"Thom!" he shouted. "Somebody . . . please. Mel!"
But the door was closed; there was no response from downstairs.
Rhyme's left ring finger twitched dramatically. At one time he'd had a mechanical ECU controller and he could use his one working finger to dial the phone. The computer system had replaced that and he now had to use the dictation program to call the safe house and tell them that the Dancer was on his way there, dressed as a fireman or rescue worker.
"Command mode," he said into the microphone. Fighting to stay calm.
I did not understand what you just said. Please try again.
Where was the Dancer now? Was he inside already? Was he just about to shoot Percey Clay or Brit Hale?
Or Amelia Sachs?
"Thom! Mel!"
I did not understand . . .
Why wasn't I thinking better?
"Command mode," he said breathlessly, trying to master the panic.
The command mode message box popped up. The cursor arrow sat at the top of the screen and, a continent away, at the bottom, was the communications program icon.
"Cursor down," he gasped.
Nothing happened.
"Cursor down," he called, louder.
The message came back: I did not understand what you just said. Please try again.
"Oh, goddamn . . . "
I did not understand . . .
Softer, forcing himself to speak in a normal tone, he said, "Cursor down."
The glowing white arrow began its leisurely trip down the screen.
We've still got time, he told himself. And it wasn't as though the people in the safe house were unprotected or unarmed.
"Cursor left," he gasped.
I did not understand . . .
"Oh, come on!"
I did not understand . . .
"Cursor up . . . cursor left."
The cursor moved like a snail over the screen until it came to the icon.
Calm, calm . . .
"Cursor stop. Double click."
Dutifully, an icon of a walkie-talkie popped up on the screen.