The door wasn’t locked and she pushed inside.
Sachs got no more than three feet. She tripped over something she hadn’t seen and fell forward, landing hard on the old, oak floor with a grunt of pain.
Just as she was noting with shock the thick wire strung at ankle level, the man charged forward and dropped onto her back, his knee knocking the air from her lungs, filling her with nausea. Pain consumed her and she cried out. The yarmulke was gone and he’d donned the familiar ski mask.
As she reached for her weapon, he fished it from her holster and pocketed it, along with her phone. His hands were encased in cloth gloves. Then he snapped her own cuffs around her wrists, behind her. And, unnecessarily, slammed a fist into her lower back. She cried out as a new agony radiated through her body, next door to the pain from the fall against the plank at the jobsite.
The man paused, as he had a coughing fit. She felt his breath and spittle on her neck. The smell was of liquor and garlic and copious, sweet aftershave.
She was aware of the assailant leaning close. She tensed, waiting for his fist again. But, no, this was weird. He was only rubbing the third finger of her left hand, as if he was studying her wedding or engagement ring.
She began, “People know I’m here. This is a bad idea—”
“Shhh, little kuritsa,” came the Russian-accented voice. “Shhh.”
She then was half carried, half dragged into the back of the shop. He deposited her hard on the carpeted floor of the office, right next to the still, pale body of a man, surely Abraham Blaustein, the owner. From his pocket, the Russian extracted a utility knife and worked the thumb button, to slide out a shiny razor blade.
And she recalled what Lincoln Rhyme had said.
I won’t make that mistake again…
The last words he would ever speak to her.
Chapter 55
Poor Abe,” the Russian was muttering.
He was looking through her wallet, her shoulder bag, clumsily because of the gloves. None of the contents seemed to interest him. He tossed everything aside.
“Poor kuritsa. Abe-ra-ham. Poor Jew. Did stupid things, talking about Ezekiel Shapiro and me.” He clicked his tongue. “I saw him talking to asshole insurance man. Was stupid, don’t you think he was stupid?”
He crouched beside her. “Now, now. I am needing some things. I need to know where to find boy, Vimal? You know him, yes, you do. And insurance man. Abraham told me—after we play a few games.” A nod at the knife. “He told me he was talking to this Edward. You tell me where Vimal and this Edward’s last name and where to find them…and all good. All good for you.”
A trap, of course. The unsub had forced Blaustein to call Ackroyd and arrange a meeting with the police. But not just anyone. The unsub wanted her. She knew where Vimal Lahori was.
The pain assaulted from all directions, her ribs, her head—and her wrists. She realized she’d never been cuffed before and the steel was tight against bone and skin. Sachs was helpless. Still stunned and in searing pain from the crippling drop of his knee into her back. It had emptied her lungs. She still was struggling for breath.
Fainting…
No, can’t faint.
Not acceptable.
He had, it seemed, realized just then that he was still in disguise. He brusquely pulled Blaustein’s jacket off and tossed it aside.
“Jew jacket.” He coughed briefly. Wiped his mouth and looked at the napkin. “Good, good. All good.”
She looked past the disgust and tried to analyze her situation. She could smell liquor but he didn’t seem drunk. Not drunk enough to be careless. How much time did she need to buy? Long enough for Rhyme to call her phone to ask what she had found? Without an answer, he’d get uniforms here in three or four minutes. The precinct wasn’t that far away.
But that would be a very long three or four minutes.
He leaned close. “Now, you…”
He looked again at her ID.
“You, Policewoman A-melia. You are helpful girl. You can help me. Good for you. You help me and you go free.”
“What’s your name?” she ventured.
“Shhh, kuritsa.”
“There’s another gas bomb, we know. Maybe more. Tell me where they are.”
This gave him pause. His blue eyes kept slipping in and out of focus. Not from drugs, though. His mind was manic. Yes, he was a mercenary and a hired killer. But the Promisor and his crazy mission were not complete fictions. Her initial diagnosis held.
He’s just plain crazy…
She continued, “We’ll work with the DA. And the State Department. We’ll cut you some kind of deal.”
“State Department. Why, look at you! A little trussed-up kuritsa, ready for the pot, and still scratching at chickenfeed, looking for helpful things. Am I a national? Am I a Russki? What does Homeland Security know about me? Clever. Now, I like you, kuritsa. Things won’t go painful, you help me.”
With her breath coming more consistently now, she was aware that the pain from the fall and his blows was dissolving.
Thinking: Steady. A plan. Have to buy time.
Time…
“We have information about you. You’re from Moscow. The Dobyns passport. The others, from Barcelona and Dubai.”
He froze. It was as if he’d been slapped.
She said evenly, “It’s only a question of time till they find you. Your description, it’s gone to a watchlist. You’ll never get out of the country.”
He recovered, nodding broadly. “Yes, yes, but maybe I have own way of getting out. Or maybe I stay in nice country here and drive for Uber! Now my question. There is boy I need to find. And insurance asshole. Edward. You will tell me.”
“We can work with—”
He rose suddenly, his eyes completely mad. He drew his foot back and swung an oxford shoe hard into her side. The kick didn’t break a rib but it reignited the pain on all fronts. She cried out once more and tears flowed. He once again crouched near and lowered his lips to her ear. When he spoke his voice was raw with anger. “No talk but to answer question.”
She fell silent.
“Okay?”
She nodded.
Nothing more to do. Sachs closed her eyes. Her thought was: At least he’s leaving a trove of evidence.
Amelia Sachs knew she was going to die.
She thought first of her father, Herman Sachs, a decorated NYPD officer.
Then of Rhyme, naturally. Their lives had coursed parallel for so many years.
I won’t make that mistake again…
Then of her mother, of Pam—the young woman whose life she’d saved and who had become something of a daughter to her. Presently studying in San Francisco.
The Russian now rolled her completely facedown, kicked her feet apart. Her cheek rubbed against the gritty floor. He gripped her cuffed left hand, pulled it up, agonizingly, and again caressed her ring finger. He was apparently examining the blue diamond in the engagement ring Rhyme had bought her.
Could she bargain his interest into some time? She began to speak. “Listen to—”
“Shh, shh. What I tell you?” He rubbed the blade against her ring finger. “Okay, kuritsa. Now. What I am saying is question. That boy. That Vimal boy. Stupid little kuritsa. I need to talk to him. Have little talk. You need tell me where he is. And insurance man.”
“That won’t happen.”
“I won’t hurt him. No, no! Don’t want to hurt him. Just talk. Chat.”
“Surrender now. It’ll be a lot better for you.”
He laughed. “You are some other thing else! Now Vimal. Tell me how I pay visit.”
With one hand he pulled her ring finger taut, moved the razor knife closer yet, she could feel.
She struggled, with all her strength, to keep her fingers curled but he was far too strong. He straddled her, pressed all his weight down on her hips. She was frozen in place.
A sting on her finger.
Jesus, he’s cutting it off! He’s going to cut it off!
She seated her teeth, thinking, How’s this for irony? He’s about to remove my left ring finger—the same one that, after Lincoln’s accident, had been the only digit of his that continued to function.
“Vimal?”
“No.”
She felt him tense as he was about to start cutting.