Ignoring the comment, he instructed, "Find out the number of the cop who called in about Galt being in the school."
The tech turned away and made a call. A few minutes later he looked up. "Funny. I got the number from Patrol. But it's out of service."
"Give it to me."
Cooper did, slowly. Rhyme typed it into a mobile phone database at the NYPD.
It was listed as prepaid.
"A cop with a prepaid mobile? And now out of service? No way."
And the school was in Chinatown; that's where Galt had picked up the herbs. But it wasn't a staging area or where he was hiding out. It was a trap! Galt had run wires from a diesel-powered generator to kill whoever was searching for him and then, pretending to be a cop, he called in to report himself. Since the juice was off in the building, Sachs and the others wouldn't expect the electrocution danger.
There's no power. It's safe. . . .
He had to warn them. He started to press "Sachs" on the speed-dial panel on the computer. But just at that moment his nagging headache swelled to a blinding explosion in his head. Lights like electric sparks, a thousand electric sparks, flashed across his vision. Sweat poured from his skin as the dysreflexia attack began in earnest.
Lincoln Rhyme whispered, "Mel, you have to call--"
And then passed out.
Chapter 60
THEY MADE IT to the back of the school without being seen. Sachs and Pulaski were crouching, looking for entrances and exits, when they heard the first whimpers.
Pulaski turned an alarmed face toward the detective. She held up a finger and listened.
A woman's voice, it seemed. She was in pain, maybe held hostage, being tortured? The woman who'd spotted Galt? Someone else?
The sound faded. Then returned. They listened for a long ten seconds. Amelia Sachs gestured Ron Pulaski closer. They were in the back of the school, smelling urine, rotting plasterboard, mold.
The whimpering grew louder. What the hell was Galt doing? Maybe the victim had information he needed for his next attack. "No, no, no." Sachs was sure that's what the voice was saying.
Or maybe Galt had slipped further from reality. Maybe he'd kidnapped an Algonquin worker and was torturing her, satisfying his lust for revenge. Maybe she was in charge of the long-distance transmission lines. Oh, no, Sachs thought. Could it be Andi Jessen herself? She sensed Pulaski staring at her with wide eyes.
"No . . . please," the woman cried.
Sachs hit TRANSMIT and radioed Emergency Service. "Bo . . . it's Amelia, K?"
"Go ahead, K."
"He's got a hostage here. Where are you?"
"Hostage? Who?"
"Female. Unknown."
"Roger that. We'll be five minutes. K."
"He's hurting her. I'm not going to wait. Ron and I're going in."
"You have logistics?"
"Just what I told you before. Galt's in the middle of the building. Ground floor. Armed with a forty-five ACP. Nothing's electrified here. The power's off."
"Well, that's the good news, I guess. Out."
She disconnected and whispered to Pulaski, pointing, "Now, move! We'll stage at the back door."