{"product_id":"the-watchmakers-hand-isbn-9780593788097","title":"The Watchmaker's Hand","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe \"most clever plotter on the planet\"(\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e) Jeffery Deaver returns in this twisty new thriller, as forensic criminalist Lincoln Rhyme and detective Amelia Sachs track a criminal with a bizarre and catastrophic m.o.—toppling the construction cranes in New York City.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen a New York City construction crane mysteriously collapses, causing mass destruction and injury, Rhyme and Sachs are on the case. A political group claims responsibility for the sabotage and threatens another attack in twenty-four hours, unless its demands are met. The clock is ticking.\u003cbr\u003e    Then a clue reveals to Rhyme that his nemesis, known as the Watchmaker, has come to town to fulfill his promise of murdering the criminalist. Now Rhyme and Sachs have to dodge his brilliant scheme to destroy them both,  while racing against time to stop the construction site terrorists.\u003cbr\u003e    With New York in a panic, Rhyme and his team must unravel a handful of plots as tightly wound as a timepiece—before more cranes fall, raining down death and destruction from above.\u003cb\u003eAN INSTANT \u003ci\u003eUSA TODAY\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA CBS New York Book Club Top 3 FicPick\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"One would be hard-pressed to name a better writer of beat-the-clock thrillers than Jeffery Deaver. . . . \u003ci\u003eThe Watchmaker’s Hand\u003c\/i\u003e, 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.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e —The Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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.\" —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Watchmaker’s Hand\u003c\/i\u003e is engineered with typical Deaver precision. The plot barrels along with numerous unexpected twists and turns. I loved it!\" —\u003cb\u003eKathy Reichs, author of the \u003ci\u003eTemperance Brennan Bones \u003c\/i\u003eseries.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Jeffery Deaver is a master storyteller. His characters and plotting are second to none. One of the true giants of the genre.\" \u003cb\u003e—Steve Cavanagh, author of \u003ci\u003eThirteen\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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.\" —\u003cb\u003eMark Dawson, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Cleaner\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJeffery Deaver \u003c\/b\u003eis 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His gaze over the majestic panorama of Manhattan, 218 feet below, was interrupted by the alarm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He had never before heard the urgent electronic pulsing on the job.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Scanning the ten-by-eight-inch monitors in front of him . . . yes, a red light was now flashing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But at the same time, apart from the urgency of the electronics, Garry Helprin knew that this was a mistake. A sensor problem.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And, yes, seconds later the light went away. The sound went away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He nudged the control to raise the eighteen-ton load aloft, and his thoughts returned to where they had been just a moment ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When she first told him these, Garry had said, \"Bathsheba, you mean. From the Bible.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No. Bashilda. My imaginary pony when I was ten.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Kierkegaard and Bashilda, they would tell the parents, and then move on to another topic-quickly. What a reaction they'd-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Impossible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Come on, Big Blue. Really?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Today, though, she was silent, other than the warning sound.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If the alarm was blaring for him, it was blaring in the supervisor's trailer too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The radio clattered, and he heard in his headset: \"Garry, what?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Wind?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"None. Sensor, I'm . . .\" He fell silent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Feeling the tilt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Hell,\" he said quickly. \"It is a moment fault. Forward jib is point three nine degrees down. Wait, now point four.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Was the load creeping toward the end of the blue latticed jib on its own? Had the trolley become detached from the drive cables?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Garry had never heard of that happening.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He looked forward. Saw nothing irregular.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now: -.5\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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 crane can lift and swing the payload. Once that's signed off on, the info goes into the computer and the magic balance is maintained-moving the counterweights behind him back and forth ever so slightly to keep the needle at zero.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Moment . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e -.51\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He looked back at the counterweights. This was instinctive; he didn't know what he might see.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nothing was visible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e -.52\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The blaring continued.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e -.54\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He shut the alarm switch off. The accompanying indicator flashed Warning and the Moment Imbalance messages continued.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e -.55\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The super said, \"We've hit diagnostics and don't see a sensor issue.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Forget sensors,\" Garry said. \"We're tilting.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e -.58\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm going to manual.\" He shut off the controller. He'd been riding tower cranes for the past fifteen years, since he signed up with Moynahan Construction, after his stint as an engineer in the army. Digital controls made the job easier and safer, but he'd cut his teeth operating towers by hand, using charts and graphs and a pad attached to his thigh for calculations-and, of course, a needle balance indicator to get the moment just right. He now tugged on the joystick to draw the load trolley closer to center.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then, switching to the counterweight control, he moved those away from the tower.