The Coffin Dancer

by Jeffery Deaver

  A minute at the most. He had no more time than that.

  He felt so wormy he wanted to cry . . . He'd thought his plan out as best he could. He couldn't get any smarter than he'd been and Lincoln the Worm had still out-thought him. Was this him? The balding detective with the two guns?

  Another volley from Stephen's gun. And . . . damn . . . the brown-haired detective dove right into it, kept coming forward. Every other cop in the world would've run for cover. But not him. He struggled another two feet forward, then three. Stephen reloaded, fired again, crawling about the same distance toward the door of his target's room.

  You disappear into the ground, boy. You can make yourself invisible, you want to.

  I want to, sir. I want to be invisible . . .

  Another yard, almost to the doorway.

  "This's Roland Bell again!" the cop shouted into his microphone. "We need backup immediately!"

  Bell. Stephen noted the name. So he's not Lincoln the Worm.

  The cop reloaded and continued to fire. A dozen shots, two dozen . . . Stephen could only admire his technique. This Bell would keep track of how many shots he'd fired from each gun and alternate reloading so he was never without a loaded weapon.

  The cop parked a slug in the wall an inch from Stephen's face, and Stephen returned a shot that landed just as close.

  Crawling forward another two feet.

  Bell glanced up and saw that Stephen had finally made it to the doorway of the darkened bedroom. Their eyes locked and, mock soldier though he was, Stephen Kall had seen enough combat to know that the string of rationality within this cop had snapped and he'd become the most dangerous thing there was--a skillful soldier with no regard for his own safety. Bell rose to his feet and started forward, firing from both guns.

  That's why they used .45s in the Pacific Theater, boy. Big slugs to stop those crazy little Japs. When they came at you they didn't care about getting killed; they just didn't want to get stopped.

  Stephen lowered his head, tossed the one-second-delay flash bang at Bell, and closed his eyes. The grenade detonated with an astonishingly loud explosion. He heard the cop cry out and saw him stumble to his knees, hands over his face.

  Stephen had guessed that because of the guards and Bell's furious effort to stop him, either the Wife or the Friend was in this room. Stephen had also guessed that whoever it was would be hiding in the closet or under the bed.

  He was wrong.

  As he glanced into the doorway he saw the figure come charging at him, holding a lamp as a weapon and uttering a wail of fear and anger.

  Five fast shots from Stephen's gun. Head and chest hits, well grouped. The body spun around fast and flew backward to the floor.

  Good job, Soldier.

  Then more footsteps on the floor coming down the stairs. A woman's voice. And more voices too. No time to finish Bell, no time to look for the other target.

  Evacuate . . . .

  He ran to the back door and stuck his head outside, shouting for more firemen.

  A half dozen of them ran up cautiously.

  Stephen nodded them inside. "Gas line just blew. I'd get everybody out. Now!"

  And he disappeared into the alley, then stepped into the street, dodging the Mack and Seagrave fire trucks, the ambulances, the police cars.

  Shaken, yes.

  But satisfied. His job was now two-thirds finished.

  Amelia Sachs was the first to respond to the bang of the entry charge and the shouts.

  Then Roland Bell's voice from the first floor: "Backup! Backup! Officer down!"

  And gunfire. A dozen sharp cracks, a dozen more.

  She didn't know how the Dancer'd done it and she didn't care. She wanted only a fair glimpse of target and two seconds to sink half a clip of nine-millimeter hollow-points into him.

  The light Glock in her hand, she pushed into the second-floor corridor. Behind her were Sellitto and Dellray and a young uniform, whose credentials under fire she wished she'd taken the time to learn. Jodie cowered on the floor, painfully aware he'd betrayed a very dangerous man who was armed and no more than thirty feet away.

  Sachs's knees screamed as she took the stairs fast, the arthritis again, and she winced as she leapt down the last three steps to the first floor.

  In her headset she heard Bell's repeated request for assistance.

  Down the dark corridor, pistol close to the body, where it couldn't be knocked aside (only TV cops and movie gangstas stick a gun out in front of them phallically before turning corners, or tilt a weapon on its side). Fast glance into each of the rooms she passed, crouching, below chest height, where a muzzle would be pointed.

