Page 94 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

He said to Sachs, “When I heard, I had to come. How is he?”

Sachs briefed him, and together the somber couple watched Spencer get ready for the climb.

The security man said, “Call Ron. Speaker.”

She did.

“It’s Lyle, Officer. Stand back from the window. Grab the yellow projectile that’s coming up. Then pull up the climbing line.”

Spencer pulled his suit jacket and tie off and dumped them on the ground, kicked his shoes off and pulled on the boots, then gloves. As he was fitted with an oxygen tank, he nodded to a firewoman who held the line gun in a ladder basket about forty feet in the air. The first shot missed by a yard or so. She compensated and the second zipped through the empty window.

Immediately the thin yellow line began snaking through the window, taking with it the much thicker climbing rope.

Spencer borrowed a knife and cut a length of rope from another coil. About ten feet. He tied this around his chest, letting the tail dangle. He called toward Sachs’s phone, still open. “How you doing, Officer?”

“Hanging in there.”

The coughing was fiercer.

“What I need you to do is tie the thicker rope to the radiator.”

She heard Pulaski say, “Look, mister, you’re not going to try to—”

“Quit talking, son. Save that air. See you in a minute. Oh, and by the way, when you tie the rope to the radiator, keep in mind: really fucking tight.”

50

Lyle Spencer ran up the ladder to the roof of the one-story building.

There, holding the climbing line, he looked up.

The rope rose straight to the twelve-inch ledge outside Pulaski’s window. He shook it, like a battle rope, and the sine curve headed upward, dissipating about forty feet up.

Get to it, sailor.

Spencer leapt into the air, two feet or so, and gripped the rope. He did a pull-up, then lifted his legs and gripped the rope between the top of his left foot and bottom of his right—the classic S-hook climbing technique.

He then straightened his legs and rose a yard or so up the rope.

Lift … grip … straighten.

Only one hundred feet to go.

Well, one hundred and change.

Breathe. Exhale.

Now, only ninety.

And change.

Lift … grip … straighten.

Already his arms were feeling sore but no muscle was screaming.

“Evacuate, evacuate, evacuate,” the chief called over a loudspeaker.

At this the trucks blared their intersection horns three times, which was the universal signal to get the hell out. Always done, in addition to the transmission, in case of a radio malfunction or a particularly loud conflagration.