Outside in the hallway Lon Sellitto called again about Banks. He was still in surgery and the floor nurse would say nothing else about him.

Sachs took this news with a faint nod. She walked to the window overlooking the alley behind Rhyme’s town house. The oblique light fell onto her hands and she looked at her torn nails. She’d put bandages on two of the most damaged fingers. Habits, she thought. Bad habits . . . Why can’t I stop?

The detective walked up beside her, looked up at the gray sky. More spring storms were promised.

“Officer,” he said, speaking softly so none of the others could hear. “She fucked up, that lady did, okay. But you gotta understand—she’s not a pro. Our mistake was letting her fuck up and, yeah, Jerry should’ve known better. It hurts me more than I can even think about to say it. But he blew it.”

“No,” she said through clenched teeth. “You don’t understand.”

“Whatsat?”

Could she say it? The words were so hard.

“I blew it. It’s not Jerry’s fault.” She tossed her head toward Rhyme’s room. “Or Percey’s. It’s mine.”

“You? Fuck, you ’n’ Rhyme’re the ones figured out he was at the airport. He mighta nailed everybody, it wasn’t for you.”

She was shaking her head. “I saw . . . I saw the Dancer’s position before he capped Jerry.”

“And?”

“I knew exactly where he was. I drew a target. I . . . ”

Oh, hell. This was hard.

“What’re you sayin’, Officer?”

“He let off a round at me . . . Oh, Christ. I clenched. I hit the ground.” Her finger disappeared into her scalp and she scratched until she felt slick blood. Stop it. Shit.

“So?” Sellitto didn’t get it. “Everybody hit the deck, right? I mean, who wouldn’t?”

Staring out the window, face burning with shame. “After he fired and missed, I’d’ve had at least three seconds to fire—I knew he was shooting bolt action. I could’ve lost a whole clip at him. But I tongued dirt. Then I didn’t have the balls to get up again because I knew he’d rechambered.”

Sellitto scoffed. “What? You’re worried ’cause you didn’t stand up, without cover, and give a sniper a nice fat target? Come on, Officer . . . And, hey, wait a minute; you had your service weapon?”

“Yeah, I—”

“Three hundred yards with a Glock nine? In your dreams.”

“I might not have hit him but I could’ve parked enough nearby to keep him pinned down. So he wouldn’t’ve got that last shot in and hit Jerry. Oh, hell.” She clenched her hands, looked at her index-finger nail again. It was dark with blood. She scratched harder.

The brilliant red reminded her of the dust cloud of blood rising around Jerry Banks and so she scratched harder still.

“Officer, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over that one.”

How could she explain? What was eating at her now was more complex than the detective knew. Rhyme was the best criminalist in New York, maybe in the country. Sachs aspired, but she’d never match him at that. But shooting—like driving fast—was one of her gifts. She could outshoot most of the men and women on the force, either-handed. She’d prop dimes up on the fifty-yard range and shoot for the glare, making presents of the bent coins for her god-daughter and her friends. She could have saved Jerry. Hell, she might even have hit the son of a bitch.