They were out of breath from the run.
Duncan and Vincent, both carrying large canvas bags containing the contents of the Band-Aid-mobile, slowed to a walk at a park near the Hudson River. They were two blocks from the garage where they'd abandoned the SUV in their flight from the cops.
So wearing the gloves--which Vincent had first thought of as way too paranoid--had paid off after all.
Vincent looked back. "They're not following. They didn't see us."
Duncan leaned against a sapling, hawked and spit into the grass. Vincent pressed his chest, which ached from the run. Steam flowed from their mouths and noses. The killer still wasn't angry but was even more curious than before. "The Explorer too. They knew about the car. I don't understand it. How did they know? And who's after us? . . . That red-haired policewoman I saw on Cedar Street--maybe it's she."
She . . .
Then Duncan looked down at his side and frowned. The canvas bag was open. "Oh, no," he whispered.
"What?"
The killer dropped to his knees and began to rummage through it. "Some things're missing. The book and ammunition are still in the car."
"Nothing with our names on it. Or fingerprints, right?"
"No. They won't identify us." He glanced at Vincent. "All your food wrappers and the cans? You wore gloves, right?"
Vincent lived in terror of disappointing his friend and was always careful. He nodded.
Duncan looked back at the garage. "But still . . . every bit of evidence they get is like finding another gear from a watch. With enough of them, if you're smart, you can understand how it works. You can even figure out who made it." He pulled his jacket off, handed it to Vincent. He wore a gray sweatshirt underneath. He took a baseball cap out of the bag and pulled it on.
"Meet me back at the church. Go straight there. Don't stop for anything."
Vincent whispered, "What're you going to do?"
"The garage's dark and it's big. They won't have enough cops to cover it all. And that side door we used, it's almost impossible to see from outside. They might not have anybody stationed there. . . . If we're lucky they might not've found the Explorer yet. I'll get the things we left."
He took out the box cutter and slipped it into his sock. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his small pistol and checked to make sure it was loaded. He replaced it.
Vincent asked, "But what if they have? Found it, I mean."
In his calm voice Duncan answered, "Depending, I may try to get them anyway."
Chapter 17
Ron Pulaski didn't believe he'd ever felt pressure like this, standing in the freezing-cold garage, staring at the tan Explorer, brilliantly lit by spotlights.
He was alone. Lon Sellitto and Bo Haumann--two legends in the NYPD--were at the command post, downstairs from this level. Two crime scene techs had set up the lights, thrust suitcases into his hands and left, wishing him good luck in what seemed like a pretty ominous tone of voice.
He was dressed in a Tyvek suit, without a jacket, and he was shivering.
Come on, Jenny, he said silently to his wife, as he often did in moments of stress, think good thoughts for me. He added, though speaking only to himself, Let me not fuck this up, which is what he'd share with his brother.
Headsets sat on his ears and he was told he was being patched into a secure frequency directly to Lincoln Rhyme, though so far he'd heard nothing but static.
Then abruptly: "So what've you got?" Lincoln Rhyme's voice snapped through the headsets.
Pulaski jumped. He turned the volume down. "Well, sir, there's the SUV in front of me. Approximately twenty feet away. It's parked in a pretty deserted part of the--"
"Pretty deserted. That's like being fairly unique or kind of pregnant. Are there cars nearby or not?"
"Yes."
"How many?"