The Bone Collector

started to get into the taxi but then changed his mind. Unpredictability is the best defense. This time he’d take the carriage . . . the sedan, the Ford. He started it, he drove into the street, closed and locked the garage door behind him.
    No before or after  . . .
    As he passed the cemetery the pack of dogs glanced up at the Ford then returned to scuffling through the brush, looking for rats and nosing madly for water in the unbearable heat.
    No then or now  . . .
    He took the ski mask and gloves from his pocket, set them on the seat beside him as he sped out of the old neighborhood. The bone collector was going hunting.

TEN
    S omething had changed about the room but she couldn’t quite decide what.
    Lincoln Rhyme saw it in her eyes.
    “We missed you, Amelia,” he said coyly. “Errands?”
    She looked away from him. “Apparently nobody’d told my new commander I wouldn’t be showing up for work today. I thought somebody ought to.”
    “Ah, yes.”
    She was gazing at the wall, slowly figuring it out. In addition to the basic instruments that Mel Cooper had brought with him, there was now a scanning electron microscope fitted with the X-ray unit, flotation and hot-stage ’scope setups for testing glass, a comparison microscope, a density-gradient tube for soil testing and a hundred beakers, jars and bottles of chemicals.
    And in the middle of the room, Cooper’s pride—the computerized gas chromatograph and mass spectrometer. Along with another computer, on-line with Cooper’s own terminal at the IRD lab.
    Sachs stepped over the thick cables snaking downstairs—house current worked, yes, but the amperage was too taxed for the bedroom outlets alone. And in that slight sidestep, an elegant, practiced maneuver, Rhyme observed how truly beautiful she was. Certainly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in the police department ranks.
    For a brief instant he found her immeasurably appealing. People said that sex was all in the mind and Rhyme knew that this was true. Cutting the cord didn’t stop the urge. He remembered, still with a faint crunch of horror, a night six months after the accident. He and Blaine hadtried. Just to see what happened, they’d disclaimed, trying to be casual. No big deal.
    But it had been a big deal. Sex is a messy business to start with and when you add catheters and bags to the equation you need a lot of stamina and humor and a better foundation than they’d had. Mostly, though, what killed the moment, and killed it fast, was her face. He saw in Blaine Chapman Rhyme’s tough, game smile that she was doing it from pity and that stabbed him in the heart. He filed for divorce two weeks later. Blaine had protested but she signed the papers on the first go-round.
    Sellitto and Banks had returned and were organizing the evidence Sachs had collected. She looked on, mildly interested.
    Rhyme said to her, “The Latents Unit only found eight other recent partials and they belong to the two maintenance men in the building.”
    “Oh.”
    He nodded broadly. “Only eight! ”
    “He’s complimenting you,” Thom explained. “Enjoy it. That’s the most you’ll ever get out of him.”
    “No translations needed, please and thank you, Thom.”
    She responded, “I’m happy I could help.” Pleasant as could be.
    Well, what was this ? Rhyme had fully expected her to storm into his room and fling the evidence bags onto his bed. Maybe the saw itself or even the plastic bag containing the vic’s severed hands. He’d been looking forward to a real knock-down, drag-out; people rarely take the gloves off when they fight with a crip. He’d been thinking of that look in her eyes when she’d met him, perhaps evidence of some ambiguous kinship between them.
    But no, he saw now he was wrong. Amelia Sachs was like everybody else—patting him on the head and looking for the nearest exit.
    With a snap, his heart turned to ice. When he spoke it was to a cobweb high on the far wall. “We’ve been talking about the deadline for the next victim, officer. There doesn’t seem to be specific time.”
    “What we think,” Sellitto continued, “whatever this prick’s got planned for the next one is something ongoing. He doesn’t know exactly when the time of death will be. Lincoln thought maybe he’s buried some poor SOB someplace where there’s not much air.”
    Sachs’s eye narrowed slightly at this. Rhyme noticed it. Burial alive. If you’ve got to have a phobia, that’s as