The Twelfth Card (Lincoln Rhyme 6)

"The Six," Tony answered.

The Sixth Precinct was in the heart of west Greenwich Village. Not many muggings or carjackings or drugs. Mostly breakins, gay domestics and incidents by emotionally disturbed artists and writers off their meds. The Six was also home to the Bomb Squad.

Tony was shaken, sure, but angry too. "The guy kept at him, even when he was down. He didn't need to."

"But maybe," came Ron's stumbling words, "it took for time . . . took more time on me. So he didn't get . . . didn't get a good chance to go after Geneva."

Sachs smiled. "You're kind of a glass-is-half-full sorta guy." She didn't tell him that he'd been beaten nearly to death simply so Unsub 109 could use a bullet from his weapon for a distraction.

"Sorta am. Thank Sheneva. Gen-eva for me. For the book." He couldn't really move his head but his eyes slipped to the side of the bedside table, where a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird lay. "Tony'sh reading to me. He even can read the big wordsh."

His brother laughed. "You putz."

"So what can you tell us, Ron? This guy's smart and he's still out there. We need something we can use."

"I don't know, ma--I don't know, Detective. I wasssh goin' up and down th'alley. He hid when I want to . . . went to the street. Came back to the back, the alley . . . I washn't expecting hih. Him. He was around the corner of the, you know, the bidling . . . the building. I got to the corner. I shaw this guy, in a mask like a ski mashk. And then this thing. Club, bat. Came too fasht. Couldn't shee it really. Got me good." He blinked again, closed his eyes. "Careless. Washhh, was too close to the wall. Won't do that again."

You didn't know. Now you do.

"A woosh." He winced.

"You okay?" his brother asked.

"I'm okay."

"A woosh," Sachs encouraged, nudged her chair closer.

"What?"

"You heard a woosh."

"Yes, I heard it, ma'am. Not 'ma'am.' Detective."

"It's okay, Ray. Call me whatever. You see anything? Anything at all?"

"This thing. Like a bat. No, not Batman and Robin. Ha. A baseball bat. Right at my face. Oh, I told you that. And I went down. I mean, Detective. Not 'ma'am.' "

"That's okay, Ron. What do you remember then?"

"I don't know. I remember lying on the ground. Thinking . . . I was thinking he was going for my weapon. I tried to control my weapon. Wash . . . was in the book, not to let it go. 'Always control your weapon.' But I didn't. He got it anyway. I wash dead. I knew I was dead."

She encouraged softly, "What do you remember seeing?"

"A tangle."

"A what?"

He laughed. "I didn't mean tangle. A triangle. Cardboard. On the ground. I couldn't move. It was all I could see."

"And this cardboard. It was the unsub's?"

"The trangle? No. I mean, triangle. No, it was jusht trash. I mean, it's all I could see. I tried to crawl. I don't think I did."

Sachs sighed. "You were found on your back, Ron."

"I washhh? . . . I was on my back?"

"Think back. Did you see the sky maybe?"