The Coffin Dancer (29 page)

Jodie nodded. “That’s his first name?”

Stephen shrugged. “I don’t know ... I’ve never met anyone like him.”

“Who is he?”

A worm ...

“Maybe a cop. FBI. A consultant or something. I don’t know exactly.” Stephen remembered the Wife describing him to Ron—the way somebody’d talk about a guru, or a ghost. He felt cringey again. He slid his hand down Jodie’s back. It rested at the base of his spine. The bad feeling went away.

“This is the second time he’s stopped me. And he almost got me caught. I’m trying to figure him out and I can’t.”

“What do you have to figure out?”

“What he’s going to do next. So I can stay ahead of him.”

Another squeeze to the spine. Jodie didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t look away either. He wasn’t timid anymore. And the look he gave Stephen was odd. Was it a look of ... ? Well, he didn’t know. Admiration maybe ...

Stephen realized that it was the way Sheila had looked at him in Starbucks when he was saying all the right things. Except that, with her, he hadn’t been Stephen, he had been somebody else. Somebody who didn’t exist. Jodie was now looking at him this way even though he knew exactly who Stephen was, that he was a killer.

Leaving his hand on the man’s back, Stephen said, “What I can’t figure out is if he’s going to move them out of their safe house. The one next to the building where I met you.”

“Move who? The people you’re trying to kill?”

“Yeah. He’s going to try to out-guess me. He’s thinking ...” Stephen’s voice faded.

Thinking ...

And what
was
Lincoln the Worm thinking? Would he move the Wife and the Friend, guessing I’ll try the safe house again? Or would he leave them, thinking I’ll wait and try for them at a new location? And even if he thinks I’ll try the safe house again, will he leave them there as bait, trying to sucker me back for another ambush? Will he move two decoys to a new safe house? And try to take me when I follow them?

The thin man said, almost whispering, “You seem, I don’t know, shook up or something.”

“I can’t
see
him ... I can’t see what he’s going to do. Everybody else’s ever been after me I can see. I can figure them out. Him, I can’t.”

“What do you want me to do?” Jodie asked, swaying against Stephen. Their shoulders brushed.

Stephen Kall, craftsman extraordinaire, stepson of a man who never had a moment’s hesitation in anything he did—killing deer or inspecting plates cleaned with a toothbrush—was now confounded, staring at the floor, then looking up into Jodie’s eyes.

Hand on the man’s back. Shoulders touching too.

Stephen made up his mind.

He bent forward and rummaged through his backpack. He found a black cell phone, looked at it for a moment, then handed it to Jodie.

“Whatsis?” the man asked.

“A phone. For you to use.”

“A cell phone! Cool.” He examined it as if he’d never seen one, flipped it open, studying all the buttons.

Stephen asked, “You know what a spotter is?”

“No.”

“The best snipers don’t work alone. They always have a spotter with them. He locates the target and figures out how far away it is, looks for defensive troops, things like that.”

“You want me to do that for you?”

“Yep. See, I think Lincoln’s going to move them.”

“Why, you figure?” Jodie asked.

“I can’t explain it. I just have this feeling.” He looked at his watch. “Okay, here’s the thing. At one-thirty this afternoon, what I want you to do is walk down the street like a ... homeless person.”

“You can say ‘bum,’ you want.”

“And watch the safe house. Maybe you could look through trash cans or something.”

“For bottles. I do that. All the time.”

“You find out what kind of car they get into, then call and tell me. I’ll be on the street around the corner, in a car, waiting. But you’ll have to watch out for decoys.”

An image of the red-haired woman cop came to mind. She could hardly be a decoy for the Wife. Too tall, too pretty. He wondered why he disliked her so much ... He regretted not judging that shot at her better.

“Okay. I can do that. You’ll shoot them in the street?”

“It depends. I might follow them to the new safe house and do it there. I’ll be ready to improvise.”

Jodie studied the phone like a kid at Christmas. “I don’t know how it works.”

Stephen showed him. “You call me on it when you’re in position.”

“ ‘In position.’ That sounds professional.” Then Jodie looked up from the phone. “You know, after this’s over and I go through the rehab thing, why don’t we get together sometime? We could have some juice or coffee or something. Huh? You wanta do that?”

