The Skin Collector (42 page)

Rhyme looked again at the map of the city. He pointed to massive Water Tunnel 3, the biggest public works project in the history of the city. It was one of the most massive sources of water in the world. The tunnel itself was too far underground to be vulnerable. But there were huge distribution lines running from it throughout the city. If they were to
blow, billions of gallons of water would gush through Midtown and lower Manhattan. The results would be far worse than any hurricane could produce.

‘Call Major Cases,’ Rhyme ordered. ‘And Environmental Protection and the mayor. I want the water supply shut down now.’

‘How are you feeling, Uncle Matthew?’

‘All right,’ the man muttered. ‘In the hospital you could count on one hand the number of people who spoke English. Lord have mercy.’

That, Billy was sure, wasn’t accurate. And was typical of exactly the attitude that the AFFC had to guard against. The issue wasn’t that the hospital workers didn’t speak English; of course they did. It was that
they spoke it with thick accents, and not very well. And that, like the color of their skin, was proof that they came from cultures and nations that didn’t represent proper values. And that they hadn’t bothered to assimilate.

‘Well, you’re back and looking good.’ He sized up the older man – 190 pounds, slightly damaged cardiac system, but healthy otherwise. Yep, it seemed he’d live forever …
or until Billy put a bullet in his uncle’s head and then propped the gun in the hand of some hapless day laborer, whom Billy and a half-dozen others had already clubbed to death in ‘self-defense’.

‘He’s doing just fine,’ Harriet said, her voice light as mist as she stowed freshly washed and folded laundry. ‘Back to normal.’

‘Hey, bro.’ Joshua Stanton joined them from the bedroom in the small
suite. When Joshua heard voices from nearby he tended to appear quickly, as if he couldn’t stand the thought that a conversation was occurring without his presence. He may also have worried that people were saying things about him, though really there was very little to say about Joshua, except that the twenty-two-year-old was a competent plumber’s assistant whose main talent was killing birds and
deer and abortion doctors.

Still the solidly built man, strawberry blond, was dependable to the point of irritation, doggedly doing what he’d been told and reporting regularly in great depth about his progress. Billy wasn’t quite sure how he’d found a wife and managed to father four children.

Well, dogs and salamanders were capable of the same. Though then he had trouble dislodging the image
of Josh as a lizard.

Joshua hugged his cousin, which Billy would have preferred he not do. Not germs; that transfer of evidence matter.

I try, M. Locard.

No, Joshua wasn’t the brightest bulb. But he’d been key in the Modification. After Billy had killed the victims, and the bodies had been discovered, Joshua, dressed in medical coveralls and face mask, had quickly appeared, carting into the
tunnels the lights and batteries containing the bombs, set them up and vanished. Nobody thought twice about him. An emergency worker.

The young man now prattled on about his success in the masquerade, smuggling the devices into the crime scenes. He kept looking Billy’s way for approval, which his younger cousin gave in the form of a nod.

Harriet glanced at her son with a dip of eyelid, which
Billy knew meant Quiet. But Joshua missed it. And kept talking.

‘It was pretty close at the Belvedere. I mean really. There were cops everywhere! I had to go through a different manhole than was in the plan. It added another six minutes but I don’t think it was a problem.’

The look from Aunt Harriet again.

Matthew didn’t need the patience that women in the AFFC were required to display. He
snapped, ‘Shut up, son.’

‘Yessir.’

Billy was troubled by his uncle’s and aunt’s treatment of his cousin. Matthew was just plain mean and it was pathetic how Josh simply took it. As for Harriet, she largely ignored him. Billy sometimes wondered if she ever took her own son to the Oleander Room. He’d concluded no. Not because that would be too perverse. Rather because Josh probably didn’t have
the stamina to meet his mother’s needs; even Billy could manage only three times an afternoon and Harriet occasionally seemed disappointed by that low sum.

Billy liked Joshua. He had fond memories of the years spent with him, his de facto brother. They’d tossed footballs and played catch because they thought they ought to. They’d flirted with girls for the same reason. They’d tinkered with cars.
Finally in a moment of adolescent candor they admitted they didn’t really like sports or cars and were lukewarm about dating. And took up more enjoyable activities – stalking faggots and beating the crap out of them. Illegals, too. Or legals (they still weren’t white). Graffiti’ing crosses on synagogues and swastikas on black churches. They’d burned an abortion clinic to the ground.

