The Skin Collector(Lincoln Rhyme)

Chapter 65





Amelia Sachs easily found where the unsub had gone underground: the manhole on 44th Street, near Third, which Pulaski had told her about.

She dug the tire iron out of the trunk of her Torino and used it to muscle the heavy metal disk up and then managed to push the cover to the side. She aimed her Glock into the pitch-black hole. She peered down, hearing a powerful hissing noise – the leaking pipe, she assumed. She holstered her weapon.

Well, let’s get to it. Go and go fast.

When you move, they can’t getcha …

Thanks to the recent medical procedures, she now felt lithe as a thirteen-year-old as she turned and began down the ladder.

Thinking: I’m in bright white coveralls, lit from above and behind.

A perfect shooting solution for him.

One way to put it. The other was: sitting duck.

Climbing into hell. Practically sliding down the rails as she’d seen sailors do on some TV submarine movie, going from deck to deck.

She hit the floor of the spacious tunnel – open and without any cover whatsoever. Natch. Drawing her gun fast, she lunged to the side, where at least it was darker and their unsub would have a harder time placing a lethal shot. There she crouched and spun the muzzle 180 degrees, squinting to spot threats.

That she hadn’t pulled any fire didn’t allay her concern; he might still be near, aiming her way and waiting for any other officers to enter the target zone before he began squeezing off rounds.

But as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she noted that this portion of the tunnel was unoccupied.

Heart tapping, breath loud through the mask, Sachs peered in the direction of the hiss, which was now a piercing sound. She moved up to the wall on the other side of which was the access chamber where he’d drilled the hole in the pipe. She glanced in fast, low, in case he was aiming head or chest toward the doorway. All she could see in the one-second look was mist roiling in shifting curtains, pastel colors, like the northern lights. It was backlit by a muted white lamp – maybe one the unsub had set up to illuminate his drilling. The hypnotic swirls, beautiful, would be from the particulates of streaming water flowing from the pipe.

Sachs was reluctant to do a typical one-person dynamic entry, look high, go in low, two pounds’ pressure on a three-pound trigger. Shoot, shoot, shoot.

Not here. She knew she had to take him alive. He wasn’t operating on his own, not with a plan this elaborate. They needed to collar his co-conspirators, too.

Also, any weapons discharges might mean she’d end up shooting herself; the pipe and the concrete surfaces of the tunnel would easily send the copper jacketed slugs and fragments zipping in unpredictable directions.


Not to mention what a 9mm parabellum round would do to a vial containing the deadliest toxin on earth.

Closer, closer.

Peering into the wall of mist, looking for shadows moving, shadows in position to fire a weapon. Shadows charging out with a hypodermic syringe loaded with propofol.

For his final skin art session.

But nothing other than the shimmering particles of water vapor, refracting light so beautifully.

Into the chamber, she told herself. Now.

The cloud rolled closer and withdrew, surely from the breeze created by the stream of water. Good cover, she thought. Like a smoke screen. Sachs gripped the Glock and, with her feet in a perpendicular shooting position, not parallel, to minimize his target area, she moved fast into the room.

A mistake, she realized quickly.

The spray was much thicker inside and soaked the filter of the mask. She couldn’t breathe. A moment’s debate. Without the protection, she’d be susceptible to the botulinum toxin. With it, she’d pass out from lack of air.

No choice. Off came the mask and she flung it behind her, inhaling the damp air, which, she hoped, contained only New York city drinking water and not poison powerful enough to kill her in all of five seconds.

Breathing, breathing …

But so far, no symptoms. Or bullets.

She continued forward, swinging the gun from side to side. To her right she could see the dark form of the massive pipe; the puncture was about fifteen feet in front of her, she guessed; from a vague image of a thin white line – the stream of water – shooting up to the left and hitting the far wall about ten feet off the ground. The hiss grew louder with every step.

The whistle made her ears throb with pain and threatened to deafen; the good news was that it would also deafen him, so he wouldn’t sense her approach.

Smells of moist concrete, mold, mud. The sensation took Sachs back to her childhood, father and daughter at the zoo in Manhattan, one of the houses, reptile. ‘Amie, see that? That’s the most dangerous thing here.’

She’d peered inside but couldn’t see anything other than plants and rocks covered with moss. ‘I don’t see anything, Daddy.’

‘It’s a leeren K?fig.’

‘Wow. What’s that?’ Snake, she’d wondered. Lizard? ‘Is it dangerous?’

‘Oh, the most dangerous thing in the zoo.’

‘What is it?’

‘It means “empty cage” in German.’

She’d laughed, tossing her tiny red ponytail as she’d looked up at him. But Herman Sachs, a seasoned NYPD patrol officer, wasn’t joking. ‘Remember, Amie. The most dangerous things are the ones you can’t see.’

And now too she saw nothing.

Where was he?

Keep going.

Ducking and, with as deep a breath as she could take yet not choke on the mist in the air, she stepped through the cloud.

And she saw him. Unsub 11-5.

‘Jesus, Rhyme,’ she whispered, stepping closer. ‘Jesus.’

Only after some moments of hearing nothing but the wail and hiss of the water did she remember that the mike and camera were off.

The experts from Fort Detrick had helicoptered into town in all of forty-five minutes.

When the poison in question is sufficient to kill a high percentage of the population of a major US city, the national security folks don’t fool around.

Once it was clear that the unsub was not going to be shooting anyone, Sachs was politely but emphatically ordered out of the tunnel while eight men and women in elaborate self-contained biohazard suits went to work. It was clear from the start that they knew what they were doing. Fort Detrick, in Frederick, Maryland, was home to the US Army’s Medical Research and Materiel Command and its Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. In effect, if the prefix ‘bio’ and the words ‘warfare’ or ‘defense’ were linked in any project of any kind, Fort Detrick was involved.

Rhyme’s voice clattered through the radio. ‘What, Sachs? What’s going on?’ She was standing, freezing, on the slushy sidewalk near Third, where she’d parked her Torino.

She told him, ‘They’ve secured the botulinum. It was in three syringes in a thermos. They’ve got them in a negative pressure containment vehicle.’

‘They’re sure none got into the water?’

‘Absolutely positive.’

‘And the unsub?’

A pause. ‘Well, it’s bad.’

Rhyme’s plan to have the city announce falsely that the water supply was going to be shut down had had one unexpected consequence.

Unsub 11-5, wearing nothing more protective than Department of Environmental Protection coveralls, had been standing right in front of the hole he was drilling. When he’d broken through the main, the stream of water, like a buzz saw, had cut straight through his chest, killing him instantly. As he’d dropped to the floor, the water had continued to slice through his neck and head, cutting them apart.

Blood and bone and tissue were everywhere, some blasted onto the far wall, many feet away. Sachs had known she should get the hell out and let the bio team secure the scene but she’d been compelled, out of curiosity, to perform one last task: to tug the unsub’s left sleeve up. She had to see his body art.

The red centipede stared out at her with probing, human eyes. It was brilliantly done. And utterly creepy. She’d actually shivered.

‘What’s the status of the scene?’

‘Army’s sealing it – about a two-block radius. I got prints and DNA from our unsub and pocket litter and bags he had with him before I got kicked out.’

‘Well, bring back what you have. He’s not working on his own. And who knows what else they have in mind?’

‘I’m on my way.’