e hurried forward. "Are you all right?"
They embraced.
"Brit," he said, shaking his head, gasping. "He got Brit too. Percey, you shouldn't be here. Go someplace safe. Forget about the flight. It isn't worth it."
She stepped back. "What's wrong? You sick?"
"Just tired."
She took the cigarette out of his hand and stubbed it out. "You did the work yourself? On Foxtrot Bravo?"
"I--"
"Ron?"
"Most of it. It's almost finished. The guy from Northeast delivered the fire extinguisher cartridge and the annular about an hour ago. I started to mount them. Just got a little tired."
"Chest pains?"
"No, not really."
"Ron, go home."
"I can--"
"Ron," she snapped, "I've lost two dear people in the last two days. I'm not going to lose a third . . . I can mount an annular. It's a piece of cake."
Talbot looked like he couldn't even lift a wrench, much less a heavy combustor.
Percey asked, "Where's Brad?" The FO for the flight.
"On his way. Be here in an hour."
She kissed his sweaty forehead. "You get home. And lay off the weeds, for God's sake. You crazy?"
He hugged her. "Percey, about Brit . . . "
She hushed him with a finger to her lips. "Home. Get some sleep. When you wake up I'll be in Erie and we'll have ourselves that contract. Signed, sealed, and delivered."
He struggled to his feet, stood for a moment looking out the window at Foxtrot Bravo. His face revealed an acrid bitterness. It was the same look she'd remembered in his milky eyes when he'd told her that he'd flunked his physical and could no longer fly for a living. Talbot headed out the door.
It was time to get to work. She rolled up her sleeves, motioned Bell over to her. He lowered his head to her in a way she found charming. The same pose Ed had fallen into when she was speaking softly. She said, "I'm going to need a few hours in the hangar. Can you keep that son of a bitch off me until then?"
No down-home aphorisms, no done deals. Roland Bell, the man with two guns, nodded solemnly, his eyes moving quickly from shadow to shadow.
They had a mystery on their hands.
Cooper and Sachs had examined all the trace found in the treads of the Chicago fire trucks and police cars that had been at the scene of the Ed Carney crash. There was the useless dirt, dog shit, grass, oil, and garbage that Rhyme had expected to find. But they made one discovery that he felt was important.
He just didn't have a clue what it meant.
The only batch of trace exhibiting indications of bomb residue were tiny fragments of a pliable beige substance. The gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer reported it was C5H8.
"Isoprene," Cooper reflected.
"What's that?" Sachs asked.
"Rubber," Rhyme answered.