’t answer. Saw in her mind the hole in the pole, the deadly bits of molten steel, the holes in the young victim.
The lines are dead. . . .
But what if she got her hand on the metal and somebody two or three miles away in a comfy little control room decided to make it undead? Hit a switch, not knowing about the search?
And where the fuck are those damn batteries?
“We need the evidence back here,” Rhyme said.
“Right.” She slipped a nylon cover over the end of her wrench so that any distinctive marks on her tools wouldn’t transfer to the nuts or bolts and be confused with marks left by the perp’s. She leaned forward and with only a moment of hesitation fitted the wrench onto the first bolt. With some effort she loosened it, working as quickly as she could, expecting to feel a searing burn at any moment, though she supposed with that much voltage she wouldn’t feel anything at all as she was electrocuted.
The second fixture was undone a moment later and she pulled the cable free. Coiling it, she wrapped the wire in plastic sheeting. The bolts and nuts went into an evidence bag. She set these outside the substation door for Pulaski or the technicians to collect and returned to continue her search. Looking at the floor, she saw more footsteps that seemed to match what she thought were the UNSUB’s.
Cocking her head.
“You’re making me dizzy, Sachs.”
She asked herself as much as Rhyme, “What was that?”
“You hear something?”
“Yes, can’t you?”
“If I could hear it, I wouldn’t be asking.”
It seemed to be a tapping of some sort. She walked to the center of the substation and looked over the railing into darkness below.
Her imagination?
No, the sound was unmistakable.
“I do hear it,” Rhyme said.
“It’s coming from downstairs, the basement.”
A regular
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