"He vanished?" Rhyme asked, alarmed.

"No. He's now outside in a small park between the two main buildings in the complex."

"Just sitting there?"

"So it seems. He's made several mobile calls. But the frequency is unusual or they're scrambled, Arturo tells me. So we can't intercept."

Rhyme supposed rules about eavesdropping in Mexico might be somewhat less strict than in the U.S.

"They're sure it's the Watchmaker?"

"Yes. Arturo's men said they had a clear view. He has a satchel with him. He still is carrying it."

"He is?"

"Yes. We still can't be sure what it is. A bomb, perhaps. With the circuit board detonator. Our teams are surrounding the facility. All plainclothed but we have a full complement of soldiers nearby. And the bomb squad."

"Where are you, Commander?"

A laugh. "It was very considerate of your Watchmaker to pick this place. The Jamaican consulate is here. They have bomb barriers up and we're behind those. Logan can't see us."

Rhyme hoped that was true.

"When will you move in?"

"As soon as Arturo's men say it's clear. The park is crowded with innocents. A number of children. But he won't get away. We have most of the roads sealed off."

A trickle of sweat slipped down Rhyme's temple. He grimaced and twisted his head to the side to wipe it on the headrest.

The Watchmaker…

So close.

Please. Let this work out. Please…

And again squelched the frustration that he felt from working on such an important case at a distance.

"We'll let you know soon, Captain."

They disconnected the call and Rhyme forced himself to focus on Raymond Galt once again. Was the lead to his whereabouts solid? He looked like an everyman, approaching middle age, not too heavy, not too slim. Average height. And in the paranoid climate he'd created, people were undoubtedly primed to see things that weren't there. Electrical traps, arc flash risks… and the killer himself.

Then he started, as Sachs's voice snapped through the radio. "Rhyme, you there, K?"

She'd ended her transmission with the traditional conclusion of a comment or question in the police radio parlance, K, to let the recipient know it was okay to transmit. He and she usually disposed of this formality, and for some reason Rhyme found it troubling that she'd used the shorthand.

"Sachs, go ahead. What do you have?"

"We just got here. We're about to go in. I'll let you know."

A MAROON TORINO Cobra made for a bad undercover car, so Sachs had glided it to a stop about two blocks away from the school where Galt had been sighted.

The school had closed years ago and, according to the signage, was soon to be demolished and condominiums built on the grounds.

"Good hidey-hole," she said to Pulaski as they jogged close, noting the seven-foot-high wooden fence around the grounds, covered with graffiti and posters of alternative theater, performance pieces and music groups plummeting to obscurity. The Seventh Seal. The Right Hands. Bolo.

Pulaski, who seemed to be forcing himself to concentrate, nodded. She'd have to keep an eye on him. He'd done well at the elevator crime scene in Midtown but it seemed that the accident at Galt's apartment-hitting that man-was bothering him again.

They paused in front of the fence. The demolition hadn't started yet; the gate-two hinged pieces of plywood chained together and padlocked-had enough play so they could have squeezed through, which is probably how Galt had gotten in, if in fact he had. Sachs stood to the side of the gap and peered in. The school was largely intact, though it seemed that a portion of the roof had fallen in. Most of the glass had been stoned out of the windows but you could see virtually nothing inside.

Yep, it was a good hidey-hole. And a nightmare to assault. There'd be a hundred good defensive positions.

Call in the troops? Not yet, Sachs thought. Every minute they delayed was a minute Galt could be finishing the last touches on his new weapon. And every ESU officer's footfall might destroy trace evidence.

"He could have it booby-trapped," Pulaski whispered in an unsteady voice, looking at the metal chain. "Maybe it's wired."

"No. He wouldn't risk somebody just touching it casually and getting a shock; they'd call the police right away." But, she continued, he could easily have something rigged to tell him of intruders' presence. So, sighing and with a grimace on her face, she looked up the street. "Can you climb that?"

"What?"

"The fence?"

"I guess I could. If I were chasing or being chased."

"Well, I can't, unless you give me a boost. Then you come after."

"All right."

They walked to where she could make out, through a crack in the fence, some thick bushes on the other side, which would both break their fall and give them some cover. She recalled that Galt was armed-and with a particularly powerful gun, the.45. She made sure her Glock holster was solidly clipped into her waistband and then nodded. Pulaski crouched down and laced his fingers together.

Mostly to put him at ease, she whispered gravely, "One thing to remember. It's important."

"What's that?" He looked into her eyes uneasily.

"I've gained a few pounds," said the tall policewoman. "Be careful of your back."

A smile. It didn't last long. But it was a smile nonetheless.

She winced from the pain in her leg as she stepped onto his hands, and twisted to face the wall.

Just because Galt hadn't electrified the chain didn't mean he hadn't rigged something on the other side. She saw in her mind's eye once more the holes in Luis Martin's flesh. Saw too the sooty floor of the elevator car yesterday, the quivering bodies of the hotel guests.

"No backup?" he whispered. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure. On three. One… Two… Three."

And up she went, Pulaski much stronger than she'd expected, launching her nearly six-foot frame straight up. Her palms caught the top and she lodged there, sitting momentarily. A glance at the school. No sign of anyone. Then a look downward, and she saw beneath her only the bush, nothing to burn her flesh with five-thousand-degree arc flashes, no metal wires or panels.

Sachs turned her back to the school, gripped the top of the fence and lowered herself as far as she could. Then, when she knew she'd have to let go, she let go.

She hit rolling, and the pain rattled through her knees and thighs. But she knew her malady of arthritis as intimately as Rhyme knew his bodily limitations and she understood this was merely a temporary protest. By the time she'd taken cover behind the thickest stand of shrub, gun drawn and looking for any presenting targets, the pain had diminished.

"Clear," she whispered through the fence.

There was a thump and a faint grunt and, like some kung-fu movie actor, Pulaski landed deftly and silently beside her. His weapon too appeared in his hand.

There was no way they could approach the front without being seen if Galt happened to look out. They'd go around to the back but Sachs needed to do one thing first. She scanned the grounds and, gesturing Pulaski to follow her, stayed behind the bushes and Dumpsters awaiting filling, heading to the right side of the school.

With Pulaski covering her, she moved fast to where two large rusting metal boxes were fitted to the brick. Both had peeling decals with the name Algonquin Consolidated on the side and a number to call in an emergency. She took from her pocket Sommers's current detector, turned it on and swept the unit over the boxes. The display showed zero.

Not surprising, since the place had been deserted for years, it seemed. But she was happy to see the confirmation.

"Look," Pulaski whispered, touching her arm.