The Burning Wire (Lincoln Rhyme 9)

"I'm going in now."

She disconnected before he responded and she and the officers followed the worker to the door that led to the basement. The electricity was off in the building, but emergency lights glowed like red and white eyes. The worker started for the door.

"No," Sachs said. "You wait here."

"Okay. You go down two flights and you'll see a red door. It'll say 'Algonquin Consolidated' on it. That'll lead to stairs going down to the service tunnel. Here's the key." He handed it to her.

"What's your partner's name?"

"Joey. Joey Barzan."

"And where was he supposed to be?"

"At the bottom of the access stairs, turn left. He was working about a hundred feet, hundred and fifty, away. It'd sort of be under where the hotel is."

"What's visibility down there?"

"Even with the juice off, there'll be some work lights on battery power."

Battery. Great.

"But it's really dark. We always use flashlights."

"Are there live lines there?"

"Yeah, it's a transmission tunnel. The feeders here are off now, but others're live."

"Are they exposed?"

He gave a surprised blink. "They've got a hundred and thirty thousand volts. No, they're not exposed."

Unless Galt had exposed them.

Sachs hesitated then swept the voltage detector over the door handle, drawing a glance of curiosity from the Algonquin worker. She didn't explain about the invention, but merely gestured everybody back and flung the door open, hand on her weapon's grip. Empty.

Sachs and the two officers started down the murky stairwell--her claustrophobia kicked in immediately but at least here the disgusting smell of burned rubber and skin and hair was less revolting.

Sachs was in the lead, the two patrolmen behind. She was gripping the key firmly but when they got to the red door, giving access to the tunnel, she found it was partially open. They all exchanged glances. She drew her weapon. They did the same and she gestured the patrolmen to move forward slowly behind her, then eased the door open silently with her shoulder.

In the doorway she paused, looked down.

Shit. The stairs leading to the tunnel--about two stories, it seemed--were metal. Unpainted.

Her heart tripping again.

If you can, avoid it.

If you can't do that, protect yourself against it.

If you can't do that, cut its head off.

But none of Charlie Sommers's magic rules applied here.

She was now sweating furiously. She remembered that wet skin was a far better conductor than dry. And hadn't Sommers said something about salty sweat making it even worse?

"You see something, Detective?" A whisper.

"You want me to go?" the second officer asked.