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"Remember what I told you about dignity? Quit moaning." Dellray stood up. "I gotta make a call."
The RRV skidded to a stop on Sixtieth Street.
Sachs snagged the crime-scene suitcase, the PoliLight and the big twelve-volt flashlight.
"Did you get her in time?" Sachs called to an ESU trooper. "Is she all right?"
No one answered at first. Then she heard the screams.
"What's going on?" she muttered, running breathless up to the large door, which had been battered in by Emergency Services. It opened onto a wide driveway that descended underneath an abandoned brick building. "She's still there?"
&n
bsp; "That's right."
"Why?" demanded a shocked Amelia Sachs.
"They told us not to go in."
"Not to go in? She's screaming. Can't you hear her?"
An ESU cop said, "They told us to wait for you."
They. No, not they at all. Lincoln Rhyme. That son of a bitch.
"We were supposed to find her," the officer said. "You're supposed to go in."
She clicked the headset on. "Rhyme!" she barked. "Are you there?"
No answer . . . You goddamn coward.
Give up the dead . . . Sonofabitch! As furious as she'd been storming down the stairs in his townhouse a few minutes ago, she was twice as angry now.
Sachs glanced behind her and noticed a medic standing beside an EMS bus.
"You, come with me."
He took a step forward and saw her draw her weapon. He stopped.
"Whoa, time out," the medic said. "I don't have to go in until the area's secure."
"Now! Move!" She spun around and he must have seen more muzzle than he wanted. He grimaced and hurried after her.
From underground they heard: "Aiiiii! Hilfe!" Then sobbing.
Jesus. Sachs started to run toward the looming doorway, twelve feet high, smoky blackness inside.
She heard in her head: You're him, Amelia. What are you thinking?
Go away, she said silently.
But Lincoln Rhyme didn't go away.
You're a killer and a kidnapper, Amelia. Where would you walk, what would you touch?
Forget it! I'm going to save her. Hell with the crime scene . . .
"Mein Gott! Pleece! Some-von, pleece help!"
