And Amelia Sachs ran to the front door of the building, picked up a loose cobblestone and used it to smash through the glass of the door. She turned to Rhyme and shouted, "What floor is the blogger's office on?"
"Sachs, no!"
"What floor?"
"The top," he replied, still coughing hard.
She turned and leapt inside, barely avoiding the points of
glass that ringed the open doorway like shark's teeth.
She's going in?
Well. Good fortune for me.
My police girl, Red, the thief of White Castle, has no idea that it's five full gallons of low-octane gas pooling in flame in the basement. An ocean of flame. The building, dry as a California pine, won't last long.
Will she? Will she last very long?
I was going right back home, to Chelsea, and an Internet cafe, to send out a few emails. But I decided to stay. I'm looking out a hall window, fifth floor, of an abandoned tenement across the street and a few doors down. Bad for living in, good for spying. I crouch, shrinking, to watch what's unfolding below me.
Can't see me here, none of them can.
Pretty sure.
No, no one's looking up. Police cars are cruising but looking on the streets and sidewalks only. They're thinking I've gone. Because who would wait around?
Well, I would. To see who exactly it is after me. And to see who will crisp to death, or suffocate, thanks to the gift I left. Smoke from the building is thick already. And thickening more. How can Red breathe? How can she see?
Sirens, I can hear them. Fire engine intersection horns, blaring. I love the sound, trumpeting pain and sorrow.
If it goes as planned, all the tidbits of evidence I left behind in Todd's office, careless me, will be melted to nothing. I know from Frances Lee's crime scene dollhouses how telling evidence can be--why, look how Red put an end to my precious sliders.
Burning it is best.
Burn to ash, to dust, to greasy plastic smoke.
And Red?
Myself, I never much cared for burning bones. It's not satisfying. Cracking them is better. But however she goes is good. Hair burned off, skin, fat, then the bones, fine. As long as she goes. A little pain wouldn't be a bad thing either.
Smoke is curling up like a huge black pig's tail. Help will be here soon. But the fire is progressing nicely.
I'm not close to the raging inferno but not too far either. Maybe I'll hear her screams.
Unlikely--but one can always hope.
CHAPTER 21
Smoke is wet, smoke is scaly, smoke is a creature that slides into your body and strangles from within.
Amelia Sachs was squinting through the white then brown then black clouds as she charged up the stairs to the top floor of the building dying of fire in its low heart.
She had to get inside the blogger's office. If the unsub had gone to such lengths to destroy the place, that meant there was evidence inside. Something that would lead to him or to future victims.
Go, she told herself, retched, spat, then said the command out loud.
The door was locked, of course--which was why he'd started the fire in the basement, more accessible than the room he needed to destroy. She tested the door with her shoulder. No, breaking in wasn't going to happen. You can breach a door with crowbars, battering rams and special shotgun slugs (aiming for the hinges only; you can't shoot out a lock). But you can't kick in most wooden doors.