Sommers reflected:

The attendees here couldn't avoid the juice.

They couldn't protect themselves against it.

So he'd have to cut its head off.

There was no staying put.

If he could find the incoming line before Randall Jessen ran the splice, Sommers could short it out. He'd run a cable from the hot line directly to a return. The resulting short circuit, accompanied by an arc flash as powerful as the one at the bus station the other morning, would pop breakers in the convention center power plant, eliminating the danger. The emergency lighting system would kick on but that was low voltage-probably from twelve-volt lead-calcium batteries. There'd be no risk of electrocution with that small supply. A few people would be stuck in the elevators, maybe there'd be some panic. But injuries would be minimal.

But then reality came home to him. The only way to short out the system was to do the most dangerous procedure in the utility business: bare hand work on an energized line carrying 138,000 volts. Only the top linemen ever attempted this. Working from insulated buckets or helicopters to avoid any risk of ground contact and wearing faraday suits-actual metal clothing-the linemen connected themselves directly to the high-voltage wire itself. In effect, they became part of it, and hundreds of thousands of volts streamed over their bodies.

Charlie Sommers had never tried bare hand work with high voltage, but he knew how to perform it-in theory.

Like a bird on a wire…

At the Algonquin booth he now grabbed his pathetically sparse tool kit and borrowed a length of lightweight high-tension wire from a nearby exhibitor. He ran into the dim hallway to find a service door. He glanced at the copper doorknob, hesitated only a moment then yanked it open and plunged into the dimness of the center's several basements.

Stay put?

I don't think so.

HE SAT IN the front seat of his white van, hot because the air conditioner was off. He didn't want to run the engine and draw attention to himself. A parked vehicle is one thing. A parked vehicle with an engine running exponentially increased suspicion.

Sweat tickled the side of his cheek. He hardly noticed it. He pressed the headset more firmly against his ear. Still nothing. He turned the volume higher. Static. A clunk or two. A snap.

He was thinking of the words he'd sent via email earlier today: If you ignore me this time, the consequences will be far, far greater than the small incidents of yesterday and the day before, the loss of life far worse…

Yes and no.

He tilted his head, listening for more words to flow through the microphone he'd hidden in the generator he'd planted at the school near Chinatown. A Trojan horse, one that the Crime Scene Unit had courteously carted right into Lincoln Rhyme's townhouse. He'd already gotten the lowdown on the cast of characters helping Rhyme and their whereabouts. Lon Sellitto, the NYPD detective, and Tucker McDaniel, ASAC of the FBI, were gone, headed downtown to City Hall, where they would coordinate the defense of the convention center.

Amelia Sachs and Ron Pulaski were speeding to the center right now, to see if they could shut the power off.

Waste of time, he reflected.

Then he stiffened, hearing the voice of Lincoln Rhyme.

"Okay, Mel, I need you to get that cable to the lab in Queens."

"The-?"

"The cable!"

"Which one?"

"How the hell many cables are there?"

"About four."

"Well, the one Sachs and Pulaski found at the school in Chinatown. I want the trace between the insulation and the wire itself dug out and run through their SEM."

Then came the sound of plastic and paper. A moment later, footsteps. "I'll be back in forty minutes, an hour."

"I don't care when you get back. I care when you call me with the results."

Footsteps, thudding.

The microphone was very sensitive.

A door slammed. Silence. The tapping of computer keys, nothing else.

Then Rhyme, shouting: "Goddamn it, Thom!… Thom!"

"What, Lincoln? Are you-"

"Is Mel gone?"

"Hold on."

After a moment the voice called, "Yes, his car just left. You want me to call him?"

"No, don't bother. Look, I need a piece of wire. I want to see if I can duplicate something Randall did… A long piece of wire. Do we have anything like that here?"

"Extension cord?"

"No, bigger. Twenty, thirty feet."

"Why would I have any wire that long here?"

"I just thought maybe you would. Well, go find some. Now."

"Where am I supposed to find wire?"

"A fucking wire store. I don't know. A hardware store. There's that one on Broadway, right? There used to be."

"It's still there. So you need thirty feet?"

"That should do it… What?"

"It's just, you're not looking well, Lincoln. I'm not sure I should leave you."

"Yes, you should. You should do what I'm asking. The sooner you leave, the sooner you'll be back and you can mother-hen me to your heart's content. But for now: Go!"

There was no sound for a moment.

"All right. But I'm checking your blood pressure first."

Another pause.

"Go ahead."

Muffled sounds, a faint hiss, the rasp of Velcro. "It's not bad. But I want to make sure it stays that way… How are you feeling?"

"I'm just tired."

"I'll be back in a half hour."

Faint steps sounded on the floor. The door opened again then closed.

He listened for a moment more and then rose. He pulled on a cable TV repairman's uniform. He slipped the 1911 Colt into a gear bag, which he slung over his shoulder.

He checked the front windows and mirrors of the van and, noting that the alley was empty, climbed out. He verified there were no security cameras and walked to the back door of Lincoln Rhyme's townhouse. In three minutes he'd made sure the alarm was off and had picked the lock, slipping into the basement.

He found the electrical service panel and silently went to work, rigging another of his remote control switchgear units to the incoming service line, 400 amps, which was double that of most other residences in the area.

This was interesting to note but not particularly significant, of course, since he knew that all he needed to cause virtually instant death was a tiny portion of that.

One tenth of one amp…

RHYME WAS LOOKING over the evidence boards when the electricity went off in his townhouse.

The computer screen turned black, machinery sighed to silence. The red, green and yellow eyes of the LEDs on the equipment surrounding him vanished.

He swiveled his head from side to side.

From the basement, the creak of a door. Then he heard footsteps. Not the footfalls themselves, but the faint protest of human weight on old, dry wood.

"Hello?" he shouted. "Thom? Is that you? The power. There's something wrong with the power."

The creaking grew closer. Then it vanished. Rhyme turned his chair in a circle. He scanned the room, eyes darting the way they used to dart at crime scenes upon first arrival, taking in all the relevant evidence, getting the impression of the scene. Looking for the dangers too: the places where the perp might still be hiding, maybe injured, maybe panicked, maybe coolly waiting for a chance to kill a police officer.

Another creak.

He spun the wheelchair around again, three-sixty, but saw nothing. Then he spotted, on one of the examination tables at the far end of the room, a cell phone. Although the power was off in the rest of the townhouse, of course, the mobile would be working.

Batteries…

Rhyme pushed the controller touchpad forward and the chair responded quickly. He sped to the table and stopped, his back to the doorway, and stared down at the phone. It was no more than eighteen inches from his face.