Billy’s watch
hummed. ‘It’s time.’ A few seconds later, another vibration.

Uncle Matthew looked at the backpack and gear bag. He announced, ‘We’ll pray.’

The family got down on their knees, even unsteady Matthew, and Harriet and Joshua took positions on either side of Billy. They all held hands. Harriet was gripping Billy’s. She squeezed his once. Hard.

Matthew’s voice – a bit weak but still powerful enough
to split open sinners’ hearts – intoned, ‘Lord, we thank You for giving us the wisdom and the courage to do what we are about to do, in Your name. We thank You for the vision You put into our souls and for the plans You’ve delivered into our hands. Amen.’

‘Amen’ echoed through the room.

Rhyme wheeled back and forth before the whiteboards in his parlor.

He glanced at the water main grid chart, which the DEP had just sent them via secure server, then back to the evidence. Water Tunnel 3 and all the branches were clearly diagrammed.

Ron Pulaski called, ‘We’ve got our Bomb Squad at the boutique and the restaurant. The army has their people at the third site – the Belvedere.’

‘Are they making a big scene?’ Rhyme asked, half-attentive. ‘Are all the lights and sirens going?’

‘I—’

Rhyme cut him off. ‘Is there any evacuation from downtown? I wanted the mayor to order an evacuation.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, put on the news and find out. Thom! Where the hell—?’

‘I’m here, Lincoln.’

‘The news. I need the news on! I asked you.’

‘You didn’t ask. You
thought
you asked.’
The aide lifted a chastising eyebrow.

‘Maybe I didn’t ask,’ Rhyme grumbled. The best ‘sorry’ the man was going to get. ‘But turn the fucking thing on now.’

In the corner the Samsung clicked to life.

Rhyme stabbed a finger at the screen. ‘Breaking News, News Alert, This Just In, We Interrupt This Program. Why aren’t I seeing
those
? … I’m looking at a fucking commercial for car insurance!’

‘Don’t use your arm for useless gestures.’ Thom changed the channel.

‘… press conference ten minutes ago the mayor told citizens of Manhattan and Queens that an evacuation would not be necessary at this time. He urged people—’

‘No evacuation?’ Rhyme sighed. ‘He could at least have cleared Queens. They can go east. Plenty of room on Long Island. Orderly evacuation. He could’ve arranged for that.’

Mel Cooper said, ‘It wouldn’t be orderly, Lincoln. It’d be chaos.’

‘I recommended announcing an evacuation. He ignored me.’

‘DEP’s calling,’ Pulaski said, nodding at the caller ID box on the main monitor over a worktable.

Rhyme’s mobile rang too. The area code was 404. Atlanta, Georgia.

‘It’s about goddamn time,’ he muttered. ‘You take the water people, rookie, and coordinate with Sachs. I’ll
talk to our friends in Dixie. Let’s move, everyone! We’ve only got minutes!’

And he hit the answer button on his keypad hard, drawing another admonishing look from Thom.

In his Department of Environmental Protection coveralls and hard hat, Billy Haven stepped into a cross street in Midtown, the East Side, and lifted a manhole cover with a hook, then descended partway and muscled the disk back in place.

He climbed down to a metal floor and began walking through the tunnel, under the shadow of a water main pipe glistening with condensation. This huge
conduit ran from Water Tunnel 3’s main valve room, in central Midtown, to the three submains that supplied water throughout Manhattan and to parts of Queens. Approximately eighteen thousand households and businesses received water that passed through this pipe.

He switched the heavy gear bag from one hand to the other as he walked. It weighed 48 pounds. The contents were what he’d removed from
the workshop on Canal Street: the drill, portable welding kit, electric cord and other tools, along with the bulky steel thermos. He didn’t have his American Eagle with him now. That part of the Modification was over with. No more inking with poison.

Though the Rule of Skin was still very much at work, of course.

He checked his GPS, made an adjustment and kept walking.

The plan for the Modification
was complex, as befit a scheme delivered through an intermediary whom God Himself had picked.

