The Bone Collector (Lincoln Rhyme 1)

She gagged again, tried to stifle the sound.

Is he waiting for me, or not?

Head out, a fast look. You've got a helmet. It'll deflect anything but a full-metal or Teflon and remember he's shooting a .32. A girl gun.

All right. Think. Look which way first?

The Patrolman's Guide wasn't any help and Nick wasn't offering any advice at the moment. Flip a coin.

Left.

She stuck her head out fast, glancing to the left. Back into the tunnel.

She'd seen nothing. A blank wall, shadows.

If he's the other way he's seen me and's got good target positioning.

Okay, fuck. Just go. Fast.

When you move . . .

Sachs leapt.

. . . they can't getcha.

She hit the ground hard, rolling. Twisting around.

The figure was hidden in shadows against the wall to the right, under the window. Drawing a target she started to fire. Then froze.

Amelia Sachs gasped.

Oh, my God. . . .

Her eyes were inexorably drawn to the woman's body, propped up against the wall.

From the waist up she was thin, with dark-brown hair, a gaunt face, small breasts, bony arms. Her skin was covered with swarms of flies--the buzzing Sachs had heard.

From the waist down, she was . . . nothing. Bloody hip bones, femur, the whip of her spine, feet . . . All the flesh had been dissolved in the repulsive bath she rested next to--a horrible stew, deep brown, chunks of flesh floating in it. Lye or acid of some sort. The fumes stung Sachs's eyes, while horror--and fury too--boiled in her heart.

Oh, you poor thing . . .

Sachs waved pointlessly at the flies that strafed the new intruder.

The woman's hands were relaxed, palms upward as if she were meditating. Eyes closed. A purple jogging outfit lay by her side.

She wasn't the only victim.

Another skeleton--completely stripped--lay beside a similar vat, older, empty of the terrible acid but coated with a dark sludge of blood and melted muscle. Its forearm and hand were missing. And beyond that was another one--this victim picked apart, the bones carefully scrubbed of all the flesh, cleaned, resting carefully on the floor. A stack of triple-ought sandpaper rested beside the skull. The elegant curve of the head shone like a trophy.

And then she heard it behind her.

A breath. Faint but unmistakable. The snap of air deep in a throat.

She spun around, furious at herself for her carelessness.

But the emptiness of the basement gaped back at her. She swept the light over the floor, which was stone and didn't show footprints as clearly as the dirt floor in 823's building next door.

Another inhalation.