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"Casualties?" Dellray asked.
"No idea. The cutter's still a few miles away. And they don't know the location--nobody on board the Dragon hit any emergency distress signals. They send out the exact coordinates."
Rhyme stared at the map of Long Island, its eastern end split like a fishtail. His eye was on a red sticker that marked the Dragon's approximate location. "How far offshore?"
"About a mile."
Rhyme's sweeping mind had run through a half-dozen logical scenarios of what might happen when the Coast Guard interdicted the Fuzhou Dragon, some optimistic, others involving some injury and the loss of life. Criminal apprehension was a trade-off and you could minimize the risks but never completely eliminate them. But drowning everyone on board? All those families and children? No, that thought had never occurred to him.
Christ, he'd lain in his luxurious $3000 bed and listened to the INS's little problem of the Ghost's whereabouts as if it were a diverting game at a cocktail party. Then he'd drawn his conclusions and snappily given them the solution.
And he'd let it go at that--never thinking one step further, never thinking that the immigrants might be at such terrible risk.
Illegals're called "the vanished"--if they try to cheat a snakehead, they're killed. If they complain, they're killed. They just disappear. Forever.
Lincoln Rhyme was furious with himself. He knew how dangerous the Ghost was; he should have anticipated this deadly turn. He closed his eyes momentarily and adjusted the burden somewhere in his soul. Give up the dead, he often told himself--and the CS techs who'd worked for him--and he reiterated this command silently now. But he couldn't quite give them up, not these poor people. The sinking of the Dragon was different. These dead weren't corpses at a crime scene, whose glassy eyes and rictus grin you learned to ignore in order to do your job. Here were whole families dead because of him.
After they'd interdicted the ship, arrested the Ghost and run the crime scene, his involvement in the case would end, Rhyme had thought, and he'd get back to preparing for his surgery. But now he knew he couldn't abandon the case. The hunter within him had to find this man and bring him to justice.
Dellray's phone rang and he answered. After a brief conversation he snapped off the call with a long finger.
"Here'sa deal. The Coast Guard thinks a coupla motorized rafts're heading toward shore." He stalked to the map and pointed. "Prob'ly around here. Easton--little town on the road to Orient Point. They can't get a chopper in the air with the storm being's nasty as it is but they got some cutters on the way to look for survivors and we're going to get our people at Port Jefferson out to where the rafts're headed."
Alan Coe brushed his red hair, only slightly darker than Sachs's, and said to Peabody, "I want to go out there."
The INS supervisor replied pointedly, "I'm not making personnel decisions around here." A none-too-subtle comment about the fact that Dellray and the FBI were running the show, one of many such barbs that had been exchanged between the two agents over the past few days.
"How 'bout it, Fred?" Coe asked.
"Nup," the preoccupied agent said.
"But I--"
Dellray shook his head emphatically. "There's nothin' you can do, Coe. If they collar him you can go question him in detention. Jabber at him all you want. But this's a tactical apprehension op now and that ain't your specialty."
The young agent had provided good intelligence about the Ghost but Rhyme thought he was difficult to work with. He was still angry and resentful that he hadn't been allowed to actually be on board the cutter interdicting the ship--another battle Dellray had had to fight.
"Well, that's bullshit." Coe dropped moodily into an office chair.
Without a response, Dellray sniffed his unlit cigarette, tucked it behind his ear and took another call. After he hung up he said to the team, "We're trying to set up roadblocks on the smaller highways out of the area--Routes 25, 48 and 84. But it's rush hour and nobody's got the balls to close the Long Island Expressway or Sunrise Highway."
Sellitto said, "We can call the toll takers at the tunnel and the bridges."
Dellray shrugged. "That's somethin', but it's not enough. Hell, Chinatown's that boy's turf. Once he's there it'll be hell to find him. We gotta get him on the beach if there's any way."
"And when," Rhyme asked, "are the life rafts going to land?"
"They're guessin' twenty, twenty-five minutes. And our folk're fifty miles away from Easton."
Peabody asked, "Isn't there any way to get somebody out there sooner?"
Rhyme debated for a moment then said into the microphone attached to his wheelchair, "Command, telephone."
*
The 1969 Indianapolis 500 pace car was a General Motors Camaro Super Sport convertible.
For this honor, GM picked the strongest of their muscle car line--the SS fitted with a 396-cubic-inch TurboJet V-8 engine, which could churn 375 horsepower. And if you were inclined to tinker with the vehicle--by removing sound deadeners, undercoating, sway bars and interior wheel wells and playing around with the pulleys and cylinder heads, for instance--you could goose the effective hp up to 450.
