The Burning Wire (21 page)

Chapter 36

"WHAT'S GOING ON?"
Sam Vetter asked the waiter in the hotel dining room. He and his fellow lunchers were staring out the window at what seemed to be an evacuation of both the school and the construction site between the college and the hotel. Police cars and fire trucks were pulling up.

"It's safe, isn't it?" a patron asked. "Here, I mean?"

"Oh, yessir, very safe," the waiter assured.

Vetter knew the man didn't have a clue what was safe and what wasn't. And being in the construction business, Vetter immediately checked out the ratio of emergency exits to occupancy.

One of the businessmen at his table, the man from Santa Fe, asked, "You hear about that thing yesterday? The explosion at the power station? Maybe it's related to that. They were talking terrorists."

Vetter had heard a news story or two, but only in passing. "What happened?"

"Some guy doing something to the grid. You know, the electric company." The man nodded out the window. "Maybe he did the same thing at the school. Or the construction site."

"But not us," another patron worried. "Not at the hotel."

"No, no, not us." The waiter smiled and vanished. Vetter wondered which exit route he was presently sprinting down.

People were rising and walking to the windows. From here the restaurant offered a good view of the excitement.

Vetter heard: "Naw, it's not terrorists. It's some disgruntled worker. Like a lineman for the company. They showed his picture on TV."

Then Sam Vetter had a thought. He asked one of his fellow businessmen, "You know what he looks like?"

"Just he's in his forties. And is maybe wearing company overalls and a yellow hard hat. The overalls're blue."

"Oh, my God. I think I saw him. Just a little while ago."

"What?"

"I saw a worker in blue overalls and a yellow hard hat. He had a roll of electrical cable over his shoulder."

"You better tell the cops."

Vetter rose. He started away, then paused, reaching into his pocket. He was worried that his new friends might think he was trying to stiff them for the bill. He'd heard that New Yorkers were very suspicious of people and he didn't want his first step into the world of big-city business to be marred by something like that. He peeled off a ten for his sandwich and beer, then remembered where he was and left twenty.

"Sam, don't worry about it! Hurry."

He tried to remember exactly where the man had climbed from the manhole and where he'd stood to make his phone call before walking into the school. If he could recall the time of the call, more or less, maybe the police could trace it. The cell company could tell them who he'd been talking to.

Vetter hurried down the escalator, two steps at a time, and then ran into the lobby. He spotted a police officer, who was standing near the front desk.

"Officer, excuse me. But I just heard . . . you're looking for somebody who works for the electric company? That man who was behind that explosion yesterday?"

"That's right, sir. Do you know anything about it?"

"I think I might've seen him. I don't know for sure. Maybe it's not him. But I thought I should say something."

"Hold on." The man lifted his bulky radio and spoke into it. "This is Portable Seven Eight Seven Three to Command Post. I think I've got a witness. Might've seen the suspect, K."

"Roger." Clattering from the speaker. "Hold on, K. . . . All right, Seven Eight, send him outside. Stone Street. Detective Simpson wants to talk to him, K."

"Roger. Seven Eight, out." Turning to Vetter, the cop said, "Go out the front doors and turn left. There's a detective there, a woman. Nancy Simpson. You can ask for her."

Hurrying through the lobby, Vetter thought: Maybe if the man is still around they'll capture him before he hurts anybody else.

My first trip to New York, and I might just make the newspapers. A hero.

What would Ruth have said?

Chapter 37

"AMELIA!" NANCY SIMPSON
shouted from the sidewalk. "I've got a witness. Somebody in the hotel next door." Sachs hurried up to Simpson, who said, "He's coming out to see us."

Sachs, via the microphone, relayed this information to Rhyme.

"Where was Galt seen?" the criminalist asked urgently.

"I don't know yet. We're going to talk to the wit. In a second."

Together, she and Simpson hurried to the entrance of the hotel to meet the wit. Sachs looked skyward at the steel superstructure of the building under construction. Workers were leaving fast. Only a few minutes remained until the deadline.

Then she heard: "Officer!" A man's voice called from behind her. "Detective!"

She turned and saw Algonquin vice president Bob Cavanaugh running toward her. The large man was breathing heavily and sweating as he pulled up. His expression said, Sorry, I forgot your name.

"Amelia Sachs."

"Bob Cavanaugh."

She nodded.

"I heard that you're clearing the construction site?"

"That's right. We couldn't find anywhere he'd attack in the school. It's mostly carpet and--"

"But a job site makes no sense," Cavanaugh said, gesturing frantically toward it.

"Well, I was thinking . . . the girders, the metal."

"Who's there, Sachs?" Rhyme broke in.

