Jeffery Deaver - The burning wire

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.

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.

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 louder 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.