“All right, good, Ron. Now, the positive drug test. That sets off alarm bells, you understand. Do you do recreational drugs?”
“No, never. Well, to be honest, I tried pot once. Hated it. It was years ago.”
Garner said, “I smoked some in college. Just made me drowsy. Fell asleep in English — which had this professor that made you sleepy anyway. That happen to you?”
“Don’t really remember. I think it did.”
“But no drugs since then?”
“No.”
“Alcohol?”
“Wine or beer some. Two, three times a week.”
“Now, describe how you think the fentanyl got into your system.”
“As near as I can figure, I ran a dealer collar. Biggy with the M-42s in East New York. When we cleared the place I found one of his lieutenants, he was lying face down, and, you know, unresponsive. I rolled him over, administered Narcan and started chest compression. But he was gone.”
“You didn’t wear gloves?”
“I know it’s procedure, but I wanted to move fast. I thought I could save him.” He shook his head. “His crew, they knew he was there, dying, and they didn’t do anything. Not a thing.”
“At least you put the assholes away.”
“Yeah... This does happen, right?”
“What’s that?”
“Failing a drug test because you touched somebody at a bust?”
“Oh, yeah. The board’s been here before. How would you describe your physical state?”
“A stiff neck.”
“Oh, not from the accident. In general.”
“Good.”
“No injuries?”
“No.”
“All right, Ron, your colonoscopy’s over. Oh, just one other thing, could you draw a diagram of where you were in the intersection when the accident happened?”
“Draw?” He exhaled a brief laugh. “I’m no artist. My daughter should do it for you.”
“Ha. In our house, it’s my son. Just do the best you can.” He handed Pulaski a sheet of paper and pen, and a file folder to set the paper on; the desk was too cluttered to write.
He gave it a shot and handed it back.
Pulaski was silent, eyes on the picture of Garner and his family. They remained there a long time.
“Ron?”
Apparently Garner had asked him something.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said, ‘That’s it.’ ”
He rose. “I guess we’re going to get sued.”
“Oh, yeah, big-time. But we’ve got insurance. And good lawyers. Speaking of which, whatever the board does, you gotta lawyer up too. You’ll be named in the suit personally.”
Pulaski didn’t respond. He was picturing himself as a defendant in court.
His tone sympathetic, Garner said, “We’ve got psychologists on call. I’d recommend talking to one.”
“I don’t really need that. I already have somebody.”
“Really? Who?”
“My wife.”
41
Amelia Sachs asked urgently, “Aren’t you going to slap her?”
“What?”
Sachs nodded to the bloody, damp and wrinkled little form lying in a blue square of cloth in the doctor’s hands.
“You know, slap her on the butt? Make her breathe?”
“Oh. We don’t do that anymore. Not for years.”
Dr. Gomez suctioned some gunk from the nose and mouth and rubbed the infant with the cloth. Yes, she seemed to be breathing fine and was crying softly.
Glancing at Sachs: “Have to get the cord. I need your help.”
Right. Has to be cut. That much she knew. Sachs pulled from her back pocket the sleek Italian switchblade she always carried. Hit the button. It snapped open.
The doctor stared.
Sachs said, “We can sterilize it.”
The woman frowned. “I just meant could you hold her while I clamp?”
Oh.
She put the knife away. And carefully took the baby.
In less than a minute the cord was clamped and severed and, to Sachs’s relief, the infant was in the arms of her mother, who was sobbing — maybe in fear of another cable strike or the falling tower, though possibly from the birthing experience. Both, probably.
“Can she walk?” Sachs asked.
“Bleeding, a chair’s better.”
The mom: “Bleeding! You didn’t tell me I’d be bleeding.”
A cheerful response: “Yes, I did, ma’am. You’ll be fine.”
There was a wheelchair in the corner. The doctor and Sachs got the mother into it.
Sachs pushed the chair into the corridor.
Hell, both exits were now completely backed up. The severed cable had panicked everyone and that caused a crush. Several people had tried to carry the massive beds down the stairs but hadn’t been strong enough and pieces of furniture were sitting on the tops of the steps, jamming the doorways.
Rescue workers were trying to calm everyone and free the beds. This wasn’t working.
Sachs thought back to her promise to Rhyme that she would only wound the Watchmaker.
She now changed her mind.
She pushed the mother and baby toward the closest exit while Dr. Gomez, noticing with a frown that a nurse at the opposite exit had fallen, hurried toward her.
“I want a pain pill!” the new mother demanded.
Sachs ignored her.
Just then another cable broke free and exploded into the window where Dr. Gomez was walking to the injured hospital worker. The woman disappeared in a cascade of dust and glass shards.
No...
“Doctor!”
She couldn’t see if the woman had been hit. She parked the wheelchair next to the west exit and started toward where she’d last seen Gomez.
She still could see nothing of the strike’s aftermath; the smoke and dust were too dense.
Then she noticed something odd and paused.
On the linoleum floor in front of her, a shadow appeared and began to move.
What...?
It filled the floor, a latticework of black lines.
The shadow of the mast.
She turned to the window just as screams filled the corridor.
“It’s coming down!” someone cried.
Sachs dove to the floor and rolled against the wall, which she figured would provide some protection. Unless of course the crane simply caved in the entire floor, burying them all under a breath-stealing andiron of debris...
Claustrophobia...
At least she wouldn’t have to suffer that horror for very long; the collapse would ignite the gas and flammable solvents and burn everyone here to death within minutes.
And she noted too: the coughing had stopped.
Waiting for the crash...
Waiting...
For the crash that didn’t happen.
Instead of the deafening sound of collapsing metal and glass, another noise grew evident and then increased in volume.
Thump, thump, thump...
She rose and made her way cautiously to the window. She turned to her left and saw Dr. Gomez was on her feet and walking to the injured worker.
The crane was still looming in sight. But no longer moving their way.
Thump, thump...
About forty feet above the mast was a helicopter. A hook had been lowered from a winch above the open door and had snapped onto the front jib.
The craft was big, but hardly meant to lift weights like the crane, and a worker sat strapped in the doorway, his hand on a control on the winch. If the mast finally gave way and fell freely, he would have to release the cable so it didn’t pull the craft to the ground with it.