The Coffin Dancer (14 page)

“I don’t know,” the criminalist responded. “It’s not like the Dancer to be careless, even if he was in a hurry. What’s he wearing?”

“Just skivvies. No clothes or other ID found at the scene.”

“Why,” Rhyme mused, “did the Dancer pick him?”

“
If
it was the Dancer did this.”

“How many bodies turn up like that in Westchester?”

“To hear the locals tell it,” she said ruefully, “every other day.”

“Tell me about the corpse. COD?”

“You determine the cause of death?” she called to chubby Earl.

“Strangled,” the tech said.

But Sachs noticed right away there were no petechial hemorrhages on the inner surface of the eyelids. No damage to the tongue either. Most strangulation victims bite their tongue at some point during the attack.

“I don’t think so.”

Earl cast another glance at Jim and snorted. “Sure, he was. Lookit that red line on his neck. We call that a ligature mark, honey. You know, we can’t keep him here forever. They start going ripe, days like this. Now,
that’s
a smell you haven’t lived till you smelled.”

Sachs frowned. “He wasn’t strangled.”

They double-teamed her. “Hon—Officer, that’s a ligature mark,” Jim, the trooper, said. “I seen hundreds of ’em.”

“No, no,” she said. “The perp just ripped a chain off him.”

Rhyme broke in. “That’s probably it, Sachs. First thing you do when you’re ID-proofing a corpse, get rid of the jewelry. It was probably a Saint Christopher, maybe inscribed. Who’s there with you?”

“A pair of cretins,” she said.

“Oh. Well, what
is
the COD?”

After a brief search she found the wound. “Ice pick or narrow-bladed knife in the back of the skull.”

The medic’s round form eased into the doorway. “We woulda found that,” he said defensively. “I mean, we were in such an all-fire hurry to get here, thanks to you folks.”

Rhyme said to Sachs, “Describe him.”

“He’s overweight, big gut. Lotta flab.”

“Tan or sunburn?”

“On his arms and torso only. Not legs. He’s got untrimmed toenails and a cheap earring—steel posts, not gold. His briefs are Sears and they’ve got holes in them.”

“Okay, he’s looking blue collar,” Rhyme said. “Workman, deliveryman. We’re closing in. Check his throat.”

“What?”

“For his wallet or papers. If you want to keep a corpse anonymous for a few hours you shove his IDs down his throat. It doesn’t get spotted till the autopsy.”

A chortle of laughter from outside.

Which Sachs ended quickly when she grabbed the man’s jaws, pulled wide, and started reaching inside.

“Jesus,” Earl muttered. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing there, Rhyme.”

“You better cut. The throat. Go deeper.”

Sachs had bridled at some of Rhyme’s more macabre requests in the past. But today she glanced at the grinning boys behind her and lifted her illegal but cherished switchblade from her jeans pocket, clicked it open.

Took the grins off both faces.

“Say, honey, what’re you doing?”

“Little surgery. Gotta look inside.” Like she did this every day.

“I mean, I can’t deliver no corpse to the coroner cut up by some New York City cop.”

“Then
you
do it.”

She offered him the handle of the knife.

“Aw, she’s shitting us, Jim.”

She lifted an eyebrow and slipped the knife into the man’s Adam’s apple like a fisherman gutting a trout.

“Oh, Jesus, Jim, lookit what she’s doing. Stop her.”

“I’m outa here, Earl. I didn’t see that.” The trooper walked off.

She finished the tidy incision and gazed inside, sighed. “Nothing.”

“What the hell is he up to?” Rhyme asked. “Let’s think. ... What if he isn’t ID-proofing the body? If he’d wanted to he would’ve taken the teeth. What if there’s something else he’s trying to hide from us?”

“Something on the vic’s hands?” Sachs suggested.

“Maybe,” Rhyme responded. “Something that he couldn’t wash off the corpse easily. And something that’d tell us what he was up to.”

“Oil? Grease?”

“Maybe he was delivering jet fuel,” Rhyme said. “Or maybe he was a caterer—maybe his hands smelled of garlic.”

Sachs looked around the airport. There were dozens of gasoline deliverymen, ground crews, repairmen, construction workers building a new wing on one of the terminals.

Rhyme continued, “He’s a big guy?”

“Yep.”

