She then located two weapons: an Uzi machine pistol and a Beretta 9mm. She examined them closely and found that the Uzi's serial number had been etched out. She let this weapon drop to the bottom. There was a number on the Beretta, though, which meant it might yield some traceable connection to the Ghost. She slipped it into her evidence bag. A glance at her pressure gauge: 1800 pounds of air. God, she was going through it fast. Breathe slowly.
"Come on, Sachs, concentrate."
Right, sorry, Rhyme.
Clank, clank, clank.
I hate that fucking sound!
She searched the body of the corpse. No wallet or ID.
Another shiver. Why was this scene so horrible, so eerie? She'd processed dozens of bodies. But then she realized: the corpses at those scenes had always lain like broken toys on the ground, pulled, inanimate, to the concrete or grass or carpet by gravity. They weren't real. But this man wasn't still at all. As cold as the heartless water around him, white as snow, he moved like an elegant dancer in slow motion.
The stateroom was very small and the body would interfere with her search. So, with a respect that she wouldn't have felt anywhere outside of this horrible mausoleum, she eased the body upward into the corridor and pushed him away. Then she returned to the Ghost's cabin.
Clank, clank . . . clank.
Ignoring the spooky moans and the clanking, she looked around her. In a tiny room like this, where would one hide things?
All the furniture was attached to the walls and floors. And there was only one small dresser. Inside were Chinese-brand toiletries, nothing that yielded any obvious evidence.
She looked for anything hidden in the closet but found only clothes.
Clank, clank . . .
What do we think, Rhyme?
"I think you've got, let's see, about fourteen hundred pounds of air left. I'd say if you don't find something soon, get the hell out."
I'm not going anywhere yet, she thought. Hovering, she looked slowly around the room. Where would he hide things? He left his guns, he left the money . . . . That means the explosion took him by surprise too. There has to be something here. She glanced again at the closet. The clothes? Maybe. She kicked toward it.
She began to go through them. Nothing in any of the pockets. But she kept searching and--in one of his Armani jackets--found a slit he'd made in the lining. She reached in and extracted an envelope containing a document. She trained the light on it. Don't know if it's helpful or not, Rhyme. They're in Chinese.
"That's for us to find out back home. You find it, Eddie'll translate it, I'll analyze it."
Into the bag.
Twelve hundred pounds of pressure. But don't ever, ever, ever hold your breath.
Why was that again?
Right. Your lungs'll explode.
Clank.
Okay, I'm outta here.
She made her way out of the small stateroom and into the corridor, the treasures of evidence stashed in the bag tied to her belt.
Clank clank clank . . .clank . . . clank . . . clank.
She turned back down the endless corridor--the route by which she could escape from this terrible place. The bridge seemed miles away down the black corridor.
The longest journey, the first step . . .
But then she stopped, gripping the doorway. Jesus, Lord, she thought.
Clank clank clank . . .