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With her scalded right hand Sachs squeezed the woman's biceps and repeated the question.
"My husband . . ." She stared at Sachs with an eerie look. "My husband's dead."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
Carole was getting groggy from the sedative and a woman medic helped her into the ambulance to rest.
Sachs looked up and saw Lon Sellitto and Jerry Banks running toward her from the burned-out church.
"Jesus, officer." Sellitto was surveying the carnage in the street. "What about the girl?"
Sachs nodded. "He's still got her."
Banks said, "You okay?"
"Nothing serious." Sachs glanced toward the ambulance. "The vic, Carole, she doesn't have any money, no place to stay. She's in town to work for the UN. Think you could make some calls, detective? See if they could set her up for a while?"
"Sure," Sellitto said.
"And the planted clues?" Banks asked. He winced as he touched a bandage over his right eyebrow.
"Gone," Sachs said. "I saw them. In the basement. Couldn't get to them in time. Burned up and buried."
"Oh, man," Banks muttered. "What's going to happen to the little girl?"
What does he think's going to happen to her?
She walked back toward the wreck of the IRD wagon, found the headset. She pulled it on and was about to call in a patch request to Rhyme but hesitated then lifted off the mike. What could he tell her anyway? She looked at the church. How can you work a crime scene when there is no scene?
She was standing with her hands on her hips, staring out onto the smoldering hulk of the building, when she heard a sound she couldn't place. A whining, mechanical sound. She paid no attention to it until she was aware of Lon Sellitto pausing as he dusted ash off his wrinkled shirt. He said, "I don't believe it."
She turned toward the street.
A large black van was parked a block away. A hydraulic ramp was protruding off the side and something sat on it. She squinted. One of those bomb squad robots, it seemed. The ramp lowered to the sidewalk and the robot rolled off.
Then she laughed out loud.
The contraption turned toward them and started to move. The wheelchair reminded her of a Pontiac Firebird, candy-apple red. It was one of those electric models, small rear wheels, a large battery and motor mounted underneath.
Thom walked along beside it but Lincoln Rhyme himself was driving--in control, she observed wryly--via a straw that he held in his mouth. His movements were oddly graceful. Rhyme pulled up to her and stopped.
"All right, I lied," he said abruptly.
She exhaled a sigh. "About your back? When you said you couldn't use a wheelchair."
"I'm confessing I lied. You're going to be mad, Amelia. So be mad and get it over with."
"You ever notice when you're in a good mood you call me Sachs, when you're in a bad mood, you call me Amelia?"
"I'm not in a bad mood," he snapped.
"He really isn't," Thom agreed. "He just hates to get caught at anything." The aide nodded toward the impressive wheelchair. She glanced at the side. It was made by the Action Company, a Storm Arrow model. "He had this in the closet downstairs all the while he spun his pathetic little tale of woe. Oh, I let him have it for that."
"No annotations, Thom, thank you. I'm apologizing, all right? I. Am. Sorry."
"He's had it for years," Thom continued. "Learned the sip-'n'-puff cold. That's the straw control. He's really very good at it. By the way, he always calls me Thom. I never get preferential last-name treatment."
"I got tired of being stared at," Rhyme said matter-of-factly. "So I stopped going for joyrides." Then glanced at her torn lip. "Hurt?"
