Jeffery Deaver - The burning wire

"So, rule one: Avoid the juice. What's rule two? If you can't avoid it, protect yourself against it. Wear PPE, personal protective equipment. Rubber boots and gloves and not those sissy little ones they wear on that CSI TV show. Thick, industrial, rubber work gloves. Use insulated tools or, even better, a hot stick. They're fiberglass, like hockey sticks, with tools attached to the end. We use them for working live lines.

"Protect yourself," he repeated. "Remember the path-of-least-resistance rule. Human skin is a pretty poor conductor if it's dry. If it's wet, especially with sweat, because of the salt, resistance drops dramatically. And if you've got a wound or a burn, skin becomes a great conductor. Dry leather soles of your shoes are fairly good insulators. Wet leather's like skin-especially if you're standing on a conductive surface like damp ground or a basement floor. Puddles of water? Uh-oh.

"So, if you have to touch something that could be live-say, opening a metal door-make sure you're dry and wearing insulated shoes or boots. Use a hot stick or an insulated tool if you can and use only one hand-your right since it's slightly farther from the heart-and keep your other hand in your pocket so you don't touch anything accidentally and complete a circuit. Watch where you put your feet.

"You've seen birds sitting on uninsulated high-tension wires? They don't wear PPE. How can they roost on a piece of metal carrying a hundred thousand volts? Why don't we have roast pigeons falling from the skies?"

"They don't touch the other wire."

"Exactly. As long as they don't touch a return or the tower, they're fine. They have the same charge as the wire, but there's no current-no amps-going through them. You've got to be like that bird on the wire."

Which, to Sachs, made her sound pretty damn fragile.

"Take off all metal before you work with juice. Jewelry especially. Pure silver is the best conductor on earth. Copper and aluminum are at the top too. Gold isn't far behind. At the other end are the dielectrics-insulators. Glass and Teflon, then ceramic, plastics, rubber, wood. Bad conductors. Standing on something like that, even a thin piece, could mean the difference between life and death.

"That's rule number two, protection." Sommers continued, "Finally, rule three: If you can't avoid juice and can't protect yourself against it, cut its head off. All circuits, big or small, have a way to shut them down. They all have switches, they all have breakers or fuses. You can stop the juice instantly by flipping the switch or the breaker off, or removing a fuse. And you don't even need to know where the breaker is to pop it. What happens if you stick two pieces of wire into the holes in a household outlet and touch the ends?"

"The circuit breaker pops."

"Exactly. You can do the same thing with any circuit. But remember rule number two. Protect yourself when you do that. Because at bigger voltages touching the two wires will produce one hell of a spark and it could be an arc flash."

Sommers was on to another junk food course, pretzels. He washed down the noisy bite with more soda. "I could go on for an hour but those're the basics. You get the message?"

"I do. This's really helpful, Charlie. I appreciate it."

His advice sounded so simple but, though Sachs had carefully listened to everything Sommers had told her, she couldn't escape the fact that this particular weapon was still very alien to her.

How could Luis Martin have avoided it, protected himself against it or cut the beast's head off? The answer was, he couldn't.

"If you need me for anything else technical, just give me a call." He gave her two cell phone numbers. "And, oh, hold on… Here." He handed her a black plastic box with a button on the side and an LCD screen at the top. It looked like an elongated cell phone. "One of my inventions. A noncontact current detector. Most of them only register up to a thousand volts and you have to be pretty close to the wire or terminal for it to read. But this goes to ten thousand. And it's very sensitive. It'll sense voltage from about four or five feet away and give you the level."

"Thanks. That'll be helpful." She gave a laugh, examining the instrument. "Too bad they don't make these to tell you if a guy on the street's carrying a gun."

Sachs had been joking. But Charlie Sommers was nodding, a glaze of concentration on his face; he seemed to be considering her words very seriously. As he said good-bye to her, he shoved some corn chips into his mouth and frantically began drawing a diagram on a slip of paper. She noticed that a napkin was the first thing he'd grabbed.

"LINCOLN, THIS IS Dr. Kopeski."

Thom was standing in the doorway of the lab with a visitor.

Lincoln Rhyme looked up absently. The time was now about 8:30 p.m. and, though the urgency of the Algonquin case was pulsing through the room, there was little he could do until Sachs returned from meeting the power company executive. So he'd reluctantly agreed to see the representative from the disability rights group giving Rhyme his award.

Kopeski's not going to come here and cool his heels like some courtier waiting for an audience with the king…

"Call me Arlen, please."

The soft-spoken man, in a conservative suit and white shirt, a tie like an orange and black candy cane, walked up to the criminalist and nodded. No vestigial offer of a handshake. And he didn't even glance down at Rhyme's legs or at the wheelchair. Since Kopeski worked for a disability rights organization Rhyme's condition was nothing to him. An attitude that Rhyme approved of. He believed that we were all disabled in one way or another, ranging from emotional scar tissue to arthritis to Lou Gehrig's disease. Life was one big disability; the question was simple: What did we do about it? Rhyme rarely dwelt on the subject. He'd never been an advocate for disabled rights; that struck him as a diversion from his job. He was a criminalist who happened to be able to move with less facility than most. He compensated as best he could and got on with his work.

Rhyme glanced at Mel Cooper and nodded toward the den, across the foyer from the lab. Thom ushered Kopeski inside, with Rhyme following in his chair, and eased the pocket doors partially together. He disappeared.

"Sit down, if you like," Rhyme said, the last clause offered to temper the first, hoping that the man would remain standing, get to business and get out. He was carrying a briefcase. Maybe the paperweight was in there. The doc could present it, get a photo and leave. The whole matter would be put to rest.

The doctor sat. "I've followed your career for some time."

"Have you?"

"Are you familiar with the Disability Resources Council?"

Thom had briefed him. Rhyme remembered little of the monologue. "You do some very good work."

"Good work, yes."

Silence.

If we could move this along… Rhyme glanced out the window intently as if a new assignment were winging its way toward the townhouse, like the falcon earlier. Sorry, have to go, duty calls…

"I've worked with many disabled people over the years. Spinal cord injuries, spina bifida, ALS, a lot of other problems. Cancer too."

Curious idea. Rhyme had never thought about that disease being a disability, but he supposed some types could fit the definition. A glance at the wall clock, ticking away slowly. And then Thom brought in a tray of coffee and, oh, for Christ's sake, cookies. The glance at the aide-meaning this was not a fucking tea party-rolled past like vapor.

"Thank you," Kopeski said, taking a cup. Rhyme was disappointed that he added no milk, which would have cooled the beverage so he could drink it, and leave, more quickly.

"For you, Lincoln?"

"I'm fine, thank you," he said with a chill that Thom ignored as effectively as he had the searing glance a moment ago. He left the tray and scooted back to the kitchen.