  "I'll take the front," Dellray called and vanished down the hallway behind her, his big Sig-Sauer in hand.

  "Watch our backs," Sachs ordered Sellitto and the uniform, caring not a bit about rank.

  "Yes'm," the young man answered. "I'm watching. Our backs."

  Puffing Sellitto was too, his head swiveling back and forth.

  Static crinkled in her ear but she heard no voices. She tugged the headset off--no distractions--and continued cautiously down the corridor.

  At her feet two U.S. marshals lay dead on the floor.

  The smell of chemical explosive was strong and she glanced toward the back door of the safe house. It was steel but he'd blown it open with a powerful cutting charge as if it had been paper.

  "Jesus," Sellitto said, too professional to bend down over the fallen marshals but too human not to glance in horror at their riddled bodies.

  Sachs came to one room, paused at the door. Two of Haumann's troops entered from the destroyed doorway.

  "Cover," she called and before anyone had a chance to stop her she leapt through the doorway fast.

  Glock up, scanning the room.

  Nothing.

  No cordite smell either. There'd been no shooting here.

  Back into the corridor. Heading toward the next doorway.

  She pointed to herself and then into the room. The 32-E officers nodded.

  Sachs spun around the doorway, ready to fire, the troopers right behind. She froze at the sight of the gun muzzle aimed at her chest.

  "Lord," Roland Bell muttered and lowered his weapon. His hair was mussed and his face was sooty. Two bullets had torn his shirt and streaked over his body armor.

  Then her eyes took in the terrible sight on the floor.

  "Oh, no . . . "

  "Building's clear," a patrolman called from the corridor. "They saw him leave. He was wearing a fireman's uniform. He's gone. Lost in the crowd out front."

  Amelia Sachs, once again a criminalist and not a tactical officer, observed the blood spatter, the astringent scent of gunshot residue, the fallen chair, which might indicate a struggle and therefore would be a logical transfer point for trace evidence. The bullet casings, which she immediately noticed were from a 7.62-millimeter automatic.

  She observed too the way the body had fallen, which told her that the victim had been attacking the attacker, apparently with a lamp. There were other stories the crime scene would tell and, for that reason, she knew she should help Percey Clay to her feet and lead her away from the body of her slain friend. But Sachs couldn't do that. All she could do was watch the small woman with the squat unpretty face cradle Brit Hale's bloody head, muttering, "Oh, no, oh, no . . . "

  Her face was a mask, unmoving, untouched by tears.

  Finally Sachs nodded to Roland Bell, who slipped his arms around Percey and led her out into the corridor, still vigilant, still clutching his own weapon.

  Two hundred and thirty yards from the safe house.

  Red and blue lights from the dozens of emergency vehicles flashed and tried to blind him but he was sighting through the Redfield telescope and was oblivious to anything but the reticles. He scanned back and forth over the kill zone.

  Stephen had stripped off the fireman's uniform and was dressed again as a late-blooming college student. He'd recovered the Model 40 from under the w
ater tank, where he'd hidden it that morning. The weapon was loaded and locked. The sling was around his arm and he was ready to murder.

  At the moment it wasn't the Wife he was after.

  And it wasn't Jodie, the little faggot Judas.

  He was looking for Lincoln the Worm. The man who'd out-thought him once again.

  Who was he? Which of them?

  Cringey.

  Lincoln . . . Prince of Worms.

  Where are you? Are you right in front of me now? In that crowd standing around the smoking building?

  Was he that large lump of a cop, sweating like a hog?

  The tall, thin Negro in the green suit? He looked familiar. Where had Stephen seen him before?

  An unmarked car streaked up and several men in suits climbed out.

  Maybe Lincoln was one of them.

  The red-haired policewoman stepped outside. She was wearing latex gloves. Crime Scene, are you? Well, I treat my casings and slugs, darling, he said to her silently as the reticles of the telescope picked out a pretty target on her neck. And you'll have to fly to Singapore before you pick up a lead to my gun.

  He figured he had time to fire just one shot and then be driven into the alley by the fusillade that would follow.

  Who are you?

  Lincoln? Lincoln?

  But he had no clue.

  Then the front door swung open and Jodie appeared, stepping out the door uneasily. He looked around, squinted, shrank back against the building.

