This again. I don't need it, Rhyme. Exasperated, she said, "This's the sort of scene he's not expecting us to find. He probably hasn't hosed it. We could find a fingerprint, a shell casing. Hell, we could find his credit card."
No response. It wasn't often that Lincoln Rhyme was rendered silent.
"Quit spooking me, Rhyme, okay?"
He didn't respond and she had a strange feeling that he wanted her to be spooked. "Sachs . . . ?"
"What?"
"Just be careful" was his only advice and the words were offered tentatively.
Then suddenly five tactical agents appeared, wearing Nomex gloves and hoods, blue flak jackets, and holding their black H&Ks.
"I'll call you from inside," she said.
She started up the stairs after them, her thoughts more on the heavy crime scene suitcase she held in her weak hand, her left, than on the black pistol in her right.
In the old days, in the Before days, Lincoln Rhyme had been a walker.
There was something about motion that soothed him. A stroll through Central or Washington Square Park, a brisk walk through the Fashion District. Oh, he'd pause often--maybe to collect a bit of evidence for the databases at the IRD lab--but once the bits of dirt or the plants or the samples of building materials were safely stowed and their sources jotted in his notebook, he'd continue on his way again. Miles and miles he'd walk.
One of the most frustrating things about his present condition was the inability to let off tension. He now had his eyes closed and he rubbed the back of his head into the headrest of the Storm Arrow, grinding his teeth together.
He asked Thom for some scotch.
"Don't you need to be clearheaded?"
"No."
"I think you do."
Go to hell, Rhyme thought, and ground his teeth harder. Thom would have to clean off a bloody gum, have to arrange for the dentist to come over. And I'll be a prick with him too.
Thunder rolled in the distance and the lights dimmed.
He pictured Sachs at the front of the tactical force. She was right, of course: an ESU team doing a full secure of the apartment would contaminate it badly. Still, he was worried sick for her. She was too reckless. He'd seen her scratching her skin, pulling eyebrows, chewing nails. Rhyme, ever skeptical of the psychologist's black arts, nonetheless knew self-destructive behavior when he saw it. He'd also been for a drive with her--in her souped-up sports car. They'd hit speeds over 150 miles per hour and she seemed frustrated that the rough roads on Long Island wouldn't let her do twice that.
He was startled to hear her whispering voice. "Rhyme, you there?"
"Go ahead, Amelia."
A pause. "No first names, Rhyme. It's bad luck."
He tried to laugh. Wished he hadn't used the name, wondered why he had.
"Go ahead."
"I'm at the front door. They're going to take it down with a battering ram. The other team reported in. They really don't think he's there."
"You wearing your armor?"
"Stole a feebie's flak jacket. Looks like I'm wearing black cereal boxes for a bra."
"On three," Rhyme heard Dellray's voice, "all teams, take out door and windows, cover all areas, but hold short of entry. One . . . "
Rhyme was so torn. How badly he wanted the Dancer--he could taste it. But, oh, how frightened he was for her.
"Two . . . "