“Sure,” Stephen said. “We could—”

But suddenly a huge pounding shook the door. Spinning around like a dervish, whipping his gun from his pocket, Stephen dropped into two-handed shooting position.

“Open the fuckin’ door,” a voice from outside shouted. “Now!”

“Quiet,” Stephen whispered to Jodie. Heart racing.

“You in there, booger?” the voice persisted. “Jodie. Where the fuck’re you?”

Stephen stepped to the boarded-over window and looked out again. The Negro homeless guy from across the street. He wore a tattered jacket that read
Cats ... The Musical.
The Negro didn’t see him.

“Where’sa little man?” the Negro said. “I needa little man. I gotta have some pills! Jodie Joe? Where you be?”

Stephen said, “You know him?”

Jodie looked out, shrugged, and whispered, “I don’t know. Maybe. Looks like a lotta people on the street.”

Stephen studied the man for a long moment, thumbing the plastic grip of his pistol.

The homeless man called, “I know you here, man.” His voice dissolved into a gargle of disgusting cough. “Jo-die. Jo-die! It cos’ me, man. As’ wha’ it cos’ me. Cos’ me a fuckin’ weeka pickin’ cans’s what it cos’ me. They
tole
me you here. Ever-bod-y told me. Jodie, Jodie!”

“He’ll just go away,” Jodie said.

Stephen said, “Wait. Maybe we can use him.”

“How?”

“Remember what I told you?
Delegate.
This is good ...” Stephen was nodding. “He looks scary. They’ll focus on him, not you.”

“You mean take him along with me? To that safe house place?”

“Yes,” Stephen said.

“I need some
stuff
, man,” the Negro moaned. “Come on. I’m fucked-up, man. Please. I got the wobblies. You
fuck!”
He kicked the door hard. “Please, man. You in there, Jodie? The fuck you at? You booger! Help me.” It sounded like he was crying.

“Go on out,” Stephen said. “Tell him you’ll give him something if he goes along with you. Just have him go through the trash or something across the street from the safe house, while you’re watching the traffic. It’ll be perfect.”

Jodie looked at him. “You mean now? Just go talk to him?”

“Yeah. Now. Tell him.”

“You want him to come in?”

“No, I don’t want him to see me. Just go talk to him.”

“Well ... Okay.” Jodie pried the front door open. “What if he stabs me or something?”

“Look at him. He’s almost dead. You could beat the crap out of him with one hand.”

“Looks like he has AIDS.”

“Go on.”

“What if he touches—”

“Go!”

Jodie took a deep breath then stepped outside. “Hey, keep it down,” he said to the man. “What the hell you want?”

Stephen watched the Negro look over Jodie with his crazed eyes. “Word up you selling shit, man. I got money. I got sixty bucks. I need pills. Look, I’m sick.”

“Whatta you want?”

“Whatchu got, man?”

“Reds, bennies, dexies, yellow jackets, demmies.”

“Yeah, demmies’re good shit, man. I pay you. Fuck. I got money. I’m hurting inside. Got beat up. Where my money?” He slapped his pockets several times before realizing he was clutching the precious twenties in his left hand.

“But,” Jodie said, “you gotta do something for me first.”

“Yeah, whatta I gotta do that? You wanna blow job?”

“No,” Jodie snapped, horrified. “I want you to help me go through some trash.”

“Why I gotta do that shit?”

“Picking some cans.”

“Cans?” the man roared, scratching his nose compulsively. “The fuck you need a nickel for? I just give away a hunnerd cans find out where yo’ ass be. Fuck cans. I pay you money, man.”

“I give you the demmies for free, only you gotta help me get some bottles.”

“Free?” The man didn’t seem to understand this. “You mean, free like I don’t gotta pay?”

“Yeah.”

The Negro looked around as if he was trying to find somebody to explain this.

“Wait here,” Jodie said.

“Where I gotta look for bottles?”

“Just wait ...”

“Where?” he demanded.

Jodie stepped back inside. He said to Stephen, “He’s gonna do it.”

“Good job.” Stephen smiled.

Jodie grinned back. He started to turn back to the door but Stephen said, “Hey.”

The little man paused.

Stephen blurted suddenly, “It’s good I met you.”

“I’m glad I met you too.” Jodie hesitated for a minute. “Partner.” He stuck his hand out.

“Partner,” Stephen echoed. He had a fierce urge to take his glove off, so he could feel Jodie’s skin on his. But he didn’t.

