AT A LITTLE after 9 a.m. Rhyme asked Mel Cooper to click on the TV in the lab, though he kept the sound down.

Since the feds had seemed slow to share up-to-the-minute information with the NYPD, at least with Rhyme, he wanted to make certain he learned the latest developments.

What better source than CNN?

The case was front and center, of course. Galt's picture was flashed about a million times and there were nearly as many references to the mysterious Justice for the Earth ecoterror group. And sound bites from anti-green Andi Jessen.

But most of the coverage of the Galt attacks involved windstorms of speculation. And many anchors, of course, wondered if there was a connection to Earth Day.

Which was also the subject of much reportage. There were a number of celebrations in the city: a parade, schoolchildren planting trees, protests, the New Energy Expo at the convention center and the big rally in Central Park, at which two of the President's key allies on the environment would be speaking, up-and-coming senators from out west. Following that would be a concert by a half dozen famous rock groups. Attendance would be close to a half million people. Several stories dealt with the increased security at all the events because of the recent attacks.

Gary Noble and Tucker McDaniel had told Rhyme that not only were two hundred extra agents and NYPD officers assigned to security, the FBI's technical support people had been working with Algonquin to make sure that all the electrical lines in and around the park were protected from sabotage.

Rhyme now looked up as Ron Pulaski walked into the room.

"Where've you been, Rookie?"

"Uhm…" He held up a white envelope. "The DNA."

He'd been someplace else-Rhyme believed he knew where. The criminalist didn't press it but he said, "That wasn't a priority. We know who the perp is. We'll need it for the trial. But we've got to catch him first."

"Sure."

"You find anything else yesterday at Galt's?"

"Went over it again top to bottom, Lincoln. But nothing, sorry."

Sellitto too arrived, looking more disheveled than usual. The outfit seemed the same-light blue shirt and navy suit. Rhyme wondered if he'd slept in his own office last night. The detective gave them a synopsis of how things were unfolding downtown-the case had bled over into the public relations world. Political careers could be at stake and while local, state and federal officials were putting bodies on the street and bringing "resources to bear," each was also carefully suggesting that it was doing more than the others.

Settling into a noisy wicker chair, he loudly slurped coffee and muttered, "But the bottom line is nobody knows how to run this thing. We've got portables and feebies and National Guard at the airports, subways, train stations. All the refineries and docks. Special harbor patrols around the tankers-though I don't know how the fuck he'd attack a ship with an arc flash or whatever. And they've got people on all the Algonquin substations."

"He's not going after the substations anymore," Rhyme complained.

"I know that. And so does everybody, but nobody knows where exactly to expect him. It's everywhere."

"What is?"

"This fucking juice. Electricity." He waved his hand, apparently indicating the entire city. "Everybody's goddamn house." He eyed the outlets in Rhyme's wall. Then said, "At least we haven't got any more demands. Christ, two yesterday, within a few hours. I was thinking he just got pissed off and decided to kill those guys in an elevator, no matter what." The big man sighed. "I'll be taking the stairs for a while, I'll tell you. Good for the weight, at least."

Eyes sweeping across the evidence boards, Rhyme was in agreement about the rudderless nature of the case. Galt was smart but he wasn't brilliant, and he was leaving ample trace behind. It just wasn't leading them anywhere, other than offering general ideas of his targets.

An airport?

An oil depot?

Though Lincoln Rhyme was also thinking something else: Are the paths there and am I just missing them?

And felt again the tickle of sweat, the faint recurring headache that had plagued him recently. He'd successfully ignored it for a time but the throbbing had returned. Yes, he was feeling worse, there was no doubt about it. Was that affecting his mental skills? He would admit to no one, not even Sachs, that this was perhaps the most terrifying thing in the world to him. As he'd told Susan Stringer last night, his mind was all he had.

He found his eyes drawn to the den across the hall. The table where Dr. Arlen Kopeski's Die with Dignity brochure rested.

Choices…

He then tipped the thought away.

Just then Sellitto took a call, sitting up as he listened and setting down his coffee quickly. "Yeah? Where?" He jotted in his limp notebook.

Everyone in the room was watching him intently. Rhyme was thinking: a new demand?

The phone clicked closed. He looked up from his notes. "Okay, may have something. A portable downtown, near Chinatown, calls in. Woman'd come up to him and says she thinks she saw our boy."

"Galt?" Pulaski asked.

Sourly: "What other boy we interested in, Officer?"

"Sorry."

"She thinks she recognized the picture."

"Where?" Rhyme snapped.

"There's an abandoned school, near Chinatown." Sellitto gave them the address. Sachs was writing.

"The portable checked it out. Nobody there now."

"But if he was there, he'd've left something behind," Rhyme said.

At his nod, Sachs stood. "Okay, Ron, let's go."

"You better take a team." Sellitto added wryly, "We've probably got a few cops left who aren't guarding fuse boxes or wires around town."

"Let's get ESU in the area," she said. "Stage nearby but keep 'em out of sight. Ron and I'll go in first. If he's there after all and we need a takedown, I'll call. But we don't want a team running through the place, screwing up the evidence, if it's empty."

The two of them headed out the door.

Sellitto called Bo Haumann of Emergency Service and briefed him. The ESU head would get officers into the area and coordinate with Sachs. The detective disconnected and looked around the room, presumably for something to accompany the coffee. He found a plate of pastry, courtesy of Thom, and grabbed a bear claw pastry. Dunked it and ate. Then he frowned.

Rhyme asked, "What?"

"Just realized I forgot to call McDaniel and the feds and tell 'em about the operation in Chinatown-at the school." Then he grimaced and held up his phone theatrically. "Aw, shit. I can't. I didn't pay for a cloud zone SIM chip. Guess I'll have to tell him later."

Rhyme laughed and ignored the searing ache that spiked momentarily in his head. Just then his phone rang and both humor and headaches vanished.

Kathryn Dance was calling.

His finger struggled to hit the keypad. "Yes, Kathryn? What's going on?"

She said, "I'm on the phone with Rodolfo. They've found the Watchmaker's target."

Excellent, he reflected, though part of him was also thinking: Why now? But then he decided: The Watchmaker's the priority, at least for the moment. You've got Sachs and Pulaski and a dozen ESU troops after Galt. And the last time you had a chance at the Watchmaker, you turned away from the search to focus on something else, and he killed his victim and got away.

Not this time. Richard Logan isn't escaping this time.

"Go ahead," he told the CBI agent, forcing himself to turn away from the evidence boards.

There was a click.

"Rodolfo," Dance said. "Lincoln's on the line. I'll leave you two to talk. I've got to see TJ."

They said good-bye to her.

"Hello, Captain."

"Commander. What do you have?"

"Arturo Diaz has four undercover officers in the office complex I was telling you about. About ten minutes ago Mr. Watchmaker, dressed as a businessman, entered the building. From the lobby he used a pay phone to call a company on the sixth floor-on the opposite side of where the fire alarm was yesterday. Just like you thought. He spent about ten minutes inside and then left."