“He was probably sweating today. Maybe he wiped his head. Or scratched it.”

I’ve
been doing that all day myself, Sachs thought, and felt an urge to dig into her hair, hurt her skin as she always did when she felt frustrated and tense.

“Check his scalp, Sachs. Behind the hairline.”

She did.

And there she found it.

“I see streaks of color. Blue. Bits of white too. On the hair and skin. Oh, hell, Rhyme. It’s paint! He’s a painting contractor. And there’re about twenty construction workers on the grounds.”

“The line on the neck,” Rhyme continued. “The Dancer pulled off his necklace ID.”

“But the picture’d be different.”

“Hell, the ID’s probably covered with paint or he faked it somehow. He’s on the field somewhere, Sachs. Get Percey and Hale down on the floor. Put a guard on ’em and get everybody else out, looking for the Dancer. SWAT’s on its way.”

Problems.

He was watching the red-haired cop in the back of the ambulance. Through the Redfield telescope he couldn’t see clearly what she was doing. But he suddenly felt uneasy.

He felt she was doing something to
him.
Some-dung to expose him, to tie him down.

The worms were getting closer. The face at the window, the wormy face, was looking for him.

Stephen shuddered.

She jumped out of the ambulance, looking around the field.

Something’s happening, Soldier.

Sir, I am aware of that, sir.

The redhead began shouting orders to other cops. Most of them looked at her, took her news grimly, then looked around. One ran to his car, then a second.

He saw the redhead’s pretty face and her wormy eyes scanning the airport grounds. He rested the reticles on her perfect chin. What had she found? What was she looking for?

She paused and he saw her talking to herself.

No, not herself. She was talking into a headset. The way she’d listen, then nod, it seemed that she was taking orders from someone.

Who? he wondered.

Someone who’d figured out that I’m here, Stephen thought.

Someone looking for me.

Someone who can watch me through windows and disappear instantly. Who can move through walls and holes and tiny cracks to sneak up and find me.

A chill down his back—he actually shivered—and for a moment the reticles of the telescope danced away from the redheaded cop and he lost acquisition of a target completely.

What the fuck was that, Soldier?

Sir, I don’t know, sir.

When he reacquired the redhead he saw how bad things were. She was pointing right at the painting contractor’s van he’d just stolen. It was parked about two hundred feet from him, in a small parking lot reserved for construction trucks.

Whoever the redhead was talking to had found the painter’s body and discovered how he’d gotten onto the airport grounds.

The worm moved closer. He felt its shadow, its cold slime.

The cringey feeling. Worms crawling up his legs ... worms crawling down his neck ...

What should I do? he wondered.

One chance ... one shot ...

They’re so close, the Wife and the Friend. He could finish everything right now. Five seconds was all it would take. Maybe those were their outlines he could see in the window. That shadowy form. Or
that
one ... But Stephen knew that if he fired through the glass, everyone would drop to the floor. If he didn’t kill the Wife with the first shot, he’d ruin the chance.

I need her outside. I need to draw them out of cover into the kill zone. I can’t miss there.

He had no time. No time! Think!

If you want a doe, endanger the fawn.

Stephen began breathing slowly. In, out, in, out. He drew his target. Began applying pressure, imperceptible, to the trigger. The Model 40 fired.

The
ka-boom
rolled over the field and all the cops hit the ground, drawing their weapons.

Another shot, and a second puff of smoke flew from the tail-mounted engine of the silver jet in the hangar.

The redheaded cop, her own gun in hand, was crouching, scanning for location. She glanced at the two smoking holes in the skin of the plane, then looked out over the field once more, pointing a stubby Glock out in front of her.

Take her out?

Yes? No?

Negative, Soldier. Stay fixed on your target.

He fired again. The puff of explosion tore another tiny chunk out of the side of the airplane.

Calm. Another shot. The kick in the shoulder, the sweet smell of the burnt powder. A windshield in the cockpit exploded.

This was the shot that did it.

Suddenly there she was—the Wife—forcing her way through the office door, grappling with the young blond cop who tried to hold her back.

No target yet. Keep her coming.

Squeeze. Another bullet tore through the engine.

The Wife, her face horrified, broke free and ran down the stairs toward the hangar to close the doors, to protect her child.

Reload.

He laid the reticles on her chest as she stepped to the ground and started to run.

