The Burning Wire

startled her. “He’s flooding the basement to destroy evidence.”
    “Right.”
    “Sachs, what’s that? I can’t see it clearly. That box. The big one. Look to the right. . . . Yes, there. What is it?”
    Ah, finally.
    “It’s the battery, Rhyme. The backup battery.”
    “Is it charged?”
    “They said it was. But I don’t . . .”
    She waded closer and looked down. A gauge on the battery showed that it was indeed charged. Infact, to Sachs, it looked like it was overcharged. The needle was past 100 percent. Then she remembered something else the Algonquin workers had said: not to worry because it was sealed with insulated caps.
    Except that it wasn’t. She knew what battery caps looked like and this unit had none. Two metal terminals, connected to thick cables, were exposed.
    “The water’s rising. It’ll hit the terminals in a few minutes.”
    “Is there enough current to make one of those arc flashes?”
    “I don’t know, Rhyme.”
    “There has to be,” he whispered. “He’s using an arc to destroy something that’ll lead us to him. Something he couldn’t take with him or destroy when he was there. Can you shut the water off?”
    She looked quickly. “No faucets that I can see. . . . Hold on a minute.”
    Sachs continued to study the basement. “I don’t see what he wants to destroy, though.” But then she spotted it: Right behind the battery, about four feet off the ground, was an access door. It wasn’t large—about eighteen inches square.
    “That’s it, Rhyme. That’s how he got in.”
    “Must be a sewer or utility tunnel on the other side. But leave it. Pulaski can trace it from the street. Just get out.”
    “No, Rhyme, look at it—it’s really tight. He’d have to squeeze through. It’s got some good trace on it, has to. Fibers, hair, maybe DNA. Why else would he want to destroy it?”
    Rhyme was hesitating. He knew she was right about preserving the evidence but didn’t want her caught in another arc flash explosion.
    She waded closer to the access door. But as sheapproached, a tiny wake rose from the disturbance of her legs and the waves nearly crested the battery.
    She froze.
    “Sachs!”
    “Shhh.” She had to concentrate. By moving a few inches at a time she was able to keep the waves below the top of the power source. But she could see she had no more than one or two minutes until the water hit the leads.
    With a straight-bladed screwdriver she began to remove the frame holding the access door.
    The water was now nearly to the top of the battery. Every time she leaned forward to get leverage to unscrew the paint-stuck hardware, another small tide rose and the murky water sloshed up onto the top of the battery before receding.
    The battery’s voltage was certainly smaller than the hundred-thousand-volt line that had produced the arc flash outside, but the UNSUB probably didn’t need to cause that much damage. His point was to create a big enough explosion to destroy the access door and whatever evidence it contained.
    She wanted the damn door.
    “Sachs?” Rhyme whispered.
    Ignoring him. And ignoring the image of the cauterized holes in the smooth flesh of the victim, the molten teardrops . . .
    Finally the last screw came out. Old paint held the door frame in place. She jammed the tip of the screwdriver into the edge and slammed her hand onto the butt of the tool. With a crack, the metal came away in her hands. The door and frame were heavier than she’d thought and she nearly dropped it. But then she steadied herself, without sending a tsunami over the battery.
    In the opening she saw the narrow utility tunnel that the suspect would have used to sneak into the substation.
    Rhyme whispered urgently, “Into the tunnel. It’ll protect you. Hurry!”
    “I’m trying.”
    Except the access door wouldn’t fit through the opening, even diagonally, because the frame was attached. “Can’t do it,” she said, explaining the problem. “I’ll go back up the stairs.”
    “No, Sachs. Just leave the door. Get out through the tunnel.”
    “It’s too good a piece of evidence.”
    Clutching the access door, she began her escape, wading toward the stairs, glancing back from time to time to keep an eye on the battery. She moved agonizingly slowly. Even so, every step sent another wave cresting to the edge of the battery terminals.
    “What’s going on, Sachs?”
    “I’m nearly there,” she whispered, as if too loud a voice would create more