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Pulaski was heir to Rhyme’s skill and had that grit that would motivate him to do whatever it took to find Hale and either bring him back to New York for trial or—he believed the officer capable of it—kill him on the spot.
He had to go.
And Amelia Sachs?
She was less of a threat. Justice was within her, like a vein of a diamond. But revenge was not. She wouldn’t choose to forgo her job of stopping evil in the city for the lengthy and possibly futile mission of pursuing her husband’s killer.
Hale had been dramatic with Rhyme in describing the effects of HF gas on Ron Pulaski. There was no time-release mechanism on the device. All the acid in the jar would flood the room at once. A painful death, yes, but brief. He’d be dead by now.
Hale looked around him and, seeing no threats, lifted his backpack to his shoulder.
With a fleeting thought of Simone, he began the hike back to the SUV—and from there, to his new life.
67.
HER WORLD WAS ABUZZ.
A barred owl!
Rare in Central Park, and Carol would not miss it for the world. It was nighttime, yes, but serious birdwatchers took to the forest and field at all hours, especially in hopes of catching a glimpse of the stunning creature, which was as tall as the great horned—seventeen to twenty-five inches—and had the distinction of being the only owl on earth with brown eyes.
Like other birdwatchers presently in Central Park, she would be patient and dogged and happily ignore the pain of “bird neck,” from staring straight up into the trees.
She was walking quickly, camera bouncing on her chest, night-vision binoculars in hand. You never strung two accessories around you. The tap and clank would scare off your subject. And always, rubber-soled shoes, quiet as spilling flour.
Then she slowed. Not because of the owl, or any other bird. She had noted a person not far ahead, walking her way. He was passing through a cone of overhead light.
Was it …?
Yes, it was him! David. The fellow birdwatcher from the other day. The unmarried man, with a job.
He wore tan overalls—which gave a hint as to his profession—and had a backpack over his shoulder.
She’d been back to this area several times in hopes of seeing him again.
Couldn’t wait to tell him about the barred owl—that would be a surefire catch—and maybe together they could stalk it.
Then, she might ask, Coffee?
Alcohol was never suggested by a woman first, but ifhedid …
Ah, the complex choreography of the mating game.
A bird flashed by—not a brown streak, so it wasn’t the owl in question. She ignored it and slowed, fixing a smile on her face, standing a bit taller.
He walked closer yet, head down, examining a phone.
When he was about twenty-five, thirty feet away, she called out a bright “David!” Wondering if he’d remember her name. Of course she’d identify herself. She hated it when people assumed you knew who they were.
He stopped.
And looked up. He was frowning.
Damn, she sensed she hadn’t handled it right. She’d been too far away when she called out. She should’ve waited.
But then Carol noted he was looking not at her but over her shoulder.
She turned and gasped.