Full target lead of four inches, Stephen calculated automatically. He moved the gun ahead of her and squeezed the trigger. It fired just as the blond cop tackled her and they went down below a slight dip in the earth. A miss. And they had just enough cover to keep him from skimming slugs into their backs.

They’re moving in, Soldier. They’re flanking you.

Yessir, understood.

Stephen glanced over the runways. Other police had appeared. They were crawling toward their cars. One car was speeding directly toward him, only fifty yards away. Stephen used one shot to take out the engine block. Steam spraying from the front end, the car eased to a stop.

Stay calm, he told himself.

We’re prepared to evacuate. We just need one clear shot.

He heard several fast pistol shots. He looked back at the redhead. She was in a competition combat stance, pointing the stubby pistol in his direction, looking for his muzzle flash. The sound of the shot wouldn’t do her any good, of course; it was why he never bothered with silencers. Loud noises are as hard to pinpoint as soft ones.

The redheaded cop was standing tall, squinting as she gazed.

Stephen closed the bolt of the Model 40.

Amelia Sachs saw a faint glimmer and she knew where the Coffin Dancer was.

In a small grove of trees about three hundred yards away. His telescopic sight caught the reflected glint of the pale clouds overhead.

“Over there,” she cried, pointing, to two county cops huddling in their cruiser.

The troopers rolled into their car and took off, skidding behind a nearby hangar to flank him.

“Sachs,” Rhyme called through her headset. “What’s—”

“Jesus, Rhyme, he’s on the field, shooting at the plane.”

“What?”

“Percey’s trying to get to the hangar. He’s shooting explosive slugs. He’s shooting to draw her out.”

“You stay down, Sachs. If Percey’s going to kill herself, let her. But you stay down!”

She was sweating furiously, hands shaking, heart pounding. She felt the quiver of panic run down her back.

“Percey!” Sachs cried.

The woman had broken free from Jerry Banks and rolled to her feet. She was speeding toward the hangar door.

“No!”

Oh, hell.

Sachs’s eyes were on the spot where she’d seen the flare of the Dancer’s ’scope.

Too far, it’s too far, she thought. I can’t hit anything at that distance.

If you stay calm, you can. You’ve got eleven rounds left. There’s no wind. Trajectory’s the only problem. Aim high and work down.

She saw several leaves fly outward as the Dancer fired again.

An instant later a bullet passed within inches of her face. She felt the shock wave and heard the snap as the slug, traveling twice the speed of sound, burned the air around her.

She uttered a faint whimper and dropped to her stomach, cowering.

No! You had a chance to shoot. Before he rechambered. But it’s too late now. He’s locked and loaded again.

She looked up fast, lifted her gun, then lost her nerve. Head down, the Glock pointed generally in the direction of the trees, she fired five fast shots.

But she might as well have been shooting blanks.

Come on, girl. Get up. Aim and shoot. You got six left and two clips on your belt.

But the thought of the near miss kept her pinned to the ground.

Do it! she raged at herself.

But she couldn’t.

All Sachs had the courage for was to raise her head a few inches—just far enough to see Percey Clay, sprinting, race to the hangar door just as Jerry Banks caught up with her. The young detective shoved her down to the ground behind a generator cart. Almost simultaneously with the rolling boom of the Coffin Dancer’s rifle there came the sickening crack of the bullet striking Banks, who spun about like a drunk as blood puffed into a cloud around him.

And on his face, first a look of surprise, then of bewilderment, then of nothing whatsoever as he spiraled down to the damp concrete.

chapter twelve

Hour 5 of 45

“Well?” Rhyme asked.

Lon Sellitto folded up his phone. “They still don’t know.” Eyes out the window of Rhyme’s town house, tapping the glass compulsively. The falcons had returned to the ledge but kept their eyes vigilantly on Central Park, uncharacteristically oblivious to the noise.

Rhyme had never seen the detective this upset. His doughy, sweat-dotted face was pale. A legendary homicide investigator, Sellitto was usually unflappable. Whether he was reassuring victims’ families or relentlessly punching holes in a suspect’s alibi, he always concentrated on the job before him. But at the moment his thoughts seemed miles away, with Jerry Banks, in surgery—maybe dying—in a Westchester hospital. It was now three on Saturday afternoon and Banks had been in the operating room for an hour.