The Commandments …

At the last scene, at TT Gordon’s tattoo parlor, the police would have found trace of explosives he’d intentionally planted and Lincoln Rhyme would immediately wonder about this anomaly. Explosives and poison? What was the relationship?

The Commandments speculated that Rhyme would
then think: What if the poisoned tattoos were about something other than random killings by a psychotic?

They’d analyze the numbers in the tattoos and would come up with the flood in Genesis. He’d intentionally inked the tattoo artist in the Village with “the six hundredth” last, because it would have been too easy to find the flood passages in the Bible if he’d given them in proper order.

In the
six hundredth
year of Noah’s life, in
the second
month, on the
seventeenth
day of the month, the same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened. And the rain was upon the earth
forty
days and forty nights …

So domestic terrorists had returned to plant bombs to re-create the flood and wash away the sin of this Sodom.

Rhyme and Sachs would
brainstorm about where the bombs might be and realize that, yes, of course, they were in the batteries for the crime scene lights. Since they might go off at any time and it would take awhile for the Bomb Squad to break through the sealed cases and render-safe, or extract the IEDs, the Department of Environmental Protection would take the drastic but necessary step of shutting the massive gates
of Water Tunnel 3’s Midtown valve, squelching the supply of water flowing to the pipe Billy was now walking beside.

As soon as that happened the pressure in the pipe would drop to nearly nothing.

Which would allow him to drill a one-thirty-second-inch hole through the iron – a feat impossible when the line was active because the pressure would force the water out of the hole at the speed and
with the cutting force of an industrial laser.

With the pressure off he could then inject into the water supply pipe what he’d brought with him here, in the metal thermos. The last poison of the Modification.

Botulinum, a neurotoxin produced by the bacterium
Clostridium botulinum
, is the most poisonous substance on earth. A half teaspoon could easily kill the entire population of the United
States.

While it is generally very difficult to come by the more toxic substances in the world – say, radioactive poisons such as polonium and plutonium – botulinum is surprisingly available.

And we have vanity to thank for that.

The bacteria are the basis for Botox, a muscle relaxant to relieve spasticity. It’s mostly known, though, for cosmetic treatments to smooth skin (its toxic qualities
inhibit a neurotransmitter that creates wrinkles).

The stockpiles of the spores are carefully guarded but Billy had located a source and broken into a cosmetic surgical supply company in the Midwest. In addition to a good selection of drugs and medical gear, he’d managed to steal enough spores to create a botulinum factory, which had been silently – and airlessly – producing a stockpile of the
bacteria and the toxin and more spores.

The idea of weaponizing such a delightfully deadly substance was hardly original, of course. But no one had ever done so before – for a very simple reason. Delivery was nearly impossible. The toxin must be ingested or inhaled or enter the body through mucous membranes or open wounds. Contact with skin alone is not enough. Since it is very difficult to deliver
a large amount of aerosol toxin, that meant an attack would have to be via food or water.

But salt, heat, alkaline substances and oxygen can kill the bacteria. So will chlorine, which is added to New York City’s water supply, along with the anti-tooth-cavity additive fluoride, orthophosphate to counterbalance lead contamination and hydroxide to increase the alkalinity of the supply.

Billy, however,
had learned to grow a concentrated form of botulinum that was resistant to chlorine. Yes, some of the toxin he injected into the water supply would be destroyed, or its deadly effects dimmed, but the estimate was that enough would survive and be carried to households throughout Midtown and lower Manhattan and much of Queens. The death toll would probably be four thousand or so; the sick and
severely injured would be many times that.

One group would be particularly hard hit: children. Infant botulism poisoning occurred with some frequency (often children younger than twelve months who’d eaten honey in which spores naturally resided). Billy had considered their deaths and he didn’t feel troubled by them. This was a war, after all. Sacrifices had to be made.

The city would react quickly,
of course, with the Health Department and Homeland Security racing to find the source of the illness. There’d be some delay as officials thought chemical nerve agents – the symptoms are similar – and with some luck medical workers would start injecting atropine and pralidoxime, which actually increase botulism’s lethal strength. Some would diagnose myasthenia gravis. But then would come the
serum and stool tests and finally mass spectrometry would confirm what the disease truly was.