Thom continued to scan Rhyme's face. "You're flushed."
"I'm fine," the criminalist said calmly--to get the young man to focus on his phone call. "Really."
Then the aide's head tilted sideways and to Rhyme's horror he stiffened. His shoulders rose slightly.
No . . .
"Okay," Thom said into the phone.
"Okay what?" the criminalist snapped.
Thom ignored his boss. "Give me the information." And, cradling the phone between neck and shoulder, he began to type on the keyboard of the lab's main computer.
The screen popped to life.
Rhyme had lost the pretense of calm and was about to lose his temper when, on the screen, up came the image of an apparently uninjured, though very wet, Amelia Sachs. Strands of her red hair were plastered around her face like seaweed on a surfacing scuba diver.
"Sorry, Rhyme, lost the main camera when I went under." She coughed hard and wiped at her forehead, examined her fingers with a look of distaste. The motion was jerky.
Relief immediately replaced panic, though the anger--at himself--remained.
Sachs was staring back, somewhat eerily, her eyes focused only in his general direction. "I'm on one of the Algonquin workers' laptops. It's got a camera set up on it. Can you see me okay?"
"Yes, yes. But you're all right?"
"Just took in some pretty disgusting water through my nose. But I'm okay."
Rhyme was asking, "What happened? The arc flash . . ."
"It wasn't an arc. The battery wasn't rigged for that. The Algonquin guy told me there wasn't enough voltage. What the UNSUB did was make a bomb. Apparently you can do that with batteries. You seal the vents and overcharge it. That produces hydrogen gas. When water hits the terminals, it short-circuits and the spark ignites the hydrogen. That's what happened."
"And have the medics looked you over?"
"No, no need. The bang was loud but it wasn't that big. I got hit by some bits of plastic from the housing. Didn't even bruise me. The impact knocked me down but I kept the access door above the water. I don't think it's contaminated too bad."
"Good, Ame--" His voice braked to a halt. For some reason, years ago they'd settled on an unspoken superstition: They never used their first names. He was troubled that he nearly had. "Good. So that's how he got in."
"Had to be."
It was then that he was aware of Thom walking toward the wall. The aide grabbed the blood pressure monitor and wrapped it around Rhyme's arm.
"Don't do that--"
"Quiet," Thom barked, silencing Rhyme. "You're flushed and you're sweating."
"Because we just had a fucking incident at a crime scene, Thom."
"You have a headache?"
He did. He said, "No."
"Don't lie."
"A little one. It's nothing."
Thom slapped the stethoscope against his arm. "Sorry, Amelia. I need him quiet for thirty seconds."
"Sure."