The Bone Collector

armor. She pulled on a bathrobe.
    Unsub 823 hadn’t had much warning but it had been enough. The safe house on Van Brevoort had beenhosed completely. Even though the landlord said he’d moved in a long time ago—last January (with a phony ID, no one was very surprised to learn)—823 had left with everything he’d brought, trash included. After Sachs had worked the scene, NYPD Latents had descended and was dusting every surface in the place. So far the preliminary reports weren’t encouraging.
    “Looks like he even wore gloves when he crapped,” young Banks had reported to her.
    A Mobile unit had found the taxi and the sedan. Unsub 823’d cleverly parked them near Avenue D and Ninth Street. Sellitto guessed it probably took a local gang seven or eight minutes to strip them down to their chassis. Any physical evidence the vehicles might’ve yielded was now in a dozen chop shops around the city.
    Sachs turned on the tube and found the news. Nothing about the kidnappings. All the stories were about the opening ceremonies of the UN peace conference.
    She stared at Bryant Gumbel, stared at the UN secretary-general, stared at some ambassador from the Middle East, stared far more intently than her interest warranted. She even studied the ads as if she were memorizing them.
    Because there was something she definitely didn’t want to think about: her bargain with Lincoln Rhyme.
    The deal was clear. Now that Carole and Pammy were safe, it was her turn to come through. To let him have his hour alone with Dr. Berger.
    Now him, Berger . . . She hadn’t liked the look of the doctor at all. You could see one big fucking ego in his compact, athletic frame, his evasive eyes. His black hair perfectly combed. Expensive clothes. Why couldn’t Rhyme have found someone like Kevorkian? He may have been quirky but at least seemed like a wise old grandfather.
    Her lids closed.
    Giving up the dead  . . .
    A bargain was a bargain. But goddammit, Rhyme . . .
    Well, she couldn’t let him go without one last try. He’d caught her off guard in his bedroom. She was flustered. Hadn’t thought of any really good arguments.Monday. She had until tomorrow to try to convince him not to do it. Or at least to wait awhile. A month. Hell, a day.
    What could she say to him? She’d jot down her arguments. Write a little speech.
    Opening her eyes, she climbed out of bed to find a pen and some paper. I could—
    Sachs froze, her breath whistling into her lungs like the wind outside.
    He wore dark clothes, the ski mask and gloves black as oil.
    Unsub 823 stood in the middle of her bedroom.
    Her hand instinctively went toward the bedside table—her Glock and knife. But he was ready. The shovel swung fast and caught her on the side of her head. A yellow light exploded in her eyes.
    She was on her hands and knees when the foot slammed into her rib cage and she collapsed to her stomach, struggling for breath. She felt her hands being cuffed behind her, a strip of duct tape slapped onto her mouth. Moving fast, efficiently. He rolled her onto her back; her robe fell open.
    Kicking furiously, struggling madly to pull the cuffs apart.
    Another blow to her stomach. She gagged and fell still as he reached for her. Gripped her at the armpits, dragged her out the back door and into the large private garden behind the apartment.
    His eyes remained on her face, not even looking at her tits, her flat belly, her mound with its few red curls. She could easily have given that up to him if it would have saved her life.
    But, no, Rhyme’s diagnosis was right. It wasn’t lust that drove 823. He had something else in mind. He dropped her willowy figure, face up, into a patch of black-eyed Susans and pachysandra, out of sight of the neighbors. He looked around, catching his breath. He picked up the shovel and plunged the blade into the dirt.
    Amelia Sachs began to cry.
    * * *
    Rubbing the back of his head into the pillow.
    Compulsive, a doctor had once told him after observing this behavior—an opinion Rhyme hadn’t asked for. Or wanted. His nestling, Rhyme reflected, was just a variation on Amelia Sachs’s tearing her flesh with her own nails.
    He stretched his neck muscles, rolling his head around, as he stared at the profile chart on the wall. Rhyme believed that the full story of the man’s madness was here in front of him. In the black, swoopy handwriting—and the gaps between the words. But he couldn’t see the story’s ending. Not yet.
    He