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'It means "empty cage" in German.'
She'd laughed, tossing her tiny red ponytail as she'd looked up at him. But Herman Sachs, a seasoned NYPD patrol officer, wasn't joking. 'Remember, Amie. The most dangerous things are the ones you can't see.'
And now too she saw nothing.
Where was he?
Keep going.
Ducking and, with as deep a breath as she could take yet not choke on the mist in the air, she stepped through the cloud.
And she saw him. Unsub 11-5.
'Jesus, Rhyme,' she whispered, stepping closer. 'Jesus.'
Only after some moments of hearing nothing but the wail and hiss of the water did she remember that the mike and camera were off.
The experts from Fort Detrick had helicoptered into town in all of forty-five minutes.
When the poison in question is sufficient to kill a high percentage of the population of a major US city, the national security folks don't fool around.
Once it was clear that the unsub was not going to be shooting anyone, Sachs was politely but emphatically ordered out of the tunnel while eight men and women in elaborate self-contained biohazard suits went to work. It was clear from the start that they knew what they were doing. Fort Detrick, in Frederick, Maryland, was home to the US Army's Medical Research and Materiel Command and its Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. In effect, if the prefix 'bio' and the words 'warfare' or 'defense' were linked in any project of any kind, Fort Detrick was involved.
Rhyme's voice clattered through the radio. 'What, Sachs? What's going on?' She was standing, freezing, on the slushy sidewalk near Third, where she'd parked her Torino.
She told him, 'They've secured the botulinum. It was in three syringes in a thermos. They've got them in a negative pressure containment vehicle.'
'They're sure none got into the water?'
'Absolutely positive.'
'And the unsub?'
A pause. 'Well, it's bad.'
Rhyme's plan to have the city announce falsely that the water supply was going to be shut down had had one unexpected consequence.
Unsub 11-5, wearing nothing more protective than Department of Environmental Protection coveralls, had been standing right in front of the hole he was drilling. When he'd broken through the main, the stream of water, like a buzz saw, had cut straight through his chest, killing him instantly. As he'd dropped to the floor, the water had continued to slice through his neck and head, cutting them apart.
Blood and bone and tissue were everywhere, some blasted onto the far wall, many feet away. Sachs had known she should get the hell out and let the bio team secure the scene but she'd been compelled, out of curiosity, to perform one last task: to tug the unsub's left sleeve up. She had to see his body art.
The red centipede stared out at her with probing, human eyes. It was brilliantly done. And utterly creepy. She'd actually shivered.
'What's the status of the scene?'
'Army's sealing it - about a two-block radius. I got prints and DNA from our unsub and pocket litter and bags he had with him before I got kicked out.'
'Well, bring back what you have. He's not working on his own. And who knows what else they have in mind?'
'I'm on my way.'
CHAPTER 66
The TV news was frantic but ambiguous.
A terrorist attack on the water supply in New York, improvised explosive devices ...
Harriet and Matthew Stanton sat on the couch in the suite at their hotel. Their son, Joshua, was beside them in a chair, fiddling. One of those bracelets the kids wore nowadays, even boys. Colored rubber. Not normal. Gay. Matthew tried to frown his son to stillness but Joshua kept his eyes on the TV. He sipped water from a bottle; the family had brought gallons with them. For obvious reasons. He asked questions that his parents didn't have the answers to.