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His eyes were fixed on the LMI, which still indicated moment imbalance forward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He moved the weights, totaling a hundred tons, farther back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This had to achieve moment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was impossible for it not to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But it did not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Back to the front jib.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He cranked the trolley closer to him. The flanges swung. He'd moved more quickly than he'd meant to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was looking at his coffee cup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The chair-padded, comfortable-did not come factory-equipped with a cup holder. But Garry, an afficionado of any and all brews, had mounted one on the wall-far away from the electronics, of course.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The brown liquid was level; the cup was not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Another glance at the LMI indicator.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A full -2 percent down in the front.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He worked the trolley control and brought the load of flanges closer yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ah, yes, that did it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The alarm light went out as the balance indicator now moved slowly back to -.5 and then 0, then 1, and kept rising. This was because the counterweights were so far back. Garry now reeled them in until they were as far forward as they could go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It brought the LMI needle to 1.2.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This was normal. Cranes are made to lean backward slightly when there is no weight of a load on the front jib, which should, at rest, be about one degree. The main stability comes from the massive concrete base-that's what holds it upright when there's no balancing act going on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Got it, Danny,\" he radioed. \"Stable. But I'll need maintenance. Got to be some counterweight issue.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"K. I think Will's off break.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Garry sat back and sipped his coffee, replaced the cup, listened to the wind. It would be some minutes before the mechanic arrived. To get to the cab from the ground, there was one way and one way only.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You climbed the mast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But the cab was twenty-two stories above the ground. Which meant at least one, maybe two five-minute rest stops on the way up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Guys on the site sometimes thought if you were a crane operator you were in lousy shape, sitting on your ass all day long. They forgot about the climb.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With no load to deliver, no hook block to steer carefully to the ground, he could sit back and enjoy the indescribable view. If Garry wanted, he could put a name to what he was looking at: the five boroughs of the city, a huge parcel of New Jersey, a thin band of Westchester, one of Long Island too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But he wasn't interested in GPS information.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was thrilled by the browns and grays and greens and white clouds and the endless blue-every shade far richer and bolder than when viewed by landlocked pedestrians below.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From a young age, Garry had known he wanted to build skyscrapers. That's what he had made with his Legos. That's what he had begged his parents to take him to visit, even when his mother and father blanched at the idea of standing on observation decks. He only liked the open ones. \"You know,\" his father had said, \"sometimes people go crazy and throw themselves off the edge of high places. The fear takes them.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Naw, probably not. There was nothing to fear from heights. The higher he got, the calmer he became. Whether it was rock climbing, mountaineering, or building skyscrapers, heights comforted him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was, he told Peggy, \"in heaven\" when he was far, far aboveground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Back to baby names.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Kierkegaard, Bashilda . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What would they really pick? Neither wanted a Junior. And they didn't want any names currently in vogue, which you could find easily in the tiny booklets on the Gristedes checkout lane.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He reached for his coffee cup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The level had changed again. The front jib was dipping once more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e -.4\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A moment later, the duo of warning signs burst on again, and the alarm, which had defaulted back on, blared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The balance indicator jumped to -1.2.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He hit Transmit. \"Dan. She's moving again. Big-time.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Shit. What's going on?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Can't reel the load any farther. I'm dropping it. Clear the zone. Tell me when.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yeah, okay.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He couldn't hear the command from here, but he had a view through the Plexiglas straight down between his legs and saw the workers scatter quickly as the ground foreman told them to get out of the way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Of course, \"dropping\" the load didn't mean that literally-yanking the release and letting the seventeen tons of steel free-fall to the ground. He eased the down lever and the bundle dropped fast. He could see, on his indicators and visually through the Plexiglas, exactly where it was on descent. At about thirty feet above the ground, he braked, and the bundle settled onto the concrete. Maybe some damage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Too bad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He adjusted the counterweights, hit the hook release and detached the load.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But this had no effect.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The word \"impossible\" came to his mind yet again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He cranked the counterweights backward once more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This had to arrest the forward tilt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No load and the counterweights were at the far end of the back jib.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And still . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Dan,\" he radioed, \"we're five degrees down, forward jib. Counterweights're back.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e -6.