Free The Burning Wire by Jeffery Deaver

speed-dial button.
    Panic isn’t centered in the gut, and it doesn’t trickle down the spine like, well, electricity in an energized wire. Panic rattles the body and soul everywhere, even if you’re numb otherwise. Rhyme was furious with himself. He should have ordered Sachs out the instant they saw the battery, the rising tide. He always did this, got so focused on the case, the goal, finding the tiny fiber, the fragment of friction ridge print, anything that moved him closer to the perp . . . that he forgot the implications: He was playing with human lives.
    Why, look at his own injury. He’d been a captain in the NYPD, the head of Investigation Resources, and was searching a crime scene himself, crouching to pick up a fiber from a body when the beam tumbled from above and changed his life forever.
    And now that same attitude—which he’d instilled in Amelia Sachs—might have done even worse: She could now be dead.
    Thom had gotten through on the line.
    “Who?” Rhyme demanded, glaring at the aide. “Who’re you talking to? Is she all right?”
    Thom held up a hand.
    “What does that mean? What could that possibly mean?” Rhyme felt a trickle of sweat down his forehead. He was aware his breath was coming faster. His heart was pounding, though he sensed this in his jaw and neck, not his chest, of course.
    Thom said, “It’s Ron. He’s at the substation.”
    “I know where the fuck he is. What’s going on?”
    “There’s been . . . an incident. That’s what they’re saying.”
    Incident . .  .
    “Where’s Amelia?”
    “They’re checking. There’re some people inside. They heard an explosion.”
    “I know there was an explosion. I fucking saw it!”
    The aide’s eyes swiveled toward Rhyme. “Are you . . . how are you feeling?”
    “Quit asking that. What’s going on at the scene?”
    Thom continued to scan Rhyme’s face. “You’re flushed.”
    “I’m fine,” the criminalist said calmly—to get the young man to focus on his phone call. “Really.”
    Then the aide’s head tilted sideways and to Rhyme’s horror he stiffened. His shoulders rose slightly.
    No . .  .
    “Okay,” Thom said into the phone.
    “Okay what ?” the criminalist snapped.
    Thom ignored his boss. “Give me the information.”And, cradling the phone between neck and shoulder, he began to type on the keyboard of the lab’s main computer.
    The screen popped to life.
    Rhyme had lost the pretense of calm and was about to lose his temper when, on the screen, up came the image of an apparently uninjured, though very wet, Amelia Sachs. Strands of her red hair were plastered around her face like seaweed on a surfacing scuba diver.
    “Sorry, Rhyme, lost the main camera when I went under.” She coughed hard and wiped at her forehead, examined her fingers with a look of distaste. The motion was jerky.
    Relief immediately replaced panic, though the anger—at himself—remained.
    Sachs was staring back, somewhat eerily, her eyes focused only in his general direction. “I’m on one of the Algonquin workers’ laptops. It’s got a camera set up on it. Can you see me okay?”
    “Yes, yes. But you’re all right?”
    “Just took in some pretty disgusting water through my nose. But I’m okay.”
    Rhyme was asking, “What happened? The arc flash . . .”
    “It wasn’t an arc. The battery wasn’t rigged for that. The Algonquin guy told me there wasn’t enough voltage. What the UNSUB did was make a bomb. Apparently you can do that with batteries. You seal the vents and overcharge it. That produces hydrogen gas. When water hits the terminals, it short-circuits and the spark ignites the hydrogen. That’s what happened.”
    “And have the medics looked you over?”
    “No, no need. The bang was loud but it wasn’t thatbig. I got hit by some bits of plastic from the housing. Didn’t even bruise me. The impact knocked me down but I kept the access door above the water. I don’t think it’s contaminated