The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(108)

“Shhh, kuritsa.”

“There’s another gas bomb, we know. Maybe more. Tell me where they are.”

This gave him pause. His blue eyes kept slipping in and out of focus. Not from drugs, though. His mind was manic. Yes, he was a mercenary and a hired killer. But the Promisor and his crazy mission were not complete fictions. Her initial diagnosis held.

He’s just plain crazy…

She continued, “We’ll work with the DA. And the State Department. We’ll cut you some kind of deal.”

“State Department. Why, look at you! A little trussed-up kuritsa, ready for the pot, and still scratching at chickenfeed, looking for helpful things. Am I a national? Am I a Russki? What does Homeland Security know about me? Clever. Now, I like you, kuritsa. Things won’t go painful, you help me.”

With her breath coming more consistently now, she was aware that the pain from the fall and his blows was dissolving.

Thinking: Steady. A plan. Have to buy time.

Time…

“We have information about you. You’re from Moscow. The Dobyns passport. The others, from Barcelona and Dubai.”

He froze. It was as if he’d been slapped.

She said evenly, “It’s only a question of time till they find you. Your description, it’s gone to a watchlist. You’ll never get out of the country.”

He recovered, nodding broadly. “Yes, yes, but maybe I have own way of getting out. Or maybe I stay in nice country here and drive for Uber! Now my question. There is boy I need to find. And insurance asshole. Edward. You will tell me.”

“We can work with—”

He rose suddenly, his eyes completely mad. He drew his foot back and swung an oxford shoe hard into her side. The kick didn’t break a rib but it reignited the pain on all fronts. She cried out once more and tears flowed. He once again crouched near and lowered his lips to her ear. When he spoke his voice was raw with anger. “No talk but to answer question.”

She fell silent.

“Okay?”

She nodded.

Nothing more to do. Sachs closed her eyes. Her thought was: At least he’s leaving a trove of evidence.

Amelia Sachs knew she was going to die.

She thought first of her father, Herman Sachs, a decorated NYPD officer.

Then of Rhyme, naturally. Their lives had coursed parallel for so many years.

I won’t make that mistake again…

Then of her mother, of Pam—the young woman whose life she’d saved and who had become something of a daughter to her. Presently studying in San Francisco.

The Russian now rolled her completely facedown, kicked her feet apart. Her cheek rubbed against the gritty floor. He gripped her cuffed left hand, pulled it up, agonizingly, and again caressed her ring finger. He was apparently examining the blue diamond in the engagement ring Rhyme had bought her.

Could she bargain his interest into some time? She began to speak. “Listen to—”

“Shh, shh. What I tell you?” He rubbed the blade against her ring finger. “Okay, kuritsa. Now. What I am saying is question. That boy. That Vimal boy. Stupid little kuritsa. I need to talk to him. Have little talk. You need tell me where he is. And insurance man.”

“That won’t happen.”

“I won’t hurt him. No, no! Don’t want to hurt him. Just talk. Chat.”

“Surrender now. It’ll be a lot better for you.”

He laughed. “You are some other thing else! Now Vimal. Tell me how I pay visit.”

With one hand he pulled her ring finger taut, moved the razor knife closer yet, she could feel.

She struggled, with all her strength, to keep her fingers curled but he was far too strong. He straddled her, pressed all his weight down on her hips. She was frozen in place.

A sting on her finger.

Jesus, he’s cutting it off! He’s going to cut it off!

She seated her teeth, thinking, How’s this for irony? He’s about to remove my left ring finger—the same one that, after Lincoln’s accident, had been the only digit of his that continued to function.

“Vimal?”

“No.”

She felt him tense as he was about to start cutting.

Sachs inhaled. Squeezed her eyes shut. How bad would the pain be?

Then the Russian stiffened. His grip relaxed. He seemed to be looking up. He began to stand, the knife rising from her finger. He gasped.

The air pressure from the gunshot, painfully close, slapped her body. The Russian dropped immediately, falling backward onto her legs.

Then the man was being hauled off her and she was rolling onto her back, looking up into the horrified face of Edward Ackroyd. He stared at his own hand, holding a Glock. Not hers. He dropped the gun on the desk as if it were red-hot and lifted her away from the Russian’s body.

His lips were moving. She wondered for a moment why he’d lost his voice. Then realized that she had been temporarily deafened by the shot.

He was, she guessed, asking if she was all right.

So this was the question she answered, with “Yes, yes, okay.”

Though his hearing too was useless and he responded, manically, with words that seemed to be, “What, what, what?”





Chapter 56



Outside the jewelry store, in the shadows of buildings erected two centuries past, Sachs sat on the ledge of the ambulance. She’d refused a gurney.