The Watchmaker's Hand

AN INSTANT USA TODAY BESTSELLER

A CBS New York Book Club Top 3 FicPick

"One would be hard-pressed to name a better writer of beat-the-clock thrillers than Jeffery Deaver. . . . The Watchmaker’s Hand, his latest novel featuring the quadriplegic New York City criminalist Lincoln Rhyme, turns urban strife into a tense tick-tock narrative. . . . Mr. Deaver’s book is an ingenious mechanism, designed to make the risks seem ever more real even as it increases the velocity of the pages being turned." —The Wall Street Journal

"The Rhyme novels are remarkably consistent: the writing is superb, the characters intriguing, the stories spellbinding, and the plot twists shocking. Fans of Deaver's long-running series will want to read this one as soon as they can. Expect high demand." —Booklist

"The Watchmaker’s Hand is engineered with typical Deaver precision. The plot barrels along with numerous unexpected twists and turns. I loved it!" —Kathy Reichs, author of the Temperance Brennan Bones series.

"Jeffery Deaver is a master storyteller. His characters and plotting are second to none. One of the true giants of the genre." —Steve Cavanagh, author of Thirteen

"Deaver masterfully delivers another pulse-pounding Lincoln Rhyme thriller that takes you on a frenzied ride through a New York City teetering on the edge of chaos. Deaver's exquisite plotting and meticulous research shine, constructing a web of political intrigue that ensnares Rhyme in a deadly race against time. The shadowy Watchmaker adds a layer of psychological dread. . . . This is a high-octane, nail-biter of a read that solidifies Deaver's standing as the virtuoso of the modern crime thriller." —Mark Dawson, author of The Cleaner | Jeffery Deaver is the #1 international bestselling and award-winning author of more than forty novels, ninety short stories, and a nonfiction law book. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into twenty-five languages. A former journalist, folk singer, and attorney, he was born outside of Chicago and has a bachelor of journalism degree from the University of Missouri and a law degree from Fordham University. | 1.

His gaze over the majestic panorama of Manhattan, 218 feet below, was interrupted by the alarm.

He had never before heard the urgent electronic pulsing on the job.

He was familiar with the sound from training, while getting his Fall Protection Certificate, but never on shift. His level of skill and the sophistication of the million-dollar contraption beneath him were such that there had never been a reason for the high-pitched sound to fill the cab in which he sat.

Scanning the ten-by-eight-inch monitors in front of him . . . yes, a red light was now flashing.

But at the same time, apart from the urgency of the electronics, Garry Helprin knew that this was a mistake. A sensor problem.

And, yes, seconds later the light went away. The sound went away.

He nudged the control to raise the eighteen-ton load aloft, and his thoughts returned to where they had been just a moment ago.

The baby's name. While his father hoped for William, and his wife's mother for Natalia, neither of those was going to happen. Perfectly fine names. But not for Peggy and him, not for their son or daughter. He'd suggested they have some fun with their parents. What they'd decided at last: Kierkegaard if a boy. Bashilda if a girl.

When she first told him these, Garry had said, "Bathsheba, you mean. From the Bible."

"No. Bashilda. My imaginary pony when I was ten."

Kierkegaard and Bashilda, they would tell the parents, and then move on to another topic-quickly. What a reaction they'd-

The alarm began to blare again, the light to flash. They were joined by another excited box on the monitor: the load moment indicator. The needle was tilting to the left above the words: Moment Imbalance.

Impossible.

The computer had calculated the weight of the jib in front of him-extending the length of a Boeing 777-and the weight on the jib behind. It then factored into the balance game the weight of the load in front and the weight of the concrete counterweights behind. Finally, it measured their distance from the center, where he sat in the cab of the crane.

"Come on, Big Blue. Really?"

Garry tended to talk to the machines he was operating. Some seemed to respond. This particular Baylor HT-4200 was the most talkative of them all.

Today, though, she was silent, other than the warning sound.

If the alarm was blaring for him, it was blaring in the supervisor's trailer too.

The radio clattered, and he heard in his headset: "Garry, what?"

He replied into the stalk mike, "Gotta be an LMI sensor problem. If there was moment five minutes ago, there's moment now. Nothing's changed."

"Wind?"

"None. Sensor, I'm . . ." He fell silent.

Feeling the tilt.

"Hell," he said quickly. "It is a moment fault. Forward jib is point three nine degrees down. Wait, now point four."

Was the load creeping toward the end of the blue latticed jib on its own? Had the trolley become detached from the drive cables?

Garry had never heard of that happening.

He looked forward. Saw nothing irregular.

Now: -.5

Nothing is more regulated and inspected on a construction site than the stability of a tower crane, especially one that soars this high into the sky and has within its perimeter a half-dozen structures-and hundreds, perhaps thousands, of human souls. Meticulous calculations are made of the load-in this case, 36,000 pounds of six-by-four-inch flange beams-and the counterweights, the rectangular blocks of cement, to make sure this particular cran