The Skin Collector (43 page)

By then, of course, the damage would be done.

A secondary consequence, which would cause even more extensive, if less lethal, damage was also predicted by the Modification: The city would soon find the source of the toxin but wouldn’t know how far-flung the poisoning was. Was the Bronx in danger next?
New Jersey or Connecticut?

The only thing the authorities could do – the utterly incompetent city, state and federal governments – was shut down the entire water system. New York City, not a drop to drink, not a drop to carry away sewage. Or clean. Or generate electricity (most of the city’s power came from electric generator plants whose turbines used steam). The East River and the Hudson would
become a Ganges, a source of bathing, waste and drinking water … and disease.

A plague, not a flood, would destroy the city.

But the plan’s success depended on the one remaining key factor: closing the Midtown valve to allow Billy to inject the poison. If that didn’t happen, the Modification would fail. The upstream reservoirs and aqueducts – easily accessible – were monitored in real time for
any kind of toxins; the plan required that the poison had to be introduced into the supply here, south of Central Park, where it was theoretically impossible to taint the system and was therefore not guarded.

Billy now checked his location. Yes. He was close to the best spot to drill into the pipe.

But he needed confirmation that the water supply had been shut down.

Come on, he thought, come
on …

Impatient.

Timing was everything.

Finally his phone hummed with a message. He looked down. Aunt Harriet. She’d sent him a link. He tapped the screen and turned the phone sideways to read the article. The story was time-stamped one minute ago.

TERROR ALERT IN NEW YORK

Water Supply Targeted

By Unknown Bombers

Officials in New York City are shutting down the largest mains supplying water
to Manhattan south of Central Park and much of Queens, to prevent the risk of flooding, in response to an apparent terrorist plot.

Spokespersons for the New York City Police Department, the Department of Homeland Security and the FBI reported in a joint press conference that they have uncovered a plot to detonate improvised explosive devices underground, meant to destroy portions of the water
system.

Bomb Squad officers have discovered the locations of three devices and are evacuating people in the immediate vicinity around the IEDs. They are about to begin dismantling the bombs, a process called ‘rendering-safe.’

It is anticipated that the water supply will be shut off for no more than two hours. Officials are telling residents that there’s no need to stockpile water.

Good. Time
to finish up and say goodbye to New York City.

Amelia Sachs was pounding her Ford Torino toward Midtown.

She’d blown seven red lights after leaving Rhyme’s. Only one slowed her down. The angry horn blasts and stabbing fingers were not even memories.

Times Square was around her, the huge planes of high-def video billboards, the preoccupied locals and the marveling tourists, the timely Thanksgiving decorations and the premature
Christmas ones, the bundled-up vendors, rocking from foot to foot to jump-start the circulation.

Bustling innocence.

She sped east to Lexington Avenue, then skidded to a stop as blue smoke from the tires wafted around her. It was here that she’d been instructed to pause and await further instructions.

Her phone rang and a moment later Pulaski’s voice was pumping through her earbud. ‘Amelia.
I’ve got DEP on the other line. They’re checking … Hold on. The tech’s back.’ She heard some mumbling as he turned away from the speaker to a second phone. Then his voice rose. ‘The hell does that mean, “The sensors aren’t that accurate”? What does that even
mean
? And anyway it’s not my problem about the sensors. I want the location. Now!’

She laughed. Young Ron Pulaski had come into his own
under Rhyme’s tutelage. A moment later he was back with her. ‘I don’t know what the problem is, Amelia. They’re— Wait. I’m getting something now.’ The voice faded again. ‘Okay, okay.’

Looking around the streets. Innocence, she thought again. Businesspeople, shoppers, tourists, kids, musicians, hawkers, hustlers, street people – the astonishing, unique mix of humanity that is New York City.

And under their feet, somewhere, one of the worst terror attacks in New York City history was being carried out.

But where?

‘Okay, Amelia, DEP has something for us. They’ve cross-referenced flow rates – I don’t know. Anyway, I have a location. An access room a quarter mile south of the Tunnel Three valve station. It’s at Forty-Fourth and Third. There’s a manhole about fifty feet to the east of
the intersection.’