  You . . .

  The electric sizzle again. Even at this distance.

  Stephen easily moved the reticles onto his chest.

  Go ahead, Soldier, fire your weapon. He's a logical target; he can identify you.

  Sir, I am adjusting for tracking and windage.

  Stephen upped the poundage on his trigger.

  Jodie . . .

  He betrayed you, Soldier. Take . . . him . . . out.

  Sir, yes, sir. He is ice cold. He is dead meat. Sir, vultures are already hovering.

  Soldier, the USMC sniper's manual dictates that you increase poundage on the trigger of your Model 40 imperceptibly so that you are not aware of the exact moment your weapon will discharge. Is that correct, Soldier?

  Sir, yes, sir.

  Then why the fuck aren't you doing it?

  He squeezed harder.

  Slowly, slowly . . .

  But the gun wasn't firing. He lifted the sights to Jodie's head. And as it happened, Jodie's eyes, which had been scanning the rooftops, saw him.

  He'd waited too long.

  Shoot, Soldier. Shoot!

  A whisper of a pause . . .

  Then he jerked the trigger like a boy on the .22 rifle range at summer camp.

  Just as Jodie leapt out of the way, pushing the cops with him aside.

  How the fuck d'you miss that shot, Soldier? Repeat fire!

  Sir, yes, sir!

  He got off two more rounds but Jodie and everyone else was under cover or crawling fast along the sidewalk and street.

  And then the return fire began. First a dozen guns, then a dozen more. Mostly pistols but some H&Ks too, spewing the bullets so fast they sounded like unmuffled car engines.

  Bullets were striking the elevator tower behind him, showering him with bits of brick and concrete and lead and sharp, craggy copper jackets from the slugs, cutting his forearms and the backs of his hands.

  Stephen fell backward, covering his face with his hands. He felt the cuts and saw tiny drops of his blood fall on the tar paper roof.

  Why did I wait? Why? I could have shot him and been gone.

  Why?

  The sound of a helicopter speeding toward the building. More sirens.

  Evacuate, Soldier! Evacuate!

  He glanced down to see Jodie scrambling to safety behind a car. Stephen threw the Model 40 into the case, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and slid down the fire escape into the alley.

  The second tragedy.

  Percey Clay had changed her clothes and stepped into the corridor, slumped against the strong figure of Roland Bell. He put his arm around her.

  The second of three. It hadn't been their mechanic quitting or problems with the charter. It had been the death of her dear friend.

  Oh, Brit . . .

  Imagining him, eyes wide, mouth open in a soundless shout, charge toward the terrible man. Trying to stop him, appalled that someone would actually be trying to kill him, to kill Percey. More indignant and betrayed than scared. Your life was so precise, she thought to him. Even your risks were calculated. The inverted flight at fifty feet, the tailspins, the skydiving. To spectators, it looked impossible. But you knew what you were doing and if you thought about the chance of an early death, you believed it would be from a bum linkage or a clogged fuel line or some careless student who intruded into your airspace.

  The great aviation writer Ernest K. Gann wrote that fate was a hunter. Percey'd always thought he meant nature or circumstance--the fickle elements, the faulty mechanisms that conspire to send airplanes hurtling into the ground. But fate was more complicated than that. Fate was as complicated as the human mind. As complicated as evil.

  Tragedies come in threes . . . And what would the last one be? Her death? The Company's? Someone else's?

  Huddling against Roland Bell, she shivered with anger at the coincidence of it all. Thinking back several weeks: she and Ed and Hale, groggy from lack of sleep, standing in the glare of the hangar lights around Learjet Charlie Juliet, hoping desperately they'd win the U.S. Medical contract, shivering in the damp night as they tried to figure out how best to outfit the jet for the job.

  Late, a misty night. The airport deserted and dark. Like the final scene in Casablanca.

  Hearing the squeal of brakes and glancing outside.

  The man lugging the huge duffle bags out of the car on the tarmac, flinging them inside, and firing up the Beechcraft. The distinctive whine of a piston engine starting.

  She remembered Ed saying, incredulous, "What's he doing? The airport's closed."

  Fate.

  That they happened to be there that night.