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A crane is not meant to lean more than five degrees. Beyond that, the complicated skeletons of steel tubes and rods and plates begin to buckle and bend. The slewing plate-the huge turntable that swung the jib horizontally-was groaning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He heard a distant but loud crack. Then another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e -7\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Into the radio: \"I'm losing it, Dan. Hit the siren.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Just moments later came the piercing emergency cry. This was not associated with a crane disaster specifically. It just meant some bad shit was going to happen. Instructions would be coming from the loudspeaker and on the radio.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Garry, get out. Down the mast.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"In a minute . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If Big Blue was going down, he was going to make sure she landed with as few injuries to those on the ground as possible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He scanned the surroundings. There were buildings almost everywhere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But fifty feet to the right of the jib was a gap between the office building in front of him and an apartment complex. Through the gap, he could see a street and a park. On this temperate day, there would be people outside, but they had most likely heard the siren and would be looking toward the akilter crane.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cars and trucks, with windows rolled up?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm aiming away from the buildings. Have somebody clear that park on Eighty-Ninth. And get a flagman into the street, stop traffic.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Garry, get outta there while you can!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"The park! Clear it!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Creaking, groaning, the wind . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Another explosive snap.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He operated the swivel control and the slewing plate cried from binding against the bearings. The electric motor was laboring. Then, slowly, the jib responded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Come on, come on . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Thirty feet from the gap.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Any minute now. He could feel it. Any minute she was going to drop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cars continued to stream past.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His decision was logical, but nonetheless stabbed his heart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e People were about to die because of him. Maybe fewer than if he didn't move the jib, but still . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The numbers rolled through his frantic mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Distance to the gap: twenty feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e LMI: -8.2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Come on,\" he whispered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Garry . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Clear the goddamn park! The street!\" He tore the headset off as if the distraction of transmissions was gumming the mechanism further.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Twelve feet from the gap, nine degrees down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The joystick was all the way to the right and the jib should have been swinging madly. But the binding metal of the slewing plate had slowed it to a crawl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Slowed, but not stopped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A sudden squeal. Nails on a chalkboard . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He jammed his teeth together at the sound.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ten feet, ten degrees down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eight feet from the gap.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Please . . . A little farther . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Close. But if Big Blue failed now, the jib would slice through four or five floors of offices, all open design, hundreds of workers at desks and in cubicles, at coffee stations, in conference rooms. He could see them. A few were on their feet, staring at the tilting mast. No one was running. They were taking videos. Jesus . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Seven feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The motion stalled momentarily, then resumed, with the squeal and grinding even louder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He nudged the stick to the left and it responded, swinging back a foot or two, then he shoved it to the right. The plate resumed its rotation in that direction, past the sticking point.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Six feet from the gap, down twelve degrees . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Crack . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The loud sound from behind made him jump.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What was it?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ah, of course.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The exit door in the floor that led down to the mast, to the ladder, to safety, had buckled. He climbed from his seat briefly and tugged. Useless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was only one other exit-above him. But that gave no access to the mast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Forget it now. Just get another five feet and she'll be clear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The jib was still tilting down, but the LMI indicator had stopped at -13. The engineers, of course, had known that there was no point in going farther. A jib would never tilt that far forward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Six feet away from the lifesaving gap, the mast suddenly pitched forward a few feet. Garry slipped from the seat and fell. He landed face-first on the bulb of the window. From here, he found himself looking straight downward, twenty-two stories, to the jobsite. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, leaving a design of condensation on the glass in front of him. It was, curiously, almost in the shape of a heart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He thought of his wife.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And of their child, soon to be born.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Kierkegaard or Bashilda . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 2.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At some point, an open investigation slips over an unseen border and becomes a cold case.","brand":"Penguin Audio","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301138518245,"sku":"NP9780593788097","price":40.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593788097.jpg?v=1742923145","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-watchmakers-hand-isbn-9780593788097","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}