The Stone Monkey

able to effectively search the immigrants and the ship before it arrived at the harbor here and the snakehead and any assistants might try to shoot their way to freedom.
    Sachs herself would be in particular danger. Her job was to “walk the grid,” to sweep the ship for crime scene evidence that would bolster the various cases against the Ghost and to find leads to his confederates. If the searcher is running a scene where, say, a body is found or a robbery has occurred long after the perp has fled, there is relatively little danger to the CS officer. But if the scene is the actual takedown site, involving an unknown number of perps whose appearance isn’t well known, the risks can be great, particularly in the case of human smugglers, who have ready access to good weaponry.
    Her cell phone rang and she dropped into the tight seat of the Chevy to answer it.
    The caller was Rhyme.
    “We’re all in place,” she told him.
    “We think they’re on to us, Sachs,” he said. “The Dragon turned toward land. The cutter’ll get there before they make it to shore but we’re thinking now that the Ghost is gearing up for a fight.”
    She thought of the poor people on board.
    When Rhyme paused, Sachs asked him, “Did she call?”
    A hesitation. Then he said, “Yes. About ten minutes ago. They have a slot open at Manhattan Hospital next week. She’s going to call back with the details.”
    “Ah,” Sachs said.
    The “she” was Dr. Cheryl Weaver, a renowned neurosurgeon who’d come up to the New York area from North Carolina to teach for a semester at Manhattan Hospital. And the “slot” referred to an opening for some experimental surgery that Rhyme was having—an operation that might improve his quadriplegic condition.
    An operation Sachs was not in favor of.
    “I’d get some extra ambulances in the area,” Rhyme said. His tone was now curt—he didn’t like personal subjects intruding in the midst of business.
    “I’ll take care of it.”
    “I’ll call you back, Sachs.”
    The phone went silent.
    She ran through the downpour to one of the Suffolk County troopers and arranged for more med techs. She then returned to her Chevy and sat down in the front bucket seat, listening to the rattle of the powerful rain on the windshield and cloth roof. The dampness made the interior smell of plastic, motor oil and old carpeting.
    Thinking about Rhyme’s operation put her in mind of a recent conversation with another doctor, one who had nothing to do with his spinal cord surgery. She didn’t want her thoughts to go back to that meeting—but go there they did.
    Two weeks ago Amelia Sachs had been standing by the coffee machine in a hospital waiting room, up the hall from Lincoln Rhyme’s examining room. She remembered the July sun falling brutally on the green tile floor. The white-jacketed man had approached and then addressed her with a chilling solemnity. “Ah, Ms. Sachs. Here you are.”
    “Hello, Doctor.”
    “I’ve just been meeting with Lincoln Rhyme’s physician.”
    “Yes?”
    “I’ve got to talk to you about something.”
    Her heart pounding, she’d said, “You’re looking like it’s bad news, Doctor.”
    “Why don’t we sit down over there in the corner?” he’d asked, sounding more like a funeral home director than an M.D.
    “Here’s fine,” she’d said firmly. “Tell me. Let me have it straight.”
    A gust of wind now rocked her and she looked out over the harbor again, at the long pier, where the Fuzhou Dragon would dock.
    Bad news . . .
    Tell me. Let me have it straight. . . .
    Sachs flicked her Motorola to the Coast Guard’s secure frequency not only to learn what was happening with the Dragon but to keep her thoughts from returning to that scaldingly bright waiting room.
    •   •   •
    “How far from land?” the Ghost asked the two remaining crewmen on the bridge.
    “A mile, maybe less.” The slim man at the helm glanced quickly at the Ghost. “We’ll turn just before the shallows and try for the harbor.”
    The Ghost gazed forward. From the vantage point of the crest of a wave he could just see the line of light gray land. He said, “Steer straight on course. I’ll be back in a moment.”
    Bracing himself, he stepped outside. The wind and rain lashed his face as the Ghost made his way down to the container deck and then to the one below it. He came to the metal door that opened into the hold. He stepped inside and looked down at the piglets. Their