The Burning Wire

“Charlie-think.” It was spinning on its own, like a dynamo, like an electricity storage flywheel. Ten thousand RPM. Thinking of the electricity usage here in the convention center. Twenty megawatts.
    Twenty million watts.
    Watts equals volts times amps . .  .
    Enough electricity, if channeled through this conductive superstructure, to electrocute thousands. Arc flashes, or just ground faults, the massive current surging through bodies, taking lives and leaving smoldering piles of flesh and clothing and hair.
    Stay put . .  .
    Well, he couldn’t.
    And, like any inventor, Sommers considered the practical details. Randall Jessen and Andi would have somehow secured the power plant. They couldn’t risk that the police would call the maintenance staff and simply cut the supply. But there’d be a main line coming into this building. Probably like an area transmission line it would be carrying 138,000v. They would have cut into the line to electrify floors or stairways or doorknobs. The elevators again maybe.
    Sommers reflected:
    The attendees here couldn’t avoid the juice.
    They couldn’t protect themselves against it.
    So he’d have to cut its head off.
    There was no staying put .
    If he could find the incoming line before Randall Jessen ran the splice, Sommers could short it out. He’d run a cable from the hot line directly to a return. The resulting short circuit, accompanied by an arc flash as powerful as the one at the bus stop theother morning, would pop breakers in the convention center power plant, eliminating the danger. The emergency lighting system would kick on but that was low voltage—probably from twelve-volt lead-calcium batteries. There’d be no risk of electrocution with that small supply. A few people would be stuck in the elevators, maybe there’d be some panic. But injuries would be minimal.
    But then reality came home to him. The only way to short out the system was to do the most dangerous procedure in the utility business: bare hand work on an energized line carrying 138,000 volts. Only the top linemen ever attempted this. Working from insulated buckets or helicopters to avoid any risk of ground contact and wearing faraday suits—actual metal clothing—the linemen connected themselves directly to the high-voltage wire itself. In effect, they became part of it, and hundreds of thousands of volts streamed over their bodies.
    Charlie Sommers had never tried bare hand work with high voltage, but he knew how to perform it—in theory.
    Like a bird on a wire . .  .
    At the Algonquin booth he now grabbed his pathetically sparse tool kit and borrowed a length of lightweight high-tension wire from a nearby exhibitor. He ran into the dim hallway to find a service door. He glanced at the copper doorknob, hesitated only a moment then yanked it open and plunged into the dimness of the center’s several basements.
    Stay put?
    I don’t think so.

Chapter 74
    HE SAT IN the front seat of his white van, hot because the air conditioner was off. He didn’t want to run the engine and draw attention to himself. A parked vehicle is one thing. A parked vehicle with an engine running exponentially increased suspicion.
    Sweat tickled the side of his cheek. He hardly noticed it. He pressed the headset more firmly against his ear. Still nothing. He turned the volume higher. Static. A clunk or two. A snap.
    He was thinking of the words he’d sent via email earlier today: If you ignore me this time, the consequences will be far, far greater than the small incidents of yesterday and the day before, the loss of life far worse. . .  .
    Yes and no.
    He tilted his head, listening for more words to flow through the microphone he’d hidden in the generator he’d planted at the school near Chinatown. A Trojan horse, one that the Crime Scene Unit had courteously carted right into Lincoln Rhyme’s town house. He’d already gotten the lowdown on the cast of characters helping Rhyme and their whereabouts. Lon Sellitto, the NYPD detective, and Tucker McDaniel, ASAC of the FBI, were gone, headed downtown to City Hall, where they would coordinate the defense of the convention center.
    Amelia Sachs and Ron Pulaski were speeding to the center right now, to see if they could shut the power off.
    Waste of time, he reflected.
    Then he stiffened, hearing the voice of Lincoln Rhyme.
    “Okay, Mel, I need you to get that cable to the lab in Queens.”
    “The—?”
    “The cable!”
    “Which one?”
    “How the