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But it was so hard to shake the fear.

His hands started to quiver, breath came fast, and he jumped at the sound of a creak.

Calming, remembering his wife's comforting voice whispering, "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay . . ."

He started again. He located a back closet and was about to open it. But he noted the metal handle. He was on linoleum but he didn't know if that was safe enough. He was too spooked to open the door even with the CS latex gloves. He picked up a rubber dish mat and used that to grip the knob. He opened the door.

And inside was proof positive that Ray Galt was the perp: a hacksaw with a broken blade. The bolt cutter too. He knew his job here was only to walk the grid and collect evidence but he couldn't help pulling a small magnifier from his pocket and looking over the tool, noting that it had a notch on the blade that could have left the distinctive mark on the grating bar he'd collected at the substation scene near the bus stop. He bagged and tagged them. In another small cabinet he discovered a pair of Albertson-Fenwick boots, size 11.

His phone trilled, startling him. It was Lincoln Rhyme on caller ID. Pulaski answered at once. "Lincoln, I--"

"You find anything about hidey-holes, Rookie? Vehicles he might've rented? Friends he might be staying with? Anything at all about target locations?"

"No, he's kind of sanitized the place. I found the tools and boots, though. It's definitely him."

"I want locations. Addresses."

"Yessir, I--"

Click.

Pulaski snapped the phone shut and carefully bagged the evidence he'd collected so far. Then he went through the entire apartment twice, including the refrigerator, the freezer, all the closets. Even food cartons large enough to hide something.

Nothing . . .

Now the fear was replaced by frustration. He'd found evidence that Galt was the attacker but nothing else about him. Where he might be, what his target was. Then his eyes settled on the desk again. He was looking at a cheap computer printer. On the top a yellow light was blinking. He approached it. The message was: Clear jam.

What had Galt been printing?

The cop carefully opened the lid and peered into the guts of the machine. He could see the tangle of paper.

He could also see a sign that warned, Danger! Electric Shock Risk! Unplug before clearing jam or servicing!

Presumably there might be other pages in the queue, something that could be helpful. Maybe even key. But if he unplugged the unit, the memory would dump the remaining pages of the job.

He started to reach in carefully. Then he pictured the molten bits of metal again.

Five thousand degrees . . .

A glance at his watch.

Shit. Amelia had told him not to go near electricity with anything metallic on. He'd forgotten about it. Goddamn head injury! Why couldn't he think straighter? He pulled the watch off. Put it in his pocket. Jesus our Lord, what good is that going to do? He put the Seiko on the desk, far away from the printer.

One more attempt, but the fear got to him again. He was furious with himself for hesitating.

"Shit," he muttered, and returned to the kitchen. He found some bulky pink Playtex gloves. He pulled them on and, looking around to make sure no FBI agents or ESU cops were peering in at the ridiculous sight, walked back to the printer.

He opened the evidence collection kit and selected the best tool to clear the jam and get the printer working again: tweezers. They were, of course, metal ones, just the ticket to make a nice, solid connection to any exposed electric wires Galt had rigged inside the printer.

He glanced at his watch, six feet away. Less than an hour and a half until the next attack.

Ron Pulaski leaned forward and eased the tweezers between two very thick wires.

Chapter 30

NEWS STATIONS WERE broadcasting Galt's picture, former girlfriends were being interviewed, as was his bowling team and his oncologist. But there were no leads. He'd gone underground.

Mel Cooper's geology expert at Queens CS had found twenty-one exhibits in the New York metropolitan area that might involve volcanic ash, including an artist in Queens who was using lava rock to make sculpture.


Tags: Jeffery Deaver Lincoln Rhyme Mystery