She carried an X26 model, which fired probes that delivered both high- and low-voltage charges. The X26 had a range of about thirty-five feet, and when she saw that she couldn't tackle the officer in time, she'd hit him with the double probes. The neuromuscular incapacitation dropped him where he stood. He'd fallen hard on his shoulder, but, thank God, hadn't struck his head again. Sachs dragged him, gasping and quivering, to cover. She'd found and shut the generator off just as the ESU officers arrived, blowing open the chain on the front gate and storming the school.

"You look a little woozy."

"Was quite a rush," Pulaski said, breathing deeply.

She said, "Take it easy."

"I'm okay. I'm helping the scene." He blinked like a drunk. "I mean helping you search the scene."

"You're up for it?"

"Long as I don't move too fast. But, listen, keep that thing of yours, that box that Charlie Sommers gave you? Keep it handy, okay? I'm not touching anything until you go over it."

The first thing they did was walk the grid around the generator behind the school. Pulaski collected and bagged the wires that had carried the charge to the door and fire escapes. Sachs herself searched around the generator. It was a big unit several feet high and about three long. A placard on the side reported that its maximum output was 5,000 watts, producing 41 amps.

About four hundred times what was needed to kill you.

Nodding at the unit. "Could you pack it up and get it to Rhyme's?" she asked the crime scene team from Queens, who'd just joined them. It weighed about two hundred pounds.

"You bet, Amelia. We'll get it there ASAP."

She said to Pulaski, "Let's walk the grid inside."

They were heading into the school when Sachs's phone rang. "Rhyme" popped up on caller ID.

"About time," she said good-naturedly as she answered. "I've got some-"

"Amelia." It was Thom's voice, but the tone was one she'd never heard before. "You better come back here. You better come now."

BREATHING HARD, SACHS hurried up the ramp and pushed open the door to Rhyme's townhouse.

Jogging across the foyer, boots slapping hard, she ran into the den, to the right, opposite the lab.

Thom looked toward her from where he was standing over Lincoln Rhyme in his wheelchair, eyes closed, face pale and damp. Between them was one of Rhyme's doctors, a solidly built African American, a former football star in college.

"Dr. Ralston," she said, breathing hard.

He nodded. "Amelia."

Finally Rhyme's eyes opened. "Ah, Sachs." The voice was weak.

"How are you?"

"No, no, how are you?"

"I'm fine."

"And the rookie?"

"He nearly had a problem, but it worked out okay."

Rhyme said in a stiff voice, "It was a generator, right?"

"Yes, how did you know? Did Crime Scene call?"

"No, I figured it out. Diesel fuel and herbs from Chinatown. The fact that there didn't seem to be any juice in the school. I figured out it was a trap. But had a little problem before I could call."

"Didn't matter, Rhyme," she said. "I figured it out too."

And didn't tell him how close Pulaski had come to getting electrocuted.

"Well, good. I… Good."

She understood that he was thinking how he'd failed. How he'd nearly gotten one or both of them injured or killed. Normally he'd have been furious; a tantrum might have ensued. He'd want a drink, he'd insult people, he'd revel in sarcasm, all of which was directed toward himself, of course, as she and Thom knew very well.

But this was different. There was something about his eyes, something she didn't like one bit. Oddly, for someone with such a severe disability, there was rarely anything vulnerable about Lincoln Rhyme. Now, with this failure, he radiated weakness.

She found she had to look away and turned to the doctor, who said, "He's out of danger. Blood pressure's down." He then turned to Rhyme; even more than most patients, spinal cord injury victims hate being discussed in the third person. Which happens a lot. "Stay in the chair and out of bed as much as you can, and make sure bladder and bowel are taken care of. Loose clothes and socks."

Rhyme nodded. "Why did it happen now?"

"Stress probably, combined with pressure somewhere. Internally, shoes, garments. You know how dysreflexia works. Mostly it's a mystery."

"How long was I out?"

Thom said, "Forty minutes, off and on."

He rocked his head back in the chair. "Forty," he whispered. Sachs understood he'd be replaying his failure. Which had nearly cost her and Pulaski their lives.

Now he was staring toward the lab. "Where's the evidence?"

"I came here first. Ron's on his way. We needed some people from Queens to get the generator. It weighs a couple of hundred pounds."

"Ron's coming?"

"That's right," she confirmed, noting that she'd just told him this and wondering if the episode had made him disoriented. Maybe the doctor had given him a painkiller. Dysreflexia is accompanied by excruciating headaches.

"Good. He'll be here soon? Ron?"

A hesitant glance at Thom.

"Any minute now," she said.

Dr. Ralston said, "Lincoln, I'd rather you took it easy for the rest of the day."

Rhyme was hesitating, looking down. Was he actually going to give in to a request like this?

But he said in a soft voice, "I'm sorry, Doctor. I really can't. There's a case… it's important."

"The grid thing? The terrorists?"

"Yes. I hope you don't mind." His eyes were downcast. "I'm sorry. I really have to work it."

Sachs and Thom exchanged glances. Rhyme's apologetic mien was atypical, to put it mildly.

And, again, the vulnerability in his eyes.

"I know it's important, Lincoln. I can't force you to do anything. Just remember what I said: Stay upright and avoid any kinds of pressure on your body, inside and out. I guess it won't do any good to say avoid stress. Not with this madman on the loose."

"Thank you. And thank you, Thom."

The aide blinked and nodded uneasily.

Again, though, Rhyme was hesitating, staring down. Not driving into the parlor lab with all the speed the Storm Arrow could muster, which he'd be doing under other circumstances. And even when the front door to the townhouse opened and they could hear Pulaski and the other crime scene technicians hurrying in with the evidence, Rhyme remained where he was, staring down.

"Li-" Sachs found herself saying and braking her words to a halt-their superstition again. "Rhyme? You want to go into the lab?"

"Yes, sure."

But still staring down. Not moving.

Alarmed, she wondered if he was having another attack.

Then he swallowed and moved the controller of the wheelchair. His face melted with relief and she understood what had been happening: Rhyme was worried-terrified-that the attack had caused yet more damage, that perhaps even the rudimentary mobility he'd achieved in his right hand and fingers had been erased.

That's what he'd been staring at: his hand. But apparently there'd been no damage.

"Come on, Sachs," he said, though softly. "We've got work to do."