Craftsmanship had to come first.

chapter twenty-four

Hour 25 of 45

The debate was feverish.

“I think you’re wrong, Lincoln,” Lon Sellitto said. “We gotta move ’em. He’ll hit the safe house again, we leave ’em there.”

They weren’t the only ones considering the dilemma. Prosecutor Reg Eliopolos hadn’t checked in—not yet—but Thomas Perkins, the FBI special agent in charge of the Manhattan office, was here in person, representing the federal side of the debate. Rhyme wished Dellray were here—and Sachs too, though she was with the joint city/federal tactical force searching abandoned subway locations. So far they hadn’t found any trace of the Dancer or his compatriot.

“I’m being completely proactive in my take on the situation,” said earnest Perkins. “We have other facilities.” He was appalled that it had taken the Dancer only eight hours to find out where the witnesses were being held and to get within five yards of the disguised fire door of the safe house. “
Better
facilities,” he added quickly. “I think we should expedite immediate transferal. I’ve gotten a heads-up from high levels. Washington itself. They want the witnesses immunized.”

Meaning, Rhyme assumed, move ’em and move ’em now.

“No,” the criminalist said adamantly. “We have to leave them where they are.”

“Prioritizing the variables,” Perkins said, “I think the answer’s pretty clear. Move them.”

But Rhyme said, “He’ll come after them wherever they are, a new safe house or the existing one. We know the turf there, we know something about his approach. We’ve got good ambush coverage.”

“That’s a good point,” Sellitto conceded.

“It’ll also throw him off stride.”

“How so?” Perkins asked.

“He’s debating right now too, you know.”

“He is?”

“Oh, you bet,” Rhyme said. “He’s trying to figure out what
we’re
going to do. If we decide to keep them where they are, he’ll do one thing. If we move them—which I think is what he’s guessing we’ll do—he’ll try for a transport hit. And however good security is on the road, it’s always worse than fixed premises. No, we have to keep them where they are and be prepared for the next attempt. Anticipate it and be ready to move in. The last time—”

“The last time, an agent got killed.”

Rhyme snapped back to the SAC, “If Innelman had had a backup, it would’ve gone different.”

Perkins of the perfect suit was a self-protecting bureaucrat but he was reasonable. He nodded his concession.

But
am
I right? Rhyme wondered.

What
is
the Dancer thinking? Do I really know?

Oh, I can look over a silent bedroom or filthy alleyway and read perfectly the story that turned it into a crime scene. I can see, in the Rorschach of blood pasted to carpet and tile, how close the victim came to escaping or how little chance he had and what kind of death he died. I can look at the dust the killer leaves behind and know immediately where he comes from.

I can answer who, I can answer why.

But what’s the Dancer
going
to do?

That I can guess at but I can’t say for certain.

A figure appeared in the doorway, one of the officers from the front door. He handed Thom an envelope and stepped back to his guard post.

“What’s that?” Rhyme eyed it carefully. He wasn’t expecting any lab reports and he was all too conscious of the Dancer’s predilection for bombs. The package was no more than a sheet of paper thick, however, and was from the FBI.

Thom opened it and read.

“It’s from PERT. They tracked down a sand expert.”

Rhyme explained to Perkins, “It’s not for this case. It’s about that agent who disappeared the other night.”

“Tony?” the SAC asked. “We haven’t had a single lead so far.”

Rhyme glanced at the report.

Substance submitted for analysis is not technically sand. It is coral rubble from reef formations and contains spicules, cross sections of marine worm tubes, gastropod shells and foraminifers. Most likely source is the northern Caribbean: Cuba, the Bahamas.

Caribbean ... Interesting. Well, he’d have to put the evidence on hold for the time being. After the Dancer was bagged and tagged he and Sachs would get back—

His headset crinkled.

“Rhyme, you there?” Sachs’s voice snapped.

“Yes! Where are you, Sachs? What do you have?”

“We’re outside an old subway station near City Hall. All boarded up. S&S says there’s somebody inside. At least one, maybe two.”

“Okay, Sachs,” he said, heart racing at the thought they might be close to the Dancer. “Report back.” Then he looked up at Sellitto and Perkins. “Looks like we may not have to decide about moving them from the safe house after all.”

“They found him?” the detective asked.