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"Lincoln! Can you hear me?"
No response.
Then a moment later, the man's head lolled. And he whispered something.
"Lincoln. You're going to be all right. Dr. Metz is sending a team."
Another whisper.
"It's all right, Lincoln. You'll be all right."
In a faint voice Rhyme said, "You have to tell her . . ."
"Lincoln, stay still."
"Sachs."
Cooper said, "She's at the scene. The school where you sent her. She's not back yet."
"You have to tell Sachs . . ." The voice faded.
"I will, Lincoln. I'll tell her. As soon as she calls in," Thom said.
Cooper added, "You don't want to disturb her now. She's moving in on Galt."
"Tell her . . ."
Rhyme's eyes rolled back in his head and he went out again. Thom angrily looked out the window, as if that would speed the arrival of the ambulance. But all he saw were people strolling by on healthy legs, people jogging, people bicycling through the park, none of them with an apparent care in the world.
Chapter 62
RON PULASKI GLANCED at Sachs, who was peeking through a window at the back of the school.
She held up a finger, squinting and jockeying for position to try to get a better look at where Galt was. The whimpering was hard to hear from this vantage point since that diesel truck or engine was close, just on the other side of a fence.
Then came a louder moan.
Sachs turned back and nodded at the door, whispering, "We're going to get her. I want crossfire coverage. Somebody up, somebody down. You want to go through here or up the fire escape?"
Pulaski glanced to their right, where a rusty metal ladder led up to a platform and an open window. He knew there was no chance they were electrified. Amelia had checked. But he really didn't want to go that way. Then he thought about his mistake at Galt's apartment. About Stanley Palmer, the man who might die. Who, even if he lived, might never be the same again.
He said, "I'll go up."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"Remember, we want him alive if at all possible. If he's set another trap, it might have a timer on it and we'll need him to tell us where it is and when it's going to activate."
Pulaski nodded. Crouching, he made his way over the filthy asphalt strewn with all sorts of garbage.
Concentrate, he told himself. You've got a job to do. You're not going to get spooked again. You're not going to make a mistake.
As he moved silently, he found he was, in fact, a lot less spooked than before. And then he wasn't spooked at all.
Ron Pulaski was angry.
Galt had gotten sick. Well, sorry. Well, too goddamn bad. Hell, Pulaski had had his head trauma, and he didn't blame anybody for it. Just like Lincoln Rhyme didn't sit around and mope. And Galt might very well be fine, all the new cancer treatments and techniques and everything. But here this whiny little shit was taking out his unhappiness on the innocent. And, Jesus Lord, what was he doing to that woman inside? She must've had information Galt needed. Or maybe she was a doctor who'd missed a diagnosis or something and he was getting revenge on her too.
