The Watchmaker’s Hand

And it seemed to Rhyme that relief washed over her. She dropped into a chair and placed a call to Lyle Spencer, telling him of her plan to hit several of the most likely target sites tomorrow and make sure guards were in place... and look for the Watchmaker himself, on the off chance that he was preparing one of the tower cranes for tomorrow’s attack.

After disconnecting, she nodded upstairs. “Early bedtime.”

He offered a half smile and was about to respond when there came the sound of the front door opening — the visitor would have the number pad code — and the brief rush of traffic before the door closed.

Ron Pulaski appeared in the arched doorway to the parlor.

Pale, eyes wide, he stopped and winced, then looked from one to the other.

“Ron, are you all right?” Sachs asked.

“There was an accident. Downtown. I hit somebody, another car.”

“But are you okay?”

“Just stunned. The other car, it caught fire, the driver — a kid, a student — he’s in the hospital. I went over there myself to see how he is. They couldn’t tell me. Or wouldn’t. Not family, you know.”

“Get to a doctor, Ron,” Sachs said.

“They checked me out at the scene, the EMTs. I’m good, just stiff.”

Rhyme said, “The word is Tarr doesn’t have any targets. It’s not that urgent, Ron. A day to rest won’t hurt.”

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice was bitter. “Looks like it’s going to be more than a day. They ran the standard post-accident blood panel. I tested positive for fentanyl.”

Rhyme and Sachs glanced each other’s way.

The criminalist asked, “Did you happen to—”

“Yeah, I sure did. Tried to save a banger in this crew we’d just taken down. Didn’t have gloves on.” He grimaced. “Stupid, with fent.”

Rhyme knew the dangers of the drug. Some first responders had passed out simply by touching an overdose victim. Several nearly died. Now the opioid antidote Narcan was carried by every responder — for themselves as well as for victims.

“I’m on administrative leave till the inquiry.”

“It’ll be a formality,” Sachs said. “This’s happened before.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure how good it’s going to go.” He sighed. “I screwed up. The whole thing was my fault. I ran a red light.”

Sachs said, “All right, Ron. Get yourself a lawyer. The union’ll set you up.”

He nodded, his eyes flat. “Yeah.”

Rhyme said, “Get on home. Get some rest.”

Sachs asked, “You have wheels?”

“Got a pool car. The director took pity. Have to return it tomorrow. I don’t know, I’ll... I’ll rent one, I guess.” He seemed dazed. “Just wanted to let you know...”

“Call us tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure. ’Night.”

And, shoulders slumped, he walked slowly out of the town house.

Sachs said, “That’s going to be a tough one. Drugs and running a light and an injury? He’ll beat the narc, but the optics’re bad. Cops I know’ve been fired for less. And, Jesus, there’re reporters already looking over the blotter. They love stuff like this almost as much as an officer-involved shooting.”

“We’ll make some calls,” Rhyme said, though he was thinking that his political pull in the NYPD extended only so far, as his official connection with the department was about the same as that of a Rite Aid clerk or Uber driver.

Sachs said, “I’ll go upstairs.”

They kissed good night, and carting the oxygen tank, she trod up the stairs, not conceding her condition to the extent she’d take the elevator.

Rhyme nodded, and after she left, his eyes settled on the murder board. Where the top had once said Unsub 89, it now read merely Hale.

Lincoln Rhyme was thinking:

Bishops and rooks and pawns...

I can see the movement of the pieces in our chess game, Charles.

As always, they’re moving with your, yes, clockwork precision, economical and unhesitant.

Moving on squares black and squares white.

Bishops and rooks and pawns...

One space at a time, two, ten...

But, Charles, what eludes me is your strategy. How can I counter this move or that without having a clue as to how you’re going to conquer my king?

Unless and until Rhyme could figure that out, his failure — and he felt it keenly — would have mortal consequences to the citizens of New York.

And, of course, to Rhyme himself. He was very aware of a note Hale had sent to him, a prelude to his trip here, a note that left no doubt what his intentions were:

The next time we meet — and we will meet again, I promise you — will be the last. Farewell, for now, Lincoln. I’ll leave you with this sentiment, which I hope you will ponder on sleepless nights: Quidam hostibus potest neglecta; aliis hostibus mori debent.

Yours, Charles Vespasian Hale

The Latin translated into: “Some enemies can be ignored; other enemies must die.”

II A Grain of Sand

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