‘I’m close.’

She was already popping the clutch and skidding away from the parking space in the same way she’d arrived, though this time leaving the blue smoke behind her. She cut off a bus and a Lexus. They might have collided, avoiding her. She kept right on moving, headed south. Insurance issue, not her issue.

‘I’ll be there in one minute.’ Then corrected: ‘Okay, two.’
Because she was forced up onto the sidewalk again and braked to nudge a falafel cart out of the way.

‘Fuck you, lady.’

Unnecessary, she thought, since he’d escaped light; she might’ve knocked the cart on its ass. Had considered it.

Back on the street with a grind of metal versus curb. Then she was speeding on once again.

After Lincoln Rhyme had concluded that the unsub and his domestic terror
group were planning on blowing up the water mains, he’d grown thoughtful. Then dissatisfaction bloomed in his face.

‘What?’ Sachs had asked, noting his eyes straying out the window, his brow furrowed.

‘Something doesn’t feel right about this whole thing.’ He zoned in on her. ‘Yes, yes, I detest the word “feel”. Don’t look so shocked. The conclusion’s based on evidence, on facts.’

‘Go on.’

He’d considered further, in silence, and then said, ‘The battery-bombs are packed with gunpowder. You know guns, Sachs, you know ammunition. You think that’d blow up iron pipes the size of the water mains?’

She’d thought about this. ‘True. If they’d really wanted to rupture the pipes they’d use shaped charges. Armor piercing. Of course they would.’

‘Exactly. He
wanted
us to find the bombs. And
– with the Bible verses – wanted us to believe the target was the water mains. Why?’

They’d answered nearly simultaneously. ‘To shut down the supply.’

Shutting off the water flow by closing the main valves would be only temporarily disruptive.

‘Who cares? That couldn’t be the motive,’ Rhyme had said.

Then he’d offered: But what
would
make sense was to trick the city into shutting off the supply
to lower the pressure. Which would allow their unsub to drill into the pipe and introduce a poison into the line. He’d then plug the hole; Rhyme had reminded the team about the welding material evidence found at the Chloe Moore crime scene.

And the poison, Rhyme had concluded, would be botulinum – since they’d found traces of the material from cosmetic surgical supply houses and the Botox syringes.
Rhyme had thought the plastic surgery evidence meant their unsub was planning on changing his appearance. But it was possible too that the purpose of the break-in was to steal botulinum, whose spores were maintained by medical operations specializing in plastic surgery products and supplies. He’d decided botulinum had to be the poison; no other toxin was powerful enough to cause widespread
devastation.

Rhyme had called his FBI contact, Fred Dellray, and City Hall and explained what he suspected. The mayor and police chief had in turn ordered the DEP to announce that it was shutting down the water supply for a few hours. In fact, they kept the system fully operational – which because of the pressure would prevent anything from being introduced into the pipes. The DEP would use the
grid sensors to pinpoint any leaks, telling the NYPD exactly where the unsub had cut into the line.

As she sat impatiently behind the wheel of her car, the engine growling, Sachs’s phone rang once more. It was Rhyme. ‘Where are you, Sachs?’

‘Almost at the spot DEP gave us.’

‘Listen to me.’

‘What else would I be doing?’ she muttered. And concentrated on avoiding an idiot of a bicyclist.

Rhyme
continued, ‘I’ve just been on the phone with the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. We conferenced – forgive the verb – with Homeland Security and the bio-chem weapons people at Fort Detrick. It’s worse than I thought. Don’t go into the access room. We’re getting a tactical hazmat team together.’

‘I’m
here
, Rhyme. Now. I can’t just sit around and wait. The unsub’s right underneath me.’

She pulled the muscle car up on the sidewalk, scooting pedestrians out of the way. They complied; she looked far too fierce to argue.

Rhyme continued, ‘I just realized that this isn’t ordinary botulinum.’

‘Now, that’s a phrase you don’t hear every day, Rhyme.’

‘It’s been modified to be chlorine-resistant. That’s why we found the undiluted hypochlorous acid – what he was using to alter the strain.
We have no idea how potent it is.’

