The Bone Collector

than rodents. A snaky nose and snaky tail. And those fucking red eyes.
    Behind him was Schwarzie, the size of a small cat. He rose up on his haunches and stared at what fascinated him. Watching. Waiting.
    Then the little one attacked. Scurrying on his four needlish feet, ignoring her muffled scream, he darted fast and straight. Quick as a roach he tore a bite from her cut leg. The wound stung like fire. Monelle squealed—in pain, yes, but from anger too. I don’t fucking want you! She slammed her heel into his back with a dull crunch. He quivered once and lay still.
    Another one raced up to her neck, ripped away a bite then leapt back, staring at her, twitching his nose as if he were running his tongue around his little rat mouth, savoring her flavor.
    Dieser Schmerz  . . .
    She shivered as the searing burn radiated from the bite. Dieser Schmerz! The pain! Monelle forced herself to lie still again.
    The tiny attacker poised for another run but suddenly he twitched and turned away. Monelle saw why. Schwarzie was finally easing to the front of the pack. He was coming after what he wanted.
    Good, good.
    He was the one she’d been waiting for. Because he hadn’t seemed interested in the blood or her flesh; he’d padded up close twenty minutes before, fascinated by the silver tape across her mouth.
    The smaller rat scurried back into the swarming bodies as Schwarzie eased forward, on his obscenely tiny feet. Paused. Then advanced again. Six feet, five.
    Then three.
    She remained completely still. Breathing as shallowly as she dared, afraid the inhalation would scare him off.
    Schwarzie paused. Padded forward again. Then stopped. Two feet away from her head.
    Don’t move a muscle.
    His back was humped high and his lips kept retracting over his brown and yellow teeth. He moved another footcloser and stopped, eyes darting. Sat up, rubbed his clawed paws together, eased forward again.
    Monelle Gerger played dead.
    Another six inches. Vorwärts!
    Come on!
    Then he was at her face. She smelled garbage and oil on his body, feces, rotten meat. He sniffed and she felt the unbearable tickle of whiskers on her nose as his tiny teeth emerged from his mouth and began to chew the tape.
    For five minutes he gnawed around her mouth. Once another rat scooted in, sank his teeth into her ankle. She closed her eyes to the pain and tried to ignore it. Schwarzie chased him away then stood in the shadows studying her.
    Vorwärts, Schwarzie! Come on!
    Slowly he padded back to her. Tears running down her cheek, Monelle reluctantly lowered her mouth to him.
    Chewing, chewing . . .
    Come on!
    She felt his vile, hot breath in her mouth as he broke through the tape and began to rip off larger chunks of the shiny plastic. He pulled the pieces from his mouth and squeezed them greedily in his front claws.
    Big enough now? she wondered.
    It would have to be. She couldn’t take any more.
    Slowly she lifted her head up, one millimeter at a time. Schwarzie blinked and leaned forward, curiously.
    Monelle spread her jaws and heard the wonderful sound of the ripping tape. She sucked air deep into her lungs. She could breathe again!
    And she could shout for help.
    “ Bitte, helfen Sie mir! Please help me!”
    Schwarzie backed away, startled by her ragged howl, dropping his precious silver tape. But he didn’t go very far. He stopped and turned back, rose on his pudgy haunches.
    Ignoring his black, humped body she kicked the post she was tied to. Dust and dirt floated down like graysnow but the wood didn’t give a bit. She screamed until her throat burned.
    “ Bitte. Help me!”
    The sticky rush of traffic swallowed the sound.
    Stillness for a moment. Then Schwarzie started toward her again. He wasn’t alone this time. The slimy pack followed his lead. Twitching, nervous. But drawn steadily by the tempting smell of her blood.
    * * *  
    Bone and wood, wood and bone.
    “Mel, what do you have there?” Rhyme was nodding toward the computer attached to the chromatograph-spectrometer. Cooper had once more retested the dirt they’d found in the splinter of wood.
    “It’s still nitrogen-rich. Off the charts.”
    Three separate tests, the results all the same. A diagnostic check of the unit showed it was working fine. Cooper reflected and said, “That much nitrogen—maybe a firearms or ammunition manufacturer.”
    “That’d be Connecticut, not Manhattan.” Rhyme looked at the clock. 6:30. How fast time had raced past today. How slowly it had