The Burning Wire

cause death and, more troubling to Rhyme, a stroke, which could mean even more paralysis. In which case Rhyme might very well dust off his long-laid-to-rest idea of assisted suicide, which that damn Arlen Kopeski had brought up again.
    “What can I do?” Cooper whispered, the normally placid face dark with worry, slick with sweat.
    “We’ll just keep him upright.”
    Thom examined Rhyme’s eyes. Blank.
    The aide snagged a second vial and administered another dose of clonidine.
    No response.
    Thom stood helpless, both he and Cooper silent. He thought of the past years with Rhyme. They’d fought, sometimes bitterly, but Thom had been a caregiver all his working life and knew not to take the anger personally. Knew not to take it at all. He gave as much as he got.
    He’d been fired by Rhyme and had quit in nearly equal measure.
    But he’d never believed the separation between the two of them would last more than a day. And it never had.
    Looking at Rhyme, wondering where the hell the medics were, he was considering: Was this my fault? Dysreflexia is frequently caused by the irritation that comes from a full bladder or bowel. Since Rhyme didn’t know when he needed to relieve himself Thom noted the intake of food and liquid and judged the intervals. Had he gotten it wrong? He didn’t think so, but maybe the stress of running the double case had exacerbated the irritation. He should have checked more often.
    I should’ve exercised better judgment. I should’ve been firmer. . . .
    To lose Rhyme would be to lose the finest criminalist in the city, if not the world. And to lose countless victims because their killers would go undetected.
    To lose Rhyme would be to lose one of his closest friends.
    Yet he remained calm. Caregivers learn this early. Hard and fast decisions can’t be made in panic.
    Then the color of Rhyme’s face stabilized and they got him into the wheelchair again. They couldn’t have kept him up much longer anyway.
    “Lincoln! Can you hear me?”
    No response.
    Then a moment later, the man’s head lolled. And he whispered something.
    “Lincoln. You’re going to be all right. Dr. Metz is sending a team.”
    Another whisper.
    “It’s all right, Lincoln. You’ll be all right.”
    In a faint voice Rhyme said, “You have to tell her . . .”
    “Lincoln, stay still.”
    “Sachs.”
    Cooper said, “She’s at the scene. The school where you sent her. She’s not back yet.”
    “You have to tell Sachs . . .” The voice faded.
    “I will, Lincoln. I’ll tell her. As soon as she calls in,” Thom said.
    Cooper added, “You don’t want to disturb her now. She’s moving in on Galt.”
    “Tell her . . .”
    Rhyme’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went out again. Thom angrily looked out the window, as if that would speed the arrival of the ambulance. But all he saw were people strolling by on healthy legs, people jogging, people bicycling through the park, none of them with an apparent care in the world.

Chapter 62
    RON PULASKI GLANCED at Sachs, who was peeking through a window at the back of the school.
    She held up a finger, squinting and jockeying for position to try to get a better look at where Galt was. The whimpering was hard to hear from this vantage point since that diesel truck or engine was close, just on the other side of a fence.
    Then came a louder moan.
    Sachs turned back and nodded at the door, whispering, “We’re going to get her. I want crossfire coverage. Somebody up, somebody down. You want to go through here or up the fire escape?”
    Pulaski glanced to their right, where a rustymetal ladder led up to a platform and an open window. He knew there was no chance they were electrified. Amelia had checked. But he really didn’t want to go that way. Then he thought about his mistake at Galt’s apartment. About Stanley Palmer, the man who might die. Who, even if he lived, might never be the same again.
    He said, “I’ll go up.”
    “You sure?”
    “Yes.”
    “Remember, we want him alive if at all possible. If he’s set another trap, it might have a timer on it and we’ll need him to tell us where it is and when it’s going to activate.”
    Pulaski nodded. Crouching, he made his way over the filthy asphalt strewn with all sorts of garbage.
    Concentrate, he told himself. You’ve got a job to do. You’re not going to get spooked again. You’re not going to make a mistake.
    As he moved silently, he found he was, in fact, a lot less spooked than