  That Phillip Hansen had chosen that exact moment to get rid of his damaging evidence.

  That Hansen was a man who would kill to keep that flight a secret.

  Fate . . .

  Then she jumped--at a knocking on the door of the safe house.

  Two men stood there. Bell recognized them. They were from the NYPD Witness Protection Division. "We're here to transport you to the Shoreham facility on Long Island, Mrs. Clay."

  "No, no," she said. "There's a mistake. I have to go to Mamaroneck Airport."

  "Percey," Roland Bell said.

  "I have to."

  "I don't know about that, ma'am," one of the officers said. "We've got orders to take you to Shoreham and keep you in protective confinement until a grand jury appearance on Monday."

  "No, no, no. Call Lincoln Rhyme. He knows about it."

  "Well . . . " One of the officers looked to the other.

  "Please," she said, "call him. He'll tell you."

  "Actually, Mrs. Clay, it was Lincoln Rhyme who ordered you moved. If you'll come with us, please. Don't you worry. We'll take good care of you, ma'am."

  . . . Chapter Twenty-seven

  Hour 28 of 45

  "It's not pleasant," Thom told Amelia Sachs.

  From behind the bedroom door she heard, "I want that bottle and I want it now."

  "What's going on?"

  The handsome young man grimaced. "Oh, he can be such a prick sometimes. He got one of the patrol officers to pour him some scotch. For the pain, he said. He said he's got a prescription for single malt. Can you believe it? Oh, he's insufferable when he drinks."

  A howl of rage from his room.

  Sachs knew the only reason he wasn't throwing things was that he couldn't.

  She reached for the doorknob.

  "You might want to wait a little," Thom warned.

  "We can't wait."r />
  "Goddamnit!" Rhyme snarled. "I want that fucking bottle!"

  She opened the door. Thom whispered, "Don't say I didn't warn you."

  Inside, Sachs paused in the doorway. Rhyme was a sight. His hair was disheveled, there was spittle on his chin, and his eyes were red.

  The Macallan bottle was on the floor. He must have tried to grab it with his teeth and knocked it over.

  He noticed Sachs but all he said was a brisk "Pick it up."

  "We've got work to do, Rhyme."

  "Pick. Up. That. Bottle."

  She did. And placed it on the shelf.

  He raged, "You know what I mean! I want a drink!"

  "You've had more than enough, sounds like."

  "Pour some whiskey in my goddamn glass. Thom! Get the hell in here . . . Coward."

  "Rhyme," she snapped, "we've got evidence to look at."

  "Hell with the evidence."

  "How much did you drink?"

  "The Dancer got inside, didn't he? Fox in the henhouse. Fox in the henhouse."

  "I've got a vacuum filter full of trace, I've got a slug, I've got samples of his blood . . . "

  "Blood? Well, that's fair. He's got plenty of ours."

  She snapped back, "You oughta be like a kid on his birthday, all the evidence I've got. Quit feeling sorry for yourself, and let's get to work."

  He didn't respond. As she looked at him she saw his bleary eyes focus past her on the doorway. She turned. There was Percey Clay.

  Immediately, Rhyme's eyes dropped to the floor. He fell silent.

  Sure, Sachs thought. Doesn't want to misbehave in front of his new love.

  She walked into the room, looked at the mess that was Lincoln Rhyme.

  "Lincoln, what's going on?" Sellitto had accompanied Percey here, she guessed. He stepped into the room.

  "Three dead, Lon. He got three more. Fox in the henhouse."

  "Lincoln," Sachs blurted. "Stop it. You're embarrassing yourself."

  Wrong thing to say. Rhyme slapped a bewildered gaze on his face. "I'm not embarrassed. Do I look embarrassed? Anyone? Am I embarrassed? Am I fucking embarrassed?"

  "We've got--"

  "No, we've got zip! It's over with. It's done. It's finished. Duck 'n' cover. We're heading for the hills. Are you going to join us, Amelia? Suggest you do."

  He finally looked at Percey. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be on Long Island."

  "I want to talk to you."

  He said nothing at first, then, "Give me a drink, at least."

  Percey glanced at Sachs and stepped forward to the shelf, poured herself and Rhyme both glasses. Sachs glared at her and she noticed, didn't respond.