A second high def monitor nearby fluttered to life and there was Amelia Sachs, peering his way.

‘You there, Rhyme?’

‘Yes, yes, Sachs. Go ahead.’ This was the computer they used for face to face videoconferencing with law enforcers in other cities, for occasional interrogation of suspects and for Skyping with the children of Rhyme’s closest relative – his cousin who lived in New Jersey – well, Sachs primarily, who read them stories and told jokes. Sachs and Pam would also Skype, sometimes spending hours, chatting away.

He wondered if now, after their fight, that wouldn’t be happening anymore.

She asked, ‘What’s the story? Is it true, the getaway?’

Rhyme grimaced and glanced at Sellitto, who rolled his eyes and said, ‘He’s gone, yeah. But we got a good description from the hostage.’

‘What’s the prognosis, Sachs? The guard?’

‘Eyes’re going to need some treatment is all. He got hit by formaldehyde and severed male genitals. That’s what was in the jar. Which he’s not happy about.’ She gave a faint laugh. ‘It was dark, I saw some flesh on the ground. I thought the unsub had used acid and it was melting the guard’s flesh off. But he’ll be okay. Now, Lon, how’s the manhunt going?’

The detective explained to her, ‘We’ve got undercover at all the bus and subway stations in Marble Hill and north and south – the Number One train. He could get a cab but I’m thinking he won’t want to be seen one on one – by the driver. According to our tat expert, he’s not from around here so he probably doesn’t know about gypsy cabs. We’re betting he’ll stick to public transportation.’

Rhyme could see Sachs nodding, then the image was breaking up, freezing. The unreliable Internet.

The picture came in clear again.

She said, ‘He might try for a train farther east.’

‘Yeah, I suppose he could.’

Rhyme said, ‘Good point.’ He told Sellitto, ‘Get some of your people to the Number Four train and the D and B lines. That’s central Bronx. He’s not going to get farther east than that.’

‘Hm. I’ll do it.’ The detective stepped away to make the call.

Sachs said, ‘One thing occurred to me, Rhyme?’

‘And?’

‘There were dozens of storerooms he could’ve hidden in. Why did he pick that one?’

‘Your thought?’

‘He’d spent time there before. I think that’s where he was going to take Harriet Stanton to tattoo her.’

‘Why?’

‘It was like a skin museum.’ She described the preserved tissue samples in jars.

‘Skin. Sure. His obsession.’

‘Exactly. Internal organs, brains. But easily half the jars contained external flesh.’

‘You working up some kind of dark psychology here, Sachs? I’m not sure that’s helpful. We know he’s interested in skin.’

‘I’m just figuring he’d spent more time there than just checking it out as a possible murder site. Like a tourist at MoMA, you know. It drew him. So I walked the grid three times there.’

‘Now, that’s  a valid use for psychobabble,’ Rhyme said.

Head down, Billy strode quickly toward the subway in the Bronx that would take him south to Manhattan, to his workshop, to his terrariums, to safety and comfort.

He reflected back to the hospital corridor, picturing Amelia Sachs … He couldn’t help but think of her with some familiarity, having learned everything he could about the woman – and Lincoln Rhyme.

How had she found him? Well, that wasn’t quite the question. How had Rhyme  found him? She was good, sure. But Rhyme was better.

Okay, how? How exactly ?

Well, he’d been to the hospital earlier. Maybe he’d picked up some trace there and, despite his diligence, had unwittingly deposited a bit near Chloe Moore’s body.

Were the police thinking they’d avert another attack by sending Amelia Sachs to stop him?

But, no, Billy decided, they couldn’t predict that he’d return when he had. The policewoman had come to the hospital just to ask if any staffers had seen a man fitting his description.

His thoughts strayed to Amelia Sachs … She reminded him in some ways of Lovely Girl, her beautiful face, her hair, her keen and determined eyes. Some women, he knew, you had to control by reasoning with them, some by dominating. Others you couldn’t control, and that was a problem.

Picturing her pale skin.

The Oleander Room …

He imagined Amelia there, lying on the couch, the settee, the love seat, the lounger.

Breath growing faster, he pictured blood on her skin, he tasted blood on her skin. He smelled blood.

But forget that now.

Another word came to mind: anticipate.

If Rhyme had figured out about the hospital, he might have figured out Billy would come this way to escape. So he picked up his pace. It was a busy street. Discount shops, diners, and mobile phone and calling card stores. The clientele, working class. Payroll Advances. Best Rates in Town.

And people everywhere: parents with little kids, bundled up like sock puppets against the cutting chill and endless sleet. Teenagers ignoring the cold or genuinely not feeling it. Thin jackets, jeans, short skirts and fake fur collars on loud jackets. High heels, no stockings. Constant motion. Billy dodged a skateboarder a moment before collision.

He wanted to grab the kid, fling him off the board. But he was past in a flash. Besides, Billy wouldn’t have made a scene. Bad idea, under the circumstances.

Back to his eastward escape. He noted here too a lot of skin art – Billy’s preferred term for tats. Here, lower class, mixed race, he noticed a lot of writing on skin. In script primarily. Bible passages maybe or poems or manifestos. Martin Luther King, Jr., was represented, Billy speculated. But the lines might have been from Shaq or the Koran. Some writings were prominent – seventy two point type. Most, though, were so tiny you needed a magnifier to read them.

Crosses in all designs – inked on men who looked like gangbangers and drug dealers and on girls who looked like whores.

A young man, around twenty, approached from the opposite direction, very dark skinned, broad, a bit shorter than Billy, who stared at the keloids on his cheeks and temples – an intricate pattern of crosshatched lines.

He noticed Billy’s attention and slowed, then stopped, nodded. ‘Hey.’ Just stood there, smiling. Maybe he sensed that Billy was appreciating the scarification. Which he was.

Billy stopped too. ‘You’ve got some righteous marking.’

‘Yo. Thanks.’

In sub Saharan African tradition this form of modification was done by cutting flaps in the skin and packing in irritating plant juices to raise welts, which hardened into permanent designs. Keloids serve several purposes: They identify the bearers as members of a particular family or tribe, they indicate fixed social or political positions, they mark milestones in life’s transit, like puberty and readiness for marriage. In some African cultures, scarification indicates sexual prowess and appetite – and the scars themselves can become erogenous zones. The more extensive a woman’s scarring, the more appealing she is as a partner because it implies she’s better able to withstand the pain of childbirth and produce many offspring.

Billy had always appreciated keloids; he’d never done any. The ones on the young man’s face were impressive, linked chains and vines. African skin art is largely geometric; rarely are animals, plants or people depicted. Never words. Billy was nearly overcome by an urge to touch the pattern. With effort, he resisted.

The local, in turn, regarded Billy with an odd gaze that embraced both curiosity and camaraderie. Finally he looked around and seemed to come to a decision. A whisper: ‘Yo, you want brown? Moonrock? Sugar? Whatchu want?’

‘I …’

‘How much you got to spend? I hook you up.’

Drugs.

Disgusting.

In an instant the admiration of the scarification turned to hatred. It felt like the young man had betrayed him. The skin art was ruined. Billy wanted to stick his neck with a needle, get him into an alley and ink a message on his gut with snakeroot or hemlock.