The Steel Kiss

This was not easy to do. Incurring horns blares and extended fingers, Sachs ignored the protests and concentrated on finding gaps between cars, braking furiously, zipping through lane changes. Keeping the revs high, high, high. Fifth gear at the most. Fourth—she called it the gutsy gear—was better. And the meat and potatoes, third.

When you move they can’t getcha.

And the corollary: When you move they can’t get away.

“No,” she was saying into the hands-free, speaking to the patrolman from the precinct near her mother’s town house. “He’s there somewhere nearby. It’s his MO. He…  oh, shit.”

“What’s that, Detective?” the officer asked.

She controlled the skid as she swept past the car that had braked hard to make an sudden exit that neither its driver, nor she, had been planning on. The Torino and the Taurus, distant relatives, missed a potentially deadly kiss by two inches, tops.

Sachs continued, “His MO is he’s nearby when there’s an attack. He could rig an accident and leave but he doesn’t. He probably flipped the switch and waited to make sure the vic”—her voice choked—“to make sure my mother would get to the trap. He’s only had a ten-minute start and we don’t think he’s got a car. Gypsies a lot.”

“We’re sweeping, Detective. Just—”

“More bodies. I want more bodies out there. He can’t get that far!”

“Sure, Detective.”

She missed what else he said, if anything. Concentrating on fitting between two vehicles in a space no third vehicle was meant to pass through. Over the roar of the Torino’s engine she couldn’t tell if contact was made. Horns blared. Sue me, sue the city, she thought. And, irritated that she’d lost seconds braking, she downshifted hard and explored the redline zone once again.

“More people on site,” she repeated to the patrolman and disconnected. Then said into the mobile: “Call Rhyme.”

He answered immediately. “Sachs. Where are you?”

“Just onto the Brooklyn Bridge…  Hold on.”

She veered around an idiot on one of those low bicycles you recline upon, a flag fluttering over your head. It wasn’t much of a skid; the surface of the bridge gripped her tires well, and she turned sharply into it. The Ford righted itself. Then she had a clear field ahead of her and sped up again.

“Lon’s already called COC. Nothing yet. Checking subways too.”

“Good. And…  Oh, Jesus Christ.”

Clutch in, brake full, shift to second just in case you need it, hand brake up, take a skid to buy some space…

“Sachs!”

The Torino stopped two feet behind a taxi, forty-five degrees in the lane—well, lane and a half, since she was, yes, at an angle. A massive traffic jam extended past the cab she’d nearly slammed into.

“Traffic’s stopped, Rhyme. Damn it. Completely stopped. And I’m in the middle of the bridge. Can you have Mel or Ron get me a route once I get off? One without traffic?”

“Hold on.” Rhyme shouted, “Lon, I need traffic from the east end of the Brooklyn Bridge to Amelia’s mother’s place.”

She climbed out of the car and peered ahead. A sea of vehicles. Motionless.

“Why now?” she muttered. “Why the hell now?”

Her phone hummed with a number she recognized. The patrolman she’d been speaking with not long before. She put Rhyme on hold and took the call. “Officer, what’ve you got?”

“I’m sorry, Detective. Got a dozen RMPs en route and ESU’s sending a truck. Only weird. Traffic’s totally fucked up. Sorry. Totally screwed up. The Heights, Carroll Gardens, Cobble Hill. Nobody’s moving.”

She sighed. “Keep me posted.” She flipped back to Rhyme’s call.

…you there, Sachs? Can you—?”

“I’m here, Rhyme. What’s the story?”

“You’re going to be stuck for a while. Looks like five bad accidents all around the same time. Near your mom’s place.”

“Shit,” she spat out. “I’ll bet it’s him. Unsub Forty. Remember what Rodney said? He can fuck up cars with the controller. That’s what he did. I’m parking here and getting a train. Tell Lon to have a crew pick up my wheels. Keys’ll be under the back floor mat.”

“Sure.”

Not bothering with the walkway, Sachs started east along the bridge. Two trains and a jog later—a half hour—she was at her mother’s town house, charging into the living room, nodding to the officers, the medics. Then she paused.

“Mom.”

“Honey.”

The women embraced. The mother’s flesh and bones troublingly frail under the daughter’s grasp.

But she was all right.

Sachs stepped back and examined her. Rose Sachs was pale. But that was probably from the fright. She’d suffered no physical harm from Unsub 40—the medics were here because of her heart condition. A precaution.

It had been, however, such a very close call. Rhyme had explained to Sachs that when they’d realized Rose was a possible target, he and the team had speculated that the unsub had—possibly—rigged some kind of electrical trap in her house since they’d found evidence of stripped electrical wires.