Outside, she stripped off the overalls and deposited them in a burn bag; they were streaked with Lydia’s blood. She used cleanser on her hands. Checked her Glock. Scanned the area for any threats. All she saw were a hundred black windows, dim cul-de-sacs, paused cars. Each a perfect vantage point for the unsub to be standing to target her.

Sachs was about to hook her phone holster into place too but she paused. Thinking: I really want to talk to Rhyme.

She hit speed dial on her most recent prepaid mobile; it was his number. But the call went right to voice mail. Sachs thought about leaving a message but hung up. She found she wasn’t sure what she wanted to say.

Maybe just that she missed him.

Chapter 43

CHAPTER 43

LINCOLN RHYME BLINKED. His eyes stung like hell and in his mouth were conflicting tastes, the sweetness of oil and the sourness of chemicals.

He’d just come back to consciousness and was, to his surprise, not coughing as much as he thought he ought to be. An oxygen mask was over his mouth and nose and he was breathing deeply. His throat hurt, though, and he guessed he had been coughing plenty earlier, when he’d been dead to the world.

He looked around, noting that he was in the back of an ambulance, excessively hot, parked on the spit of land where the attack had taken place; he could see the South Cove Inn in the distance, over the choppy blue-and-green bay. A stocky medic with a round black face was leaning forward, manning a flashlight, examining his eyes. He removed the oxygen mask to study Rhyme’s mouth and nose.

The man’s own face, very dark, gave away nothing. Finally he said in an American inflection, not British: “That water. Very bad. Runoff. Chemicals. All kinds of things. But it doesn’t look too bad. Irritation. It hurts?”

“Stings. Bad. Yes.”

As if the medic’s staccato syntax were contagious.

Rhyme inhaled deeply. “But please, you have to tell me! The two men who were with me? What—?”

“How’re his lungs?”

The question was from Thom Reston, who was approaching the back of the ambulance. The aide coughed once then twice, hard.

Rhyme squelched his own cough and muttered in astonishment, “You’re…you’re all right?”

Thom pointed to his eyes, which were bright red. “Nothing serious. Just a lot of crap in that water.”

Very bad. Runoff…

His clothes were soaking, Rhyme noted, and that answered several questions. First, that the aide had been the one who’d rescued him.

And, second, that the two shots he’d heard had been meant for Mychal Poitier.

I have a wife and two children I am supporting. I love them very much…

Rhyme was heartsick at the man’s death. After the corporal had been killed Thom must have dived into the water to save Rhyme as the attackers fled.