Jeffery Deaver - The burning wire

This could be the end of his career.

And even if he didn't get indicted, even if the attorney general didn't go anywhere with the case, he could still be sued by the guy's family. What if the man ended up like Lincoln Rhyme, paralyzed? Did the police department have insurance for this sort of thing? His own coverage sure wouldn't pay for anything like lifelong care. Could the vic sue Pulaski and take away everything? He and Jenny'd be working for the rest of their lives just to pay off the judgment. The kids might never go to college; the tiny fund they'd already started would disappear like smoke.

"I'm here to see Stanley Palmer," he told the attendant sitting behind a desk. "Auto accident yesterday."

"Sure, Officer. He's in four oh two."

Being in uniform, he walked freely through several doors until he found the room. He paused outside to gather his courage. What if Palmer's entire family was there? Wife and children? He tried to think of something to say.

But all he heard was thud. Then crack.

Ron Pulaski took a deep breath and stepped into the room. Palmer was alone. He lay unconscious, hooked to all sorts of intimidating wires and tubes, electronic equipment as complicated as the things in Lincoln Rhyme's lab.

Rhyme…

How he'd let down his boss! The man who'd inspired him to remain a cop because Rhyme had done the same after his own injury. And the man who kept giving him more and more responsibility. Lincoln Rhyme believed in him.

And look what I've done now.

Pulaski stared at Palmer, lying absolutely still-even stiller than Rhyme, because nothing on the patient's body was moving, except his lungs, though even the lines on the monitor weren't doing much. A nurse passed by and Pulaski called her in. "How is he?"

"I don't know," she replied in a thick accent he couldn't identify. "You have to talk to, you know, the doctor."

After staring at Palmer's still form for some time, Pulaski looked up to see a middle-aged man of indeterminate race in blue scrubs. M.D. was embroidered after his name. Again because of Pulaski's own uniform, it seemed, the medico gave him information he might not otherwise have doled out to a stranger. Palmer had undergone surgery for severe internal injuries. He was in a coma and they weren't able to give a prognosis at this point.

He didn't have any family in the area, it seemed. He was single. He had a brother and parents in Oregon and they'd been contacted.

"Brother," Pulaski whispered, thinking of his own twin.

"That's right." Then the doctor lowered the chart and cast a look at the cop. After a moment he said, with a knowing gaze, "You're not here to take his statement. This has nothing to do with the investigation. Come on."

"What?" Alarmed, Pulaski could only stare.

Then a kind smile blossomed in the doctor's face. "It happens. Don't worry about it."

"Happens?"

"I've been an ER doctor in the city for a long time. You never see veteran cops come in person to pay respects to victims, only the young ones."

"No, really. I was just checking to see if I could take a statement."

"Sure… but you could've called to see if he was conscious. Don't play all hardass, Officer. You got a good heart."

Which was pounding all the harder now.

The doctor's eyes went to Palmer's motionless form. "Was it a hit-and-run?"

"No. We know the driver."

"Good. You nailed the prick. I hope the jury throws the book at him." Then the man, in his stained outfit, was walking away.

Pulaski stopped at the nurses' station and, once more under the aura of his uniform, got Palmer's address and social security number. He'd find out what he could about him, his family, dependents. Even though he was single, Palmer was middle-aged so he might have kids. He'd call them, see if he could help in some way. Pulaski didn't have much money, but he'd give whatever moral support he could.

Mostly the young officer just wanted to unburden his soul for the pain he'd caused.

The nurse excused herself and turned away, answering an incoming call.

Pulaski turned too, even more quickly, and before he left the nurses' station, he pulled on sunglasses so nobody could see the tears.

AT A LITTLE after 9 a.m. Rhyme asked Mel Cooper to click on the TV in the lab, though he kept the sound down.

Since the feds had seemed slow to share up-to-the-minute information with the NYPD, at least with Rhyme, he wanted to make certain he learned the latest developments.

What better source than CNN?

The case was front and center, of course. Galt's picture was flashed about a million times and there were nearly as many references to the mysterious Justice for the Earth ecoterror group. And sound bites from anti-green Andi Jessen.

But most of the coverage of the Galt attacks involved windstorms of speculation. And many anchors, of course, wondered if there was a connection to Earth Day.

Which was also the subject of much reportage. There were a number of celebrations in the city: a parade, schoolchildren planting trees, protests, the New Energy Expo at the convention center and the big rally in Central Park, at which two of the President's key allies on the environment would be speaking, up-and-coming senators from out west. Following that would be a concert by a half dozen famous rock groups. Attendance would be close to a half million people. Several stories dealt with the increased security at all the events because of the recent attacks.

Gary Noble and Tucker McDaniel had told Rhyme that not only were two hundred extra agents and NYPD officers assigned to security, the FBI's technical support people had been working with Algonquin to make sure that all the electrical lines in and around the park were protected from sabotage.

Rhyme now looked up as Ron Pulaski walked into the room.

"Where've you been, Rookie?"

"Uhm…" He held up a white envelope. "The DNA."

He'd been someplace else-Rhyme believed he knew where. The criminalist didn't press it but he said, "That wasn't a priority. We know who the perp is. We'll need it for the trial. But we've got to catch him first."

"Sure."

"You find anything else yesterday at Galt's?"

"Went over it again top to bottom, Lincoln. But nothing, sorry."

Sellitto too arrived, looking more disheveled than usual. The outfit seemed the same-light blue shirt and navy suit. Rhyme wondered if he'd slept in his own office last night. The detective gave them a synopsis of how things were unfolding downtown-the case had bled over into the public relations world. Political careers could be at stake and while local, state and federal officials were putting bodies on the street and bringing "resources to bear," each was also carefully suggesting that it was doing more than the others.

Settling into a noisy wicker chair, he loudly slurped coffee and muttered, "But the bottom line is nobody knows how to run this thing. We've got portables and feebies and National Guard at the airports, subways, train stations. All the refineries and docks. Special harbor patrols around the tankers-though I don't know how the fuck he'd attack a ship with an arc flash or whatever. And they've got people on all the Algonquin substations."

"He's not going after the substations anymore," Rhyme complained.

"I know that. And so does everybody, but nobody knows where exactly to expect him. It's everywhere."

"What is?"

"This fucking juice. Electricity." He waved his hand, apparently indicating the entire city. "Everybody's goddamn house." He eyed the outlets in Rhyme's wall. Then said, "At least we haven't got any more demands. Christ, two yesterday, within a few hours. I was thinking he just got pissed off and decided to kill those guys in an elevator, no matter what." The big man sighed. "I'll be taking the stairs for a while, I'll tell you. Good for the weight, at least."