"The operations director of Algonquin. He doesn't think the attack's going to be at the job site." She asked Cavanaugh, "Why not?"

"Look!" he said desperately, pointing to a cluster of workers standing nearby.

"What do you mean?"

"Their boots!"

She whispered, "Personal protective equipment. They'd be insulated."

If you can't avoid it, protect yourself against it. . . .

Some were wearing gloves too and thick jackets.

"Galt would know they're in PPE," the operations man said. "He'd have to pump so much juice into the superstructure to hurt anybody that the grid'd shut down in this part of town."

Rhyme said, "Well, if it's not the school and it's not the job site, then what's his target? Or did we get it wrong in the first place? Maybe it's not there at all. There was
another
volcano exhibit."

Then Cavanaugh gripped her arm and gestured behind them. "The hotel!"

"Jesus," Sachs muttered, staring at the place. It was one of those minimalist, chic places filled with stark stone, marble, fountains . . . and metal. Lots of metal. Copper doors and steel stairs and flooring.

Nancy Simpson too turned to gaze at the building.

"What?" Rhyme asked urgently in her ear.

"It's the
hotel,
Rhyme. That's what he's attacking." She grabbed her radio to call ESU's chief. She lifted it to her mouth, as she and Simpson sprinted forward. "Bo, it's Amelia. He's going after the
hotel,
I'm sure of it. It's not the construction site. Get your people there now! Evacuate it!"

"Roger that, Amelia, I'll--"

But Sachs didn't hear the rest of his transmission. Or rather, whatever he said was lost completely to her as she stared through the hotel's massive windows.

Though it was before the deadline, one o'clock, a half dozen people inside the Battery Park Hotel stopped in their tracks. Their animated faces instantly went blank. They became doll faces, they were caricatures, grotesques. Spittle appeared in the corners of lips taut as ropes. Fingers, feet, chins began quivering.

Onlookers gasped and then screamed in panic at the otherworldly sight--humans turned to creatures out of a sick horror film, zombies. Two or three were caught with their hands on the push panels of revolving doors, jerking and kicking in the confined spaces. One man's rigid leg kicked through the door glass, which severed his femoral artery. Blood sprayed and smoked. Another man, young, student age, was gripping a large brass door to a function room, and bent forward, urinating and shivering. There were two others, their hands on the rails of the low steps to the lobby bar, frozen, shaking, as the life evaporated from their bodies.

And even outside, Sachs could hear an unearthly moan from deep in the smoldering throat of a woman, caught in midstep.

A heavy-set man plunged forward to save a guest--to push him away from the elevator panel the smoking victim's hand was frozen to. The good Samaritan may have believed he could body-slam the poor guy away from the panel. But he hadn't reckoned on the speed and the power of juice. The instant he contacted the victim he too became part of the circuit. His face twisted into a mass of wrinkles from the pain. Then the expression melted into that of an eerie doll and he began the terrible quivering too.

Blood ran from mouths as teeth cut into tongues and lips. Eyes rolled back into sockets.

A woman with her fingers around a door handle must have made particularly good contact; her back arched at an impossible angle, her unseeing eyes gazing at the ceiling. Her silver hair burst into flames.

Sachs whispered, "Rhyme . . . Oh, it's bad, real bad. I'll have to call back." She disconnected without waiting for a response.

Sachs and Simpson turned and began beckoning the ambulances forward. Sachs was horrified by the spectacle of arms and legs convulsing, muscles frozen, muscles quivering, veins rising, spittle and blood evaporating on faces from the blisteringly hot skin.

Cavanaugh called, "We've got to stop them from trying to get out. They can't touch anything!"

Sachs and Simpson ran to the windows and gestured people back from the doors, but everyone was panicked and continued to stream for the exits, stopping only when they saw the terrible scene.

Cut its head off . . .

She spun to Cavanaugh, crying, "How can we shut the current off here?"

The Operations VP looked around. "We don't know what he's rigged it to. Around here we've got subway lines, transmission lines, feeders. . . . I'll call Queens. I'll cut everything off in the area. It'll shut down the Stock Exchange but we don't have any choice." He pulled out his phone. "But it'll take a few minutes. Tell people in the hotel to stay put. Not to touch anything!"

Sachs ran close to a large sheet of plate glass and gestured people back frantically. Some understood and nodded. But others were panicking. Sachs watched a young woman break free from her friends and race for the emergency exit door, in front of which lay the smoking body of a man who'd tried to exit a moment before. Sachs pounded on the window. "No!" she cried. The woman looked at Sachs but kept going, arms outstretched.

"No, don't touch it!"

The woman, sobbing, sped onward.

Ten feet from the door . . . five feet . . .

No other way, the detective decided.

