The Skin Collector

‘I have no idea what the detonator timing situation is. It’s possible we can’t render safe before one or maybe all of them go off.’

‘Are you evacuating?’

‘Under way right now. They’re gunpowder bombs, not plastic explosives – that we know – so we don’t think there’s a risk of major casualties. But the infrastructure damage could be significant.’

‘Oh.’

The detective didn’t sound concerned. Was he checking his iPod for a new song list?

‘How can I help?’ he finally asked, as if his sole purpose was to fill the growing silence.

‘Whom should we call, what precautions should we take?’

‘For what?’ the computer cop asked.

Jesus Christ. What was the disco

More silence. ‘You’re asking if bombs take out a couple of the fiber optic routers.’

A sigh from Rhyme. ‘Yes, Rodney. That’s what I’m asking. And the IFON headquarters.’

‘There’s nothing to do.’

‘But what about security services, hospitals, Wall Street, air traffic control, alarms? It’s the Internet, for God’s sake. Some cable company’s hired industrial saboteurs to blow it up.’

‘Oh, I get it.’ He sounded amused. ‘You’re thinking like some Bruce Willis movie thing? The stock markets crash, somebody sticks up a bank because the alarms are off, kidnaps the mayor, since the web’s out?’

‘Well, along those lines, yes.’

‘Look, the cable syndicate versus the fiber optic outfit? That’s way old news. Used chewing gum.’

I don’t need two fucking clichés in a row. Get to the point. Rhyme fumed, but silently.

‘They don’t like each other, IFON and the traditional cable providers. But nobody’s going to sabotage anything. In fact, in six months International Fiber Optic will’ve bought out or signed licensing agreements with the other cable companies.’

‘You don’t think they’d try to blow up IFON routers?’

‘Naw. Even if they did, or anybody  did, you’d have a five , ten minute interruption in service in isolated parts of the city. Believe me, Chinese and Bulgarian hackers cause more problems than that every day.’

Sachs asked, ‘You’re sure that’s all that would happen?’

‘Hey, hi, Amelia. Okay, maybe twenty minutes. ISPs’ve thought of this before, you know. There’s so much redundancy in the system, we call it dedundant.’

Rhyme was irritated both at the bad joke and that his theory was in the toilet.

‘At the very worst, signals’d be rerouted to backup servers in Jersey, Queens and Co

‘Thanks, Rodney,’ Sachs said.

The music rose in volume and the line went to blessed silence.

Rhyme parked in front of the evidence boards and photos. He had another thought, discouraging. He snapped, ‘Sloppy thinking – speculating that Samantha Levine, from IFON, was the target. How would the unsub know she’d go to the bathroom at just that time, and be waiting for her? Careless. Stupid.’

The idea of the syndicate of traditional cable Internet providers taking down the fiber optic interloper had seemed good – sheep ranchers versus cattle barons. Like most conspiracy theories, it was sexy but ultimately junk.

His eyes strayed to the tattoos.

Rhyme read them out loud.

Pulaski, next to him, leaned forward. ‘And those wavy lines.’

‘Scallops,’ Rhyme corrected.

‘I don’t know what a scallop is except a seafood thing that tastes pretty bland unless you put sauce on it.’

‘The shell that seafood thing  comes in is shaped like that,’ Rhyme murmured.

‘Oh. To me they just looked like waves.’

Rhyme frowned. Then he whispered, ‘And waves that TT Gordon said were significant – because of the scarification.’ After a moment: ‘I was wrong. It’s not a location he’s giving us. Goddamn!’ Rhyme spat out. Then he blinked and laughed.

‘What?’ Sachs asked.

‘I just made a very bad joke. When I said, “Goddamn.”’

‘How do you mean, Lincoln?’ Cooper wondered aloud.

He ignored the question, calling, ‘Bible! I need a Bible.’

‘Well, we don’t have one here, Lincoln,’ Thom said.

‘Online. Find me a Bible online. You’re on to something, rookie.’

‘I am?’

CHAPTER 59

Leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, Billy watched his aunt Harriet – his mother’s sister – add soap to the washer.

She asked, ‘Did you see anybody in the lobby? I was worried the police were watching me. I felt something.’

‘No. I checked. Carefully. I’ve been up there for an hour.’

‘I didn’t see you.’

‘I was watching,’ Billy said. ‘Not being watched.’

She lowered the lid and he glanced at her breasts, her legs, her neck. Memories …

He always wondered if his uncle knew about their time in the Oleander Room.

In one way it seemed impossible that Uncle Matthew had been oblivious to their affair, or whatever you wanted to call it. How could he miss that the two would disappear for several hours in the afternoon on the days when she wasn’t homeschooling neighborhood children?

And there had to be shared smells, smells of each other’s bodies and of perfume and deodorant.

The smell of the blood too, even though they would shower meticulously after every afternoon liaison.

All the blood …

The American Families First Council had a religious component. The tenets didn’t allow members to use birth control any more than they sanctioned abortion and so Harriet ‘invited’ Billy to the studio above the garage only at that time of month when they could be absolutely certain there’d be no pregnancy. Billy could control his repulsion, and, for some reason, the sight of the crimson smears inflamed Harriet all the more. Oleander and blood were forever joined in Billy Haven’s mind.

Uncle Matthew might not even have known about that aspect of women’s bodies. Wouldn’t surprise Billy.

Then too, when it came to what she wanted, Harriet Stanton could look you in the eye and make you believe just about anything. Billy didn’t doubt that whatever story she spun for her husband he bought pretty much as is.

‘This will be your art studio,’ she’d told thirteen year old Billy, showing him for the first time the room she’d decorated above the detached garage of their compound in Southern Illinois. On the wall was a watercolor he’d done for her of an oleander – her favorite flower (a poisonous one, of course). ‘That’s my favorite picture of yours. We’ll call this the Oleander Room. Our  Oleander Room.’

And she’d tugged at his belt. Playfully but with unyielding determination.

‘Wait, no, Aunt Harriet. What’re you doing?’ He’d looked up at her with horror; not only was there a strong resemblance to his mother, Harriet’s sister, but Harriet and Matthew were his de facto foster parents. Billy’s mother and father had died violently, if heroically. Orphaned, the boy had been taken in by the Stantons.

‘Uhm, I don’t think I want to, you know, do that,’ the boy had said.

But it was as if he hadn’t even spoken.

The belt had come off.

And so the bloody years of the Oleander Room began.

On the trip here to New York, there’d been one liaison between the two of them: the day of Billy’s escape from the hospital – where he’d gone not to mod another victim but simply to visit his aunt, ailing uncle and cousin Josh. Billy had hardly been in the mood to satisfy her. (Which is what sex with Aunt Harriet was all about.) But she’d insisted he come to the hotel – Matthew was still in the hospital and she’d sent Joshua out to run some errands. Josh always did what Mommy asked.

Now, with the washer chugging rhythmically, Billy asked, ‘How is he? Josh said he looks pretty good. Just a little pale.’