‘I’ll be wearing face mask and coveralls.’ She ran to the back of her car, popped the trunk and yanked out her crime scene kit.

‘You need full biohazard gear,’ he protested.

She hit speaker, set the phone down and called, ‘The unsub knows we haven’t cut the supply yet – the water’ll still be spurting out of the hole he drilled. He’s waiting for the valves
to close but he’s not going to wait very long. He’ll rabbit, with who knows how much of that shit.’

‘Sachs, listen. This isn’t arsenic or snakeroot. You don’t have to drink it or eat it. One ten-thousandth of a gram in a mucous membrane or wound’ll kill you.’

‘Then I won’t pick my nose or scrape my knee. I’m going in, Rhyme. I’ll call when I’ve cleared the scene and got him in metal.’

‘Sachs—’

‘For this one I need to go in quiet,’ she said firmly and clicked disconnect.

Amelia Sachs easily found where the unsub had gone underground: the manhole on 44th Street, near Third, which Pulaski had told her about.

She dug the tire iron out of the trunk of her Torino and used it to muscle the heavy metal disk up and then managed to push the cover to the side. She aimed her Glock into the pitch-black hole. She peered down, hearing a powerful hissing noise –
the leaking pipe, she assumed. She holstered her weapon.

Well, let’s get to it. Go and go fast.

When you move, they can’t getcha …

Thanks to the recent medical procedures, she now felt lithe as a thirteen-year-old as she turned and began down the ladder.

Thinking: I’m in bright white coveralls, lit from above and behind.

A perfect shooting solution for him.

One way to put it. The other was:
sitting duck.

Climbing into hell. Practically sliding down the rails as she’d seen sailors do on some TV submarine movie, going from deck to deck.

She hit the floor of the spacious tunnel – open and without any cover whatsoever. Natch. Drawing her gun fast, she lunged to the side, where at least it was darker and their unsub would have a harder time placing a lethal shot. There she crouched
and spun the muzzle 180 degrees, squinting to spot threats.

That she hadn’t pulled any fire didn’t allay her concern; he might still be near, aiming her way and waiting for any other officers to enter the target zone before he began squeezing off rounds.

But as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she noted that this portion of the tunnel was unoccupied.

Heart tapping, breath loud through
the mask, Sachs peered in the direction of the hiss, which was now a piercing sound. She moved up to the wall on the other side of which was the access chamber where he’d drilled the hole in the pipe. She glanced in fast, low, in case he was aiming head or chest toward the doorway. All she could see in the one-second look was mist roiling in shifting curtains, pastel colors, like the northern lights.
It was backlit by a muted white lamp – maybe one the unsub had set up to illuminate his drilling. The hypnotic swirls, beautiful, would be from the particulates of streaming water flowing from the pipe.

Sachs was reluctant to do a typical one-person dynamic entry, look high, go in low, two pounds’ pressure on a three-pound trigger. Shoot, shoot, shoot.

Not here. She knew she had to take him
alive. He wasn’t operating on his own, not with a plan this elaborate. They needed to collar his co-conspirators, too.

Also, any weapons discharges might mean she’d end up shooting herself; the pipe and the concrete surfaces of the tunnel would easily send the copper jacketed slugs and fragments zipping in unpredictable directions.

Not to mention what a 9mm parabellum round would do to a vial
containing the deadliest toxin on earth.

Closer, closer.

Peering into the wall of mist, looking for shadows moving, shadows in position to fire a weapon. Shadows charging out with a hypodermic syringe loaded with propofol.

For his final skin art session.

But nothing other than the shimmering particles of water vapor, refracting light so beautifully.

Into the chamber, she told herself. Now.

The cloud rolled closer and withdrew, surely from the breeze created by the stream of water. Good cover, she thought. Like a smoke screen. Sachs gripped the Glock and, with her feet in a perpendicular shooting position, not parallel, to minimize his target area, she moved fast into the room.

A mistake, she realized quickly.

The spray was much thicker inside and soaked the filter of the mask.
She couldn’t breathe. A moment’s debate. Without the protection, she’d be susceptible to the botulinum toxin. With it, she’d pass out from lack of air.