Page 145 of The Watchmaker's Hand

Rhyme found himself oddly affected by what had just happened. Not rattled, but …hollow. That was the word. He corrected stiffly, “Not my ‘assistant.’ ‘Caregiver.’ Or ‘aide.’ An assistant has a different connotation—an easier job, all around.”

“Your caregiver then. How did he happen not to be here?”

“Because hehappenedto be shopping.”

“Ah. But by leaving you alone here, isn’t that … Well, I mean, isn’t it a risk?”

“Quads rarely self-immolate. Or starve to death over the course of an hour or two.”

“Captain.” Hylton spoke with labored patience.

“Thom Reston has many, many skills. Sniping is not among them.”

“You can appreciate how odd this is.”

“I made an error in judgment, trusting Hale. I thought he would be more cooperative if he were not chained to a radiator.”

The officer said pointedly, “And just coincidentally a person was laying in wait to shoot him.”

Rhyme chose not to say what came into his mind: A personliesin wait. A chickenlays, whether it’s waiting for anything or not.

“The suspect was in custody. He was caught. He was going to spend the rest of his days in a twelve-by-twelve room. Do you really think there’s an NYPD officer who would commit murder two just to shorten the judicial process?”

Hylton didn’t respond. He looked to his notes for guidance. They apparently offered none. “Who do you think? If you had to guess.”

“I don’t need to guess at all. I know who the shooter was. Andy Gilligan’s brother.”

“I’ll send a team to his house.”

“Yes, you’ll need to go through the motions.”

“So he’s gone, you think?”

“Gone.”

Hylton closed his notebook. “I also need to get a statement from Patrolman Pulaski. Where is he now?”

Rhyme looked at the time on a nearby monitor. “Engaged at the moment. But I’m sure he’ll call you when he’s free.”

71.

THE BURN RECOVERYwas coming along fine.

Dr. Amit Bakshi paused and looked over the electronic patient records of Aaron Stahl, the student whose SUV the NYPD police officer had run into, resulting in a conflagration that apparently made quite the scene in Lower Manhattan.

An ER doc with twelve years of experience in the city, Bakshi had treated many people for auto accidents. In New York City, the injuries tended to be less severe, since one couldn’t drive that fast—as opposed to New Castle, Pennsylvania, where he’d started practicing medicine, and State Route 17, with that curve.

Dead Man’s Zone.

In New York, cars rarely exploded in flames, but the EMTs who brought him in had explained that the incident was a fluke occurrence, as the NYPD officer’s car just happened to shove Aaron’s SUV into some construction supplies, some bars or tubing, which ripped open the gas tank. Modern-day safety precautions by automakers, only got you so far when jagged metal was involved.

“Hey, Doctor.”

“Hello, sir,” Bakshi replied. He believed that being slightly formal bestowed comfort in his patients. Even with a nineteen-year-old.

He offered a nod and smile to Aaron’s older sister, Natalia, who sat bedside.

The woman, late twenties, he guessed, nodded in return, with a reserved smile, and continued to text. Much signage here was devoted to forbidding the use of cell phones. Not a soul paid attention.

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