"Nancy, the windows! Take 'em out!" Sachs drew her Glock. Checked the backdrop. And firing high, used six bullets to take out three of the massive windows in the lobby.

The woman screamed at the gunshots and dove to the ground just before she grabbed the deadly handle.

Nancy Simpson blew out the windows on the other side of the doors.

Both detectives leapt inside. They ordered people not to touch anything metal and began organizing the exodus through the jagged window frames, as smoke, unbelievably vile, filled the lobby.

Chapter 38

BOB CAVANAUGH CALLED,
"Power's off!"

Sachs nodded and directed emergency workers to the victims, then scanned the crowds outside, looking for Galt.

"Detective!"

Amelia Sachs turned. A man in an Algonquin Consolidated uniform was running in her direction. Seeing the dark blue outfit worn by a white male, she thought immediately that it might be Galt. The witness in the hotel had apparently reported that the suspect was nearby and the police had only a bad DMV picture of the attacker to identify him.

But as the man approached it was clear that he was much younger than Galt.

"Detective," he said breathlessly, "that officer there said I should talk to you. There's something I thought you should know." His face screwed up as he caught a whiff of the smoke from inside the hotel.

"Go on."

"I'm with the power company. Algonquin. Look, my partner, he's in one of our tunnels, underneath us?" Nodding toward Amsterdam College. "I've been trying to reach him, but he's not responding. Only, the radios're working fine."

Underground. Where the electric service was.

"I was thinking this Raymond Galt guy, maybe he was down there and Joey ran into him. You know. I'm worried about him."

Sachs called two patrolmen to join her. They and the Algonquin worker hurried to the school. "We have an easement through the basement. It's the best way to get down to the tunnel."

So that's how Galt had picked up the volcanic ash trace, slipping through the exhibit hall of the college. Sachs called Rhyme and explained what had happened. Then added, "I'm going tactical, Rhyme. He might be in the tunnel. I'll call you when I know something. You found anything else in the evidence that might help?"

"Nothing more, Sachs."

"I'm going in now."

She disconnected before he responded and she and the officers followed the worker to the door that led to the basement. The electricity was off in the building, but emergency lights glowed like red and white eyes. The worker started for the door.

"No," Sachs said. "You wait here."

"Okay. You go down two flights and you'll see a red door. It'll say 'Algonquin Consolidated' on it. That'll lead to stairs going down to the service tunnel. Here's the key." He handed it to her.

"What's your partner's name?"

"Joey. Joey Barzan."

"And where was he supposed to be?"

"At the bottom of the access stairs, turn left. He was working about a hundred feet, hundred and fifty, away. It'd sort of be under where the hotel is."

"What's visibility down there?"

"Even with the juice off, there'll be some work lights on battery power."

Battery. Great.

"But it's really dark. We always use flashlights."

"Are there live lines there?"

"Yeah, it's a transmission tunnel. The feeders here are off now, but others're live."

"Are they exposed?"

He gave a surprised blink. "They've got a hundred and thirty thousand volts. No, they're not exposed."

Unless Galt had exposed them.

Sachs hesitated then swept the voltage detector over the door handle, drawing a glance of curiosity from the Algonquin worker. She didn't explain about the invention, but merely gestured everybody back and flung the door open, hand on her weapon's grip. Empty.

Sachs and the two officers started down the murky stairwell--her claustrophobia kicked in immediately but at least here the disgusting smell of burned rubber and skin and hair was less revolting.

Sachs was in the lead, the two patrolmen behind. She was gripping the key firmly but when they got to the red door, giving access to the tunnel, she found it was partially open. They all exchanged glances. She drew her weapon. They did the same and she gestured the patrolmen to move forward slowly behind her, then eased the door open silently with her shoulder.

In the doorway she paused, looked down.

Shit. The stairs leading to the tunnel--about two stories, it seemed--were metal. Unpainted.

Her heart tripping again.

If you can, avoid it.

If you can't do that, protect yourself against it.

If you can't do that, cut its head off.

But none of Charlie Sommers's magic rules applied here.

She was now sweating furiously. She remembered that wet skin was a far better conductor than dry. And hadn't Sommers said something about salty sweat making it even worse?

"You see something, Detective?" A whisper.

"You want me to go?" the second officer asked.

She didn't respond to the questions but whispered back, "Don't touch anything metal."

"Sure. Why not?"

"A hundred thousand volts. That's why."

"Oh. Sure."

She plunged down the stairs, half expecting to hear a horrific crack and see her vision fill with a blinding burst of spark. Down the first flight of stairs, then down the second one.

The estimate was wrong. The journey was down
three
very steep flights.

As they approached the bottom, they heard rumbling and hums. Loud. It was also twenty degrees hotter down here than outside and the temperature was rising with every step of the descent.

