The Bone Collector

identical to the one found at the scene. Below it was a tidal chart. “High tide’s in forty minutes.”
    Rhyme’s face curled in disgust. He was never angrier than when he was angry with himself. “He’s going to drown the vic. They’re under a pier downtown.” He looked hopelessly at the map of Manhattan, with its miles of shoreline. “Sachs, time to play race-car driver again. You and Banks go west. Lon, why don’t you take the East Side? Around the South Street Seaport. And Mel, figure out what the hell that leaf is!”
      * * *
    A fluke of wave slapped his sagging head.
    William Everett opened his eyes and snorted the shivery water from his nose. It was icy cold and he felt hisquestionable heart stutter as it struggled to send warming blood through his body.
    He almost fainted again, like when the son of a bitch’d broken his finger. Then he floated back to waking, his thoughts on his late wife—and for some reason, on their travels. They’d been to Giza. And to Guatemala. Nepal. Teheran (one week before the embassy takeover).
    Their Southeast China Airlines plane had lost one of two engines an hour out of Beijing and Evelyn had lowered her head, the crash position, preparing to die and staring at an article in the in-flight magazine. It warned that drinking hot tea right after a meal was dangerous for you. She told him about it afterwards, at the Raffles bar in Singapore, and they’d laughed hysterically until tears came to their eyes.
    Thinking of the kidnapper’s cold eyes. His teeth, the bulky gloves.
    Now, in this horrid wet tomb the unbearable pain rolled up his arm and into his jaw.
    Broken finger or heart attack? he wondered.
    Maybe a little of both.
    Everett closed his eyes until the pain subsided. He looked around him. The chamber where he was handcuffed was beneath a rotting pier. A lip of wood dipped from the edge toward the churning water, which was about six inches below the bottom of the rim. Lights from boats on the river and the industrial sites of Jersey reflected through the narrow slit. The water was up to his neck now and although the roof of the pier was several feet above his head the cuffs were extended as far as they’d go.
    The pain swept up from his finger again and Everett’s head roared with the agony and dipped toward the water as he passed out. A noseful of water and the racking cough that followed revived him.
    Then the moon tugged the plane of water slightly higher and with a sodden gulp the chamber was sealed off from the river outside. The room went dark. He was aware of the sounds of groaning waves and his own moaning from the pain.
    He knew he was dead, knew he couldn’t keep his head above the greasy surface for more than a few minutes. He closed his eyes, pressed his face against the slick, black column.

TWENTY-ONE
    A ll the way downtown, Sachs,” Rhyme’s voice clattered from the radio.
    She punched the accelerator of the RRV, red lights flashing, as they screamed downtown along the West Side Highway. Ice-cool, she goosed the wagon up to eighty.
    “Okay, whoa,” said Jerry Banks.
    Counting down. Twenty-third Street, Twentieth, the skidding jog at the Fourteenth Street garbage-barge dock. As they roared through the Village, the meatpacking district, a semi pulled out of a side street directly into her path. Instead of braking she nudged the wagon over the center curb like a steeple-chaser, drawing breathless oaths from Banks and a wail from the air horn of the big White, which jackknifed spectacularly.
    “Oops,” said Amelia Sachs and swung back into the southbound lane. To Rhyme she added, “Say again. Missed that.”
    Rhyme’s tinny voice popped through her earphones. “Downtown is all I can tell you. Until we figure out what the leaf means.”
    “We’re coming up on Battery Park City.”
    “Twenty-five minutes to high tide,” Banks called.
    Maybe Dellray’s team could get the exact location out of him. They could drag Mr. 823 into an alley somewhere with a bag of apples. Nick had told her that was the way they talked perps into “cooperating.” Whack ’em in the gut with a bag of fruit. Really painful. No marks. When she was growing up she wouldn’t have thought cops did that. Now she knew different.
    Banks tapped her shoulder. “There. A bunch of old piers.”
    Rotten wood, filthy. Spooky places.
    They skidded to a stop and climbed out, running toward the water.
    “You there, Rhyme?”
    “Talk to me, Sachs. Where are you?”
    “A