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No emotion whatsoever, no flicker of surprise or interest. Not even when he nodded toward Sachs. It was as if he'd forgotten that she'd brained him repeatedly with a rock.
Somebody asked Boyd about it, how'd it feel, bein' in a electric chair. He said it didn't feel like anythin'. It just felt "kinda numb." He said that a lot toward the end. He felt numb.
He asked, "How'd you find me?"
"A couple of things," Rhyme answered. "For one, you picked the wrong tarot card to leave as evidence. It put me in mind of executions."
"The Hanged Man," Boyd said, nodding. "Right you are. I never thought about that. Just seemed like kind of a spooky one. To lead you off, you know."
Rhyme continued, "What got us your name, though, was your habit."
"Habit?"
"You whistle."
"I do that. I try not to on the job. But sometimes it slips out. So you talked to . . . "
"Yep, some people in Texas."
Nodding, Boyd glanced at Rhyme with red, squinting eyes. "So you knew 'bout Charlie Tucker? That unfortunate excuse for a human being. Making the last days of my people's time on earth miserable. Telling 'em they were going to burn in hell, nonsense talk about Jesus and whatnot."
My people . . .
Sachs asked, "Was Bani al-Dahab the only one who hired you?"
He blinked in surprise; it seemed the first true emotion to cross his face. "How--?" He fell silent.
"The bomb went off early. Or he killed himself."
A shake of the head. "No, he wasn't any suicide bomber. It would've gone off by accident. Fella was careless. Too hotheaded, you know. Didn't do things by the book. He probably armed it too early."
"How'd you meet him?"
"He called me. Got my name from somebody in prison, Nation of Islam connection."
So that was it. Rhyme had wondered how a Texas prison guard had hooked up with Islamic terrorists.
"They're crazy," Boyd said. "But they have money, those Arab people."
"And Jon Earle Wilson? He was your bomb maker?"
"Jonny, yes, sir." He shook his head. "You know 'bout him too? You people're good, I must say."
"Where is he?"
"That I don't know. We left messages from pay phones to a voice-mail box. And met in public. Never traded more'n a dozen words."
"The FBI'll be talking to you about al-Dahab and the bombing. What we want to know about is Geneva. Is there anybody else who'd want to hurt her?"
Boyd shook his head. "From what he told me, al-Dahab was working alone. I suspect he talked to people over in the Middle East some. But nobody here. He didn't trust anyone." The Texas drawl came and went, as if he'd been working on losing it.
Sachs said ominously, "If you're lying, if something happens to her, we can make sure the rest of your life's totally miserable."
"How?" Boyd asked, genuinely curious, it seemed.
"You killed the librarian, Dr. Barry. You attacked and tried to kill police officers. You could get consecutive lifetimes. And we're looking into the death of a girl yesterday on Canal Street. Somebody pushed her in front of a bus near where you were escaping from Elizabeth Street. We're running your picture past witnesses. You'll go away forever."
A shrug. "Doesn't hardly matter."
