Pulaski said, ‘Somebody wants to blow up the boxes.’ His face finally grew inscrutable. ‘Hey – think about it – the Internet outages? The rumors of the traditional cable companies sabotaging the new fiber-optic systems? I’ll bet that’s it.’

Sachs said, ‘Our Skin Collector may feel like he’s the Bone Collector’s heir but, bottom line? That’s just a cover. He was hired to smuggle bombs underground to take out International Fiber Optic’s routers.’

Pulaski asked, ‘What would happen if they detonated?’

‘Assume the entire Internet in Manhattan would go down,’ Cooper said.

‘Banks,’ Rhyme muttered. ‘And hospitals, police, national security, air traffic control. Call Dellray and have him alert Homeland Security. I’m guessing hundreds of deaths and billions of dollars in losses. Get our computer man, Rodney Szarnek, on the phone. Now.’

CHAPTER 57

Harriet Stanton was returning with her husband, Matthew, from Upper Manhattan Medical Center in Marble Hill.

They were in a cab, which was – so far – about seventeen dollars in fare.

‘Look at that,’ Matthew muttered, eyeing the meter. ‘Can you believe it? It’ll be thirty by the time we get to the hotel. Subway would’ve been cheaper.’ Matthew had always been a bit of a curmudgeon. Now, after the brush with death – or with New York City health care – his mood hadn’t improved.

Harriet, in her yes-dear mode, replied that given the neighborhood they’d been driving through – the Bronx and Harlem – wouldn’t it be better to spend the money? ‘And look at the weather.’

Where they lived, in downstate Illinois, the weather could be just as cold and sloppy. It didn’t seem, though, so dirty cold and sloppy. Tainted was the word that came to mind.

Matthew took her hand, which was a way of saying, You’re right, I suppose.

His bill of health was, if not clean, then not as bad as it might’ve been. Yes, the incident had been a heart attack – or the ten-dollar phrase, myocardial infarction – but no surgery was called for. Medication and a slow, steady increase in the amount of exercise should do the trick, the doctor had told them. Aspirin, of course. Always aspirin.

She called their son, Josh, back at the hotel, and told him to collect Matthew’s prescriptions, which the doctor had called in to a nearby pharmacy. Matthew sat back silently in the seat of the taxi and stared at the sights. The people were what interested him, she judged, from the way his eyes danced from one cluster of passersby to another.

The cab dropped them in front of their hotel. The place had been built in the 1930s or so, Harriet guessed, and clearly hadn’t undergone a renovation for years. The colors were gold and yellow and gray. The scuffed walls and over-washed curtains had brash, geometric designs, ugly. The place reminded her of the Moose Lodge at home.