Jeffery Deaver - The burning wire

Rhyme nodded. "Why did it happen now?"

"Stress probably, combined with pressure somewhere. Internally, shoes, garments. You know how dysreflexia works. Mostly it's a mystery."

"How long was I out?"

Thom said, "Forty minutes, off and on."

He rocked his head back in the chair. "Forty," he whispered. Sachs understood he'd be replaying his failure. Which had nearly cost her and Pulaski their lives.

Now he was staring toward the lab. "Where's the evidence?"

"I came here first. Ron's on his way. We needed some people from Queens to get the generator. It weighs a couple of hundred pounds."

"Ron's coming?"

"That's right," she confirmed, noting that she'd just told him this and wondering if the episode had made him disoriented. Maybe the doctor had given him a painkiller. Dysreflexia is accompanied by excruciating headaches.

"Good. He'll be here soon? Ron?"

A hesitant glance at Thom.

"Any minute now," she said.

Dr. Ralston said, "Lincoln, I'd rather you took it easy for the rest of the day."

Rhyme was hesitating, looking down. Was he actually going to give in to a request like this?

But he said in a soft voice, "I'm sorry, Doctor. I really can't. There's a case… it's important."

"The grid thing? The terrorists?"

"Yes. I hope you don't mind." His eyes were downcast. "I'm sorry. I really have to work it."

Sachs and Thom exchanged glances. Rhyme's apologetic mien was atypical, to put it mildly.

And, again, the vulnerability in his eyes.

"I know it's important, Lincoln. I can't force you to do anything. Just remember what I said: Stay upright and avoid any kinds of pressure on your body, inside and out. I guess it won't do any good to say avoid stress. Not with this madman on the loose."

"Thank you. And thank you, Thom."

The aide blinked and nodded uneasily.

Again, though, Rhyme was hesitating, staring down. Not driving into the parlor lab with all the speed the Storm Arrow could muster, which he'd be doing under other circumstances. And even when the front door to the townhouse opened and they could hear Pulaski and the other crime scene technicians hurrying in with the evidence, Rhyme remained where he was, staring down.

"Li-" Sachs found herself saying and braking her words to a halt-their superstition again. "Rhyme? You want to go into the lab?"

"Yes, sure."

But still staring down. Not moving.

Alarmed, she wondered if he was having another attack.

Then he swallowed and moved the controller of the wheelchair. His face melted with relief and she understood what had been happening: Rhyme was worried-terrified-that the attack had caused yet more damage, that perhaps even the rudimentary mobility he'd achieved in his right hand and fingers had been erased.

That's what he'd been staring at: his hand. But apparently there'd been no damage.

"Come on, Sachs," he said, though softly. "We've got work to do."

THE POOL PARLOR was looking like a crack house, R.C. decided.

He'd talk to his father about it.

The thirty-year-old pressed his pale hands around his beer bottle, watching the games at the pool tables. Snuck a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the exhaust vent. That smoking law was fucking stupid. His father said the socialists in Washington were to blame. They didn't mind sending kids to get killed in places with names you couldn't pronounce but they had to say, fuck you, no smoking.

Eyes on the pool tables. The fast one on the end might be trouble-there was serious money on it-but Stipp had the baseball bat behind the bar. And he liked to swing.

Speaking of which. Goddamn Mets. He grabbed the remote.

Boston didn't make him feel any better.

Then he put on the news about the crazy man screwing around with electricity. R.C.'s brother was handy and did a fair amount of electrical work, but wiring always scared him.

And now people around town were getting fried.

"You hear about that shit?" he asked Stipp.

"Yeah, which shit is that?" He had a cast eye, or one that didn't look right at you, if that's what a cast eye was.

"About the electricity thing? Some dude hooking up wires at that hotel? You touched the door handle and, zzzzzzz, you're dead."

"Oh, that shit." Stipp coughed a funky laugh. "Like the electric chair."

"Like that. Only it could be stairs or a puddle or those metal doors on the sidewalk. Elevators to the basements."

"You walk on them and get zapped?"

"I guess. Fuck. And you push those metal WALK buttons in the crosswalks. That's it. You're fucked."

"What's he doing it for?"

"Fuck knows… The electric chair, you piss your pants and your hair catches fire. You know that? That's what kills you sometimes, the fire. Burns you to death."

"Most states got injection." Stipp frowned. "You probably still piss your pants."

R.C. was eyeing Janie in her tight blouse and trying to remember when his wife was coming by to pick up the grocery money, when the door opened and a couple of people came in. Two guys in delivery company uniforms, maybe early shifters, which was good, because they'd be spending money now that their day was over.

Then right behind them, a homeless guy pushed inside too.

Fuck.

The black guy, in filthy clothes, had abandoned a grocery cart of empties on the sidewalk and more or less run in here. He was now turning his back, staring out the window, scratching his leg. And then his head, under a disgusting cap.

R.C. caught the bartender's eye and shook his head no.

"Hey, mister," Stipp called. "Help you?"

"Something weird out there," the man muttered. He talked to himself for a moment. Then louder: "Something I saw. Something I don' like." And he gave a high-pitched laugh that R.C. thought was pretty weird in itself.

"Yeah, well, take it outside, okay?"

"You see that?" the bum asked no one.

"Come on, buddy."

But the man tottered to the bar, sat down. Spent a moment digging out some damp bills and a ton of change. He counted the coins carefully.

"Sorry, sir. I think you've had plenty."

"I ain't had no drink. You see that guy? The guy with the wire?"

Wire?

R.C. and Stipp eyed each other.

"Crazy shit going down in this town." He turned his mad eyes on R.C. "Fucker was right outside. By that, you know, lamppost. He was doing something. Playing with the wires. You hear what's going down around here? Peoples gettin' their asses fried."

R.C. wandered to the window past the guy, who stank so bad he felt like puking. But he looked out and saw the lamppost. Was that a wire attached? He couldn't tell. Was that terrorist around here? The Lower East Side?

Well, why not?

If he wanted to kill innocent citizens, this was as good a place as any.

R.C. said to the homeless guy, "Listen, man, get outa here."

"I wanna drink."

"Well, you're not getting a drink." Eyes outside again. R.C. was thinking he did see some cables or wires or shit. What was going on? Was somebody fucking with the bar itself? R.C. was thinking of all the metal in the place. The bar footrest, the sinks, the doorknobs, the register. Hell, the urinal was metal. If you peed, would the current run up the stream to your dick?

"You don't unnerstand, don't unnerstand!" the homeless guy was wailing, getting even weirder. "It ain't safe out there. Look outside. Ain't safe. That asshole with the wires… I'ma staying in here till it safe."

R.C., the bartender, Janie, the pool players and the delivery guys were all staring out the window now. The games had been suspended. R.C.'s interest in Janie had shriveled.

"Not safe, man. Gimme a vodka and Coke."

"Out. I'm not telling you again."

"You don't think I can pay you. I got fucking money here. What you call this?"