“You . . . what?”

Sachs frowned, listened.

Rhyme continued, “I figured out he was going to hit the safe house. I figured out he was in a fireman’s uniform. I fucking figured out he’d use a cutting charge on the back door. I’ll bet it was an Accuracy Systems Five Twenty or Five Twenty-one with an Instadet firing system. Am I right?”

“I—”

“Am I right?”

“A Five Twenty-one,” Sachs said.

“See? I figured all that out. I knew it five minutes before he got in. It’s just that I couldn’t fucking call anyone and tell them! I couldn’t . . . pick up . . . the fucking phone and tell anybody what was going to happen. And your friend died. Because of me.”

Sachs felt pity for him and it was sour. She was torn apart by his pain, yet she didn’t have a clue what she might say to comfort him.

There was moisture on his chin. Thom stepped forward with a tissue, but he waved the aide away with a furious nod of his handsome jaw. He nodded toward the computer. “Oh, I got cocky. I got to thinking I was pretty normal. Driving around like a race car driver in the Storm Arrow, flipping on lights and changing CDs . . . What bullshit!” He closed his eyes and pressed his head back in the pillow.

A sharp laugh, surprising everyone, filled the room.

Percey Clay poured some more scotch into her glass. Then a little more for Rhyme too. “There’s bullshit here, that’s for sure. But it’s only what I’m hearing from you.”

Rhyme opened his eyes, glaring.

Percey laughed again.

“Don’t,” Rhyme warned ambiguously.

“Oh, please,” she muttered dismissingly. “Don’t what?”

Sachs watched Percey’s eyes narrow. “What’re you saying?” Percey began. “That somebody’s dead because of . . . technical failure?”

Sachs realized that Rhyme had been expecting her to say something else. He was caught off guard. After a moment he said, “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. If I’d been able to pick up the phone—”

She cut him off. “And, what? That gives you the right to have a goddamn tantrum? To renege on your promises?” She tossed back her liquor and gave an exasperated sigh. “Oh, for God’s sake . . . Do you have any idea what I do for a living?”

To her astonishment Sachs saw that Rhyme was calm now. He started to speak but Percey cut him off. “Think about this.” Her drawl was back. “I sit in a little aluminum tube going four hundred knots an hour, six miles above the ground. It’s sixty below zero outside and the winds are a hundred miles an hour. I’m not even talking about lightning, wind shear, and ice. Jesus Christ, I’m only alive because of machines.” Another laugh. “How’s that different from you?”

“You don’t understand,” he said snippily.

“You’re not answering my question. How?” she demanded, unrelenting. “How’s it different?”

“You can walk around, you can pick up the phone—”