Another level of hell.

The tunnel was bigger than she expected, about six feet across and seven high, but much dimmer. Many of the emergency lighting bulbs were missing. To the right, she could just make out the end of the tunnel, about fifty feet away. There were no doors Galt could have escaped through, no places to hide. To the left, though, where Joey Barzan was supposed to be, the corridor disappeared in what seemed to be a series of bends.

Sachs motioned the other two to stay behind her as they moved to the first jog in the tunnel. There they stopped. She didn't believe Galt was still here--he would get as far away as he could--but she was worried about traps.

Still, it was a
belief,
not a certainty, that he'd fled. So when she looked around the bend she was crouching and had her Glock ready, though not preceding her, where Galt might knock it aside or grab it.

Nothing.

She looked down at the water covering the concrete floor. Water. Naturally. Plenty of conductive water.

She glanced at the wall of the tunnel, on which were mounted thick black cables.

DANGER !!! HIGH VOLTAGE
CALL ALGONQUIN CONSOLIDATED POWER
BEFORE WORKING

She remembered the Algonquin worker's comment a moment ago about the voltage.

"Clear," she whispered.

And motioned the officers along behind her, hurrying. She certainly was concerned about the Algonquin worker, Joey Barzan, but more important she hoped to find some clues as to where Galt might've gone.

But could they? These tunnels would go on for miles, she guessed. They would have been a perfect route by which to escape. The floors were dirt and concrete, but no footprints were obvious. The walls were sooty. She could collect trace evidence for days and not come up with a single thing that might yield a clue as to where he'd gone. Maybe--

A scraping sound.

She froze. Where had it come from? Were there side passages where he might be hiding?

One of the officers held up a hand. He pointed at his own eyes and then forward. She nodded, though she thought the military signal wasn't really necessary here.

But whatever makes you comfortable in situations like this. . . .

Though not much was making Sachs comfortable at the moment. Again, the bullets of molten metal zinged, hissing, through her mind's eye.

Still, she couldn't pull back.

Another deep breath.

Another look . . . Again, the stretch of tunnel ahead of them was empty. It was also dimmer than the other. And she saw why: most of the lightbulbs were missing here too, but these had been broken out.

A trap, she sensed.

They had to be directly beneath the hotel, she figured, when they came to a ninety-degree turn to the right.

Again she took a fast look, but this time it was hard to see anything at all because of the greater darkness here.

Then she heard noises again.

One patrolman eased close. "A voice?"

She nodded.

"Keep low," she whispered.

They eased around the corner and made their way up the tunnel, crouching.

Then she shivered. It wasn't a voice. It was a moan. A desperate moan. Human.

"Flashlight!" she whispered. As a detective, she wore no utility belt, just weapons and cuffs, and she felt the painful blow as the officer behind her shoved the light into her side.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Get down," she told the patrolmen softly. "Prone. Be prepared to fire. But only on my command . . . unless he takes me out first."

They eased to the filthy floor, guns pointed down the tunnel.

She aimed in that direction too. Holding the flashlight out to her side at arm's length so she wouldn't present a vital-zone target, she clicked it on, the blinding beam filling the grim corridor.

No gunshots, no arc flashes.

But Galt had claimed another victim.

About thirty feet away an Algonquin worker lay on his side, duct tape over his mouth, hands tied behind him. He was bleeding from the temple and behind his ear.

"Let's go!"

The other officers rose and the three of them hurried down the tunnel to the man she supposed was Joey Barzan. In the beam she could see it wasn't Galt. The worker was badly injured and bleeding heavily. As one of the patrolmen hurried toward him to stop the hemorrhaging, Barzan began to shake his head frantically and wail beneath the tape.

At first Sachs assumed he was dying and that death tremors were shaking his body. But as she got closer to him she looked at his wide eyes and glanced down, following their path. He was lying not on the bare floor but on a thick piece of what looked like Teflon or plastic.

"Stop!" she shouted to the officer reaching forward to help the man. "It's a trap!"

The patrolman froze.

She remembered what Sommers had told her about wounds and blood making the body much less resistant to electricity.

Then, without touching the worker, she walked around behind him.

His hands were bound, yes. But not with tape or rope--with bare copper wire. Which had been spliced into one of the lines on the wall. She grabbed Sommers's voltage detector and aimed it at the wire wrapped around Barzan's flesh.

The meter jumped off the scale at 10,000v. Had the patrolman touched him, the juice would have streaked through him, through the officer and into the ground, killing them instantly.

Sachs stepped back and turned up the volume on her radio to call Nancy Simpson and have her find Bob Cavanaugh and tell the operations director he